Age of Myth (22 page)

“And?”

Thym looked uncomfortable. Refusing to face her, the plump priest wrapped in his white asica kept his focus up the trail. “And, well…they don't like the Miralyith.”

Like all Fhrey in Estramnadon at the time, Arion had been at the Carfreign Arena to witness the challenge. At Fenelyus's death, the leader of the Instarya had returned to Erivan and had been awarded the right to challenge Lothian for the throne by blowing the Horn of Gylindora.

The battle had been horribly one-sided. Zephyron had come armed with sword and shield; Lothian had used the Art. It had been the first time a challenge had been fought between a Miralyith and a member of another tribe. Lothian had sought to make an example and didn't merely beat the Instarya leader—he made the contest a spectacle.

First, Lothian enveloped himself in a shield of air, rendering Zephyron's weapons and fighting ability useless. Next came humiliation. Using the Art, Lothian turned his opponent into a puppet. Zephyron stripped, danced, and humiliated himself before the crowd. Lothian forced the Instarya leader to crawl on all fours, bark, howl, roll in mud, and eat grass like an animal. Then the show started a long walk into darkness as Lothian began his second act by forcing Zephyron to mutilate himself. The first offense was making him bite off and swallow each of his fingers.

At that point, Arion had risked admonishment by leaving. She had only reached the rear of the arena before vomiting. Later, she heard that the “battle” had continued for another two hours and that by the end of it she hadn't been the only one to get sick. When Lothian finally granted the Instarya death, Zephyron had become unidentifiable as a Fhrey. No wonder the Instarya didn't embrace the Miralyith as benevolent leaders.

Coming around a bend, Arion saw another stream. It looked much the same as the first. This second branch flowed even more lazily, and with newfound confidence she remained upright as Naraspur crossed. Although it wasn't much deeper, the current was stronger, and as the horse was climbing out the far side, one of her hooves slipped. Arion felt the odd shift of balance. A stuttering step followed, bouncing Arion harshly and tilting her to one side. The fear of a dozen warnings and tales of tragedy flashed through her mind as she reached for the horse's mane. Naraspur, who likely had quite enough of the river's current, chose that moment to leap the remaining distance to the far bank. Arion failed to go with her.

With a horrified cry, the tutor to the prince fell. She struck rock and river, certain her life was over. Her last thought was how it was embarrassing to die in such a fashion. A painful moment later, she realized she wasn't dead. Her hands, hip, left knee, and elbow hurt, and she was soaked, but other than that she was fine.

Thym turned his horse and rode back, staring at her in shock.

The pain was bad, the embarrassment worse, but it was the fear the river had caused that made her angry. Standing in the water and the shadow of Mount Mador, Arion began a weave. Recognizing the signs of magic, Thym retreated, taking Naraspur with him.

A whirlwind erupted, and the ground groaned, cracked, and screamed the way rock did when suddenly awakened. The river continued to laugh at her. Creeks and streams were overly light-headed things and had a tendency to laugh and chuckle over rocks, even when no one fell into them. This one had made the mistake of laughing at a Miralyith.

The whirlwind vanished, the ground settled, and the stream disappeared, rerouted far to the east. In its place she left a smooth bluish-stone walkway bordered by short rock walls. Nestled in alcoves, flower boxes overflowed with beautiful yellow blooms that had once dotted the river's bank. In one recessed opening, a statue of an elegantly robed woman poured water from a pitcher into a cistern, the level of which remained constant. Arion's clothes were dry once more, and she walked up a set of stairs that followed the slope to where Thym waited with a gaping mouth. She didn't stop after reaching him and continued walking without saying a word.

“Your horse, Your Eminence,” he called.

“No, thank you. I'm walking from now on.”

They reached the top of the next ridge, Arion on foot, Thym riding his horse and leading Naraspur with a rope. From this new vantage point, Arion felt she could see the whole of the world. The sun was nestling on the backs of the distant mountains, bathing a vast valley in a sharp light. Where the sun kissed the hills, they were a brilliant orange. Everything else faded into dark purple. Night and day shook hands across eternity, and there, on a dominant hill overlooking a wide river, a singular tower rose beside a dome, both of them ringed by a great wall. Looking as if all the structures had sprouted naturally out of the crest of the promontory, the fortress and a small city stood watch over the massive plain below.

“There it is,” Thym said. “Alon Rhist, the Bern River, and Rhulyn.”

As they approached Alon Rhist, a light rain began to fall, and Arion had an unsettling feeling that she'd forgotten to latch the front door to her home back in Estramnadon. She imagined it swinging open and rain getting in. Rugs and drapes were no doubt getting soaked, and yet the poor flower in the pot on her table was probably dying of thirst. All the power of the Art couldn't help any of it. She consoled herself with the knowledge that not much could be damaged. It wasn't a grand house, certainly not as majestic as one would expect for someone of her stature, but she didn't need much. She was rarely at home, which contrary to her mother's belief was the real reason Celeste had left.

Since joining the Miralyith, it was the same reason everyone had gone. Even Anton had complained of neglect, and he was a Miralyith. The problem was that Arion placed the Art before all else. Living alone wasn't a problem for Arion. At least that was what she'd told herself since Celeste's departure.

Still, twenty years with Celeste hadn't been a total loss. In that time, Arion had managed to learn a bit about construction. Celeste had enrolled in the Atro Elendra School of Architecture with dreams of gaining a seat on the Estramnadon Design Council. Arion thought Celeste had about as much chance of landing a director's seat as Arion had of becoming fane. But when helping Celeste with her studies, Arion had learned a great deal about the Eilywin tribe's philosophy of structure.

The number one tenet of Fhrey architecture required all structures to take inspiration from their surrounding landforms. Adherence to this doctrine bordered on religious conviction. To construct a building that defied the land, that ignored the flow of creation, was tantamount to rejecting the divine. Such hubris would doom the inhabitants to a cursed existence. In Erivan, homes were built of stone for permanence and because harming a tree of Erivan was forbidden. Despite the building material, each house was fashioned to appear as a natural part of the forest. The Airenthenon, where the high council met, had been built as an extension of a rocky hill. The Talwara Palace was fashioned in much the same way, on an opposing outcrop that had swallowed and surrounded the Forest Throne. Then there was the tower of Avempartha, which Arion had only recently discovered when crossing the Nidwalden River. The structure rose high above the great Parthaloren Falls and mimicked an upward explosion of water. Seeing that tower, another of Fenelyus's creations, Arion had stared in awe for so long that Thym became weary and pleaded to move on. Alon Rhist's tower wasn't as amazing as Avempartha, but it was still striking.

Built on an already impressive pinnacle of rock alongside a river-cut chasm, the Rhist continued the upward thrust of stone, amplifying it with a sky-piercing tower. The jagged-toothed spine of the crest was mirrored in the sharp archways supporting the transom between the great dome and the towered keep. From a distance, Arion had thought the place pretty. Up close, the fortress, which marked the edge of the fane's reach and formed the premier bulwark for civilization, was impressive. The sheer height of the spire was difficult to comprehend, because the barbican that formed the fortified entrance was itself seven stories tall. Even so, it appeared to be but a footstool to the soaring keep behind it.

Inside, the Rhist was less remarkable. Stark walls of stone remained unadorned except by weapons, of which there were many. For the Instarya, decorations were shields crossed with swords. Furniture displayed the same single-minded military focus. Assembled from wood, chairs lacked cushions or padding. Everything was neat but sterile, ordered but lifeless, cold, hard, and unforgiving. What struck Arion the most was the lack of greenery. The architects of the Rhist had taken the Eilywin philosophy to the extreme and built a cave of stone to fit in a rocky realm.

In contrast with the cold building, Arion was greeted with as much warmth and fanfare as the Rhist's commander could muster. Escorted by eight pairs of honor guards in front and behind she walked past lines of Fhrey adorned in full, polished armor. They snapped salutes in a precision wave as she passed. A pair of drums rolled and two long horns blared, and from every window the Miralyith purple and gold banners flew in her honor. Arion felt a tad awkward at the fuss. She was the tutor of the prince, not the fane.

The commander received her under the dome, where he sat in a hard chair with mismatched pillows. Petragar rose as she entered. He was dressed in a formal asica adorned with Asendwayr colors but worn in the Miralyith style, lacking knots and crisscrosses. Arion knew his name but little else. She was unlikely to learn much more since his face was wrapped in bandages. He whispered to an assistant standing beside him, who said, “Welcome to Alon Rhist. I am Vertumus, Legate of the Post. May I introduce the most esteemed patriarch of the Asendwayr, former senior counsel to the Aquila, the fane's personally appointed commander of Avrlyn and Rhulyn, his grand and worthy lordship Petragar of the Rhist.”

The two bowed.

She returned their bows. “I'm Arion,” she said.

Vertumus hesitated, looking out of sorts as if she'd tripped him. The assistant to the commander was a little Fhrey with a receding hairline and enough gray to suggest he was well into his second millennium. He was dressed in formal Asendwayr garb, a green-and-gold tunic with a long cape.

“The commander is extremely honored to have such an esteemed person as yourself visiting Alon Rhist,” Vertumus went on, finding his rhythm once more. “He regrets that due to recent events he cannot speak as clearly as he'd like, and he has asked me to aid him in this matter.” They bowed again.

Arion didn't bother to return it. She was far too tired and dirty for formalities. All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Even a meal could wait.

“Where is Nyphron now?”

Petragar looked at Vertumus, who replied on his behalf. “We believe he has gone south to hide among the Rhunes.”

Petragar whispered once more, and Vertumus spoke up. “Certainly these unpleasant matters can wait until another day. It's late, and you've traveled a long way. You must be tired.”

“I'd greatly appreciate a bath.” The grit from traveling was horrible. Twice she had ordered Thym to stop at clear mountain pools so that she could clean up. She had used the Art to turn each into a luxurious hot spa, but it had been two days since the last one.

“Of course. I'll have one prepared immediately. Afterward, we will feast in your honor.” Vertumus looked over Arion's shoulder, and at the snap of his fingers, a soldier ran off. “Commander Petragar insists that you occupy his quarters while you are here. I'll have your bags brought up and the bed turned.”

“I don't know that a feast is necessary, and I only have the one bag,” she said.

The two seemed a bit relieved, relaxing slightly.

They don't like Miralyith.

“Anyway, I can carry my bag, unless…” She looked out the western windows. “My room isn't at the top of that tower, is it?”

“Of course not,” Vertumus said. “Elysan, escort Her Eminence to the commander's chambers.”

Arion was nearly out the door when Vertumus asked, “Will you be staying long?”

She paused and shook her head. “I expect I'll be leaving in search of Nyphron in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Vertumus's brows rose. “So soon? But we have no idea where Nyphron and his Galantians are.”

She smiled. Arion rarely dealt with non-Miralyith, and those she did speak to were well aware of their capabilities. Out on the frontier all they had was rumors, and she could imagine the sort of stories told after the spectacle of Zephyron's death. “Did he leave anything personal behind?”

Vertumus glanced at Petragar, then said, “Well, yes. Most of his things are still in his room.”

“And does he have hair?”

“Nyphron? Hair? Oh, yes, long and blond. But I don't see—”

“Well, then.” Arion clapped her hands together as a sign of
problem-solved.
“If he's left any behind in a brush or on a pillow, I'll have no trouble finding him.”

“Oh,” Vertumus said. “Then I'll see that Nyphron's quarters are scoured for strands. But we, ah…we expected you'd be staying longer than—”

“No reason to delay. Thym tells me he knows nothing of the Rhune villages, so I'll be continuing without him,” Arion went on, her weariness making her curt. “He'll be staying here. I assume that's all right.”

They both nodded, and Vertumus said, “He usually stays here or in one of the other outposts in the summers.”

“Good. Also, I'll need you to keep and care for the horse I brought with me.”

“You won't be taking it?”

“No.”

The two looked at each other, puzzled. “But you might be several days on the road. You'll need supplies and—”

“In an unpleasant rage on the way here, I nearly obliterated the poor beast. I ended up rerouting a river instead. So no, for the good of the animal, my own safety, and the protection of nature itself, I won't have anything more to do with horses.”