Age of Myth (24 page)

“If you feel you have to, go ahead.”

“And then what? I don't want to be the one getting the order to bring you in…or worse.”

Nyphron smiled. The Galantian appeared to find this entertaining, but he seemed to be the only one.
“Do you think you could?”

Sikar stared at him, his face hard.
“I wouldn't have a choice. Nyphron, your father is dead. Lothian won. He's the new fane and can't be challenged again for another three thousand years. So you're going to have to live with that fact. Even if he dies before the Uli Vermar, his son will take over, and then what will you do? Challenge him? Repeat your father's mistake? Swords can't defeat the Art. You were there. You saw what happened in that arena.”

Nyphron no longer looked so jovial and began walking around Sikar.

“A Rhune killed Shegon,”
Nyphron said.
“It proves Rhunes can fight.”

“According to Meryl, Shegon was unconscious when he was killed.”

“I hadn't heard that, but it doesn't change the fact that the Rhunes know what is possible now. Fhrey can't kill Fhrey, but Rhunes can. If provoked, they will fight back.”

Sikar shook his head.
“I hope you know what you're doing.”

“Let's just say I don't intend to make the same mistakes as my father.”
Nyphron stopped and clapped Sikar on the shoulders, leaving his hands there and looking into his eyes.
“What do you say? Why don't you join us?”

“You can't be serious. What you're suggesting is unthinkable. It's not our place to question the fane. Our lord Ferrol appointed him—”

Nyphron shoved him backward.
“Don't give me that crap! Ferrol didn't pick Lothian. He was the son of Fenelyus; that's how he got the Forest Throne. Before the Art, challenges were fair. But now it doesn't matter who the Aquila picks. From here on we're doomed to be ruled by the Miralyith, and Lothian just happened to be the next in line. He's a privileged, self-centered elitist who thinks anyone from another tribe is a lesser race. We're nothing but slaves to him. My father was the only one willing to say so and back it up with a sword.”

“And now he's dead,”
Sikar said, stepping forward to regain the ground he'd lost.

“I think I'd rather die than be a slave,”
Nyphron shot back.

Sikar looked up at the wall lined with spectators. He sighed.
“You might be put to that test sooner than you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it might not be me who is sent to retrieve you. The Rhist is expecting a visitor from Estramnadon.”

“A visitor?”

“Her name is Arion.”

The Galantians looked at one another. No one appeared to recognize the name.

“Rumor has it she's the tutor to the prince,”
Sikar said.

“Miralyith,”
Nyphron said gravely.

“Tutor to the prince,”
Tekchin added.
“That can't be good.”

Sikar nodded.
“Petragar was falling all over himself making preparations of welcome. Running honor guard drills, hanging banners, scrubbing walls. Nyphron, her nickname is Cenzlyor.”

“Swift of mind?”

Sikar nodded.
“It was given to her by Fenelyus—Fenelyus!”

“You think she's coming after us?”

“Why else would a palace-level Miralyith pay a visit to the Rhist?”
Sikar's face filled with sympathy.
“The only way you could be in more trouble is if Gryndal or the fane himself was on his way.”
Sikar sighed.
“Listen, I wasn't in Estramnadon for the challenge. I didn't see it, but I heard what happened—what Lothian did to your father. You should run. Just disappear.”

Nyphron shook his head.
“It wouldn't help. No one can hide from a Miralyith.”

Sikar nodded and extended his hand.
“Any idea where we can find Shegon's killer so this trip won't be a total loss? Perhaps it will appease Petragar if we come back with something.”

Nyphron turned and looked up at Raithe.
“I'm pretty sure he's southeast.”

“What? In Menahan?”

“That's a possibility.”

“Great. I love the stink of sheep. Okay.”
Sikar sighed.
“Good luck to you.”

Nyphron gripped Sikar's forearm and the two clapped shoulders.

“I hope we never see any of you again,”
Sikar said, then turning to Tekchin, he added,
“Especially you.”

“Sikar, you sound like a spurned lover.”
Tekchin laughed.

Sikar laughed with him, and as he turned around and walked away, he called back,
“You forget how many of us owe you gambling debts, Tekchin. Farewell!”

Tekchin stopped laughing as he watched them leave.

Suri had slept through the morning events, missing the well raid and the confrontation at the gate. Certain things could be done only by moonlight, and recently Suri had discovered many tasks to do. It wasn't until late afternoon that she woke, unable to sleep through the screaming.

By the time she crawled out of Roan's house, the noise had stopped. The man lying on the grass in front of the lodge was a twisted heap of blood-soaked rags—no longer breathing. Parts of him were missing. Most of him was missing. Suri had seen similar sights dozens of times in the forest: deer, wolves, foxes, and opossums left mauled and partially eaten by hunters who'd had their fill or whose meal had been interrupted. The bulk of the dahl gathered around to see the sight. Even the Fhrey looked on with interest.

Konniger was out of the lodge, standing on the raised porch and declaring, “This was the work of the bear that killed Reglan, Mahn, and Oswald. Krier had been cutting wood at the edge of the forest.” Konniger pointed up toward the tree-covered mountain. “He was bucking a log. The men he was with went to get the sled. They weren't gone more than a few minutes. When they got back, Krier was gone. They followed a blood trail and found him where he'd been dragged to.”

Krier's wife wailed in the crowd, held on her feet by others.

Suri reached into her pouch, pulled out the blackened leg bone of the chicken, and rubbed it thoughtfully with her thumb. “What do you think?” she asked Minna, who sat dutifully beside her and refused to engage in idle speculation. “You're such a wise wolf.”

The marking on the bone had said a monster was coming, and it had given Suri its name. Rarely did a chicken render that level of detail, but Suri was certain she'd gotten it right. There wasn't any doubt about Grin the Brown, but the bone had revealed that she was no mere bear. It had to be a demon.

It wasn't uncommon for evil spirits to possess people and animals. Tura had fought a raow after they stumbled upon its bed of bones. She was certain the raow had once been an unfortunate woman lost in the woods. Starving, the woman had been taken over by a demon, which was how most raow came to be. Grin was no raow. Suri had narrowed the choices of demons down to three: a yakkus, morvyn, or bendigo. She was leaning toward a morvyn, since they were the result of an animal eating human flesh. The Brown seemed to have a fondness for the taste of people. Still, Suri had to be sure. As mystic, it was her responsibility to hunt and kill this demon for the good of the region, and an incorrect identification could prove disastrous.

Konniger returned inside the lodge.

Suri didn't like the log building. Entering it felt like climbing inside the dead rotting body of old friends, but she had to find out more about what kind of demon she was dealing with, and this was as good a time as any. The mystic climbed the stone steps and ducked into the wooden cave.

The fire was still burning in the big room's pit. She searched for Konniger but guessed he'd already headed up the stairs. She could hear creaks and shuffles overhead. Suri crept along the edge of the fire pit, inching toward the steps. Twelve pillars, four rows of three, held up the ceiling.

They line their halls with the dead bodies of noble beings.

The place stank of smoke and grease. On the walls hung square shields painted different colors and long spears with ribbons and feathers tied to the necks. The skins of animals lay on the floor: deer, bobcats, and two bears—one black, the other brown. Suri stepped around them, grimacing. As she looked back at the entrance, the bright light of day was being strangled by the doorway. The place was the lair of predators, murderers, and thieves.

Little wonder the demon assumed a bear's shape.

A boy dropped a log on the fire and peeked at her and Minna. He offered a smile. Suri smiled back.

“I understand! I told you I understood. Now leave me alone!” Konniger's voice boomed overhead, a sort of inferior thunder.

The mystic headed toward the stairs with Minna padding along behind.

Overhead, a door slammed.

“Where do you think you're going?” Maeve appeared at the top of the steps, glaring down. Her face was flushed, and there was anger or perhaps fear in her eyes. Suri often had difficulty distinguishing between the two, at least with people.

“I need to speak to Chieftain Konniger.”

“About what?” Maeve remained on the steps with her hands on the rails, blocking the way up.

“I've done a reading from bones. Several now. The thing that murdered that man out there, Grin the Brown, isn't a bear at all.”

“Of course not!” Maeve's voice jumped in pitch and volume.

Suri took a step backward at the old woman's outburst. Minna took two.

“So you know. Good. That's why I need to speak with Konniger. It's a powerful demon. He said so the day he brought back Reglan's body. He's fought it. If I can ask him some questions to learn the demon's true nature, then I'll be prepared. The demon is coming at the light of the full moon, but I don't know exactly what kind of demon we're talking about. If I could—”

“Get out!” Maeve snapped, and pointed to the door. The old woman was furious. “Konniger is too busy to see you. We have Fhrey camped just outside the hall and men being slaughtered on the eaves of the forest. He doesn't have time for mystic nonsense.”

“It's not nonsense.”

“Out!” she cried, coming down the stairs.

Suri and Minna retreated.

“You don't understand.”

“Out, I say!”

Suri stood her ground at the bottom of the stairs. “But Konniger—”

“Konniger doesn't know nothing about anything—nothing about the bear, especially.”

“Come the full moon, that bear will kill everyone, even the Fhrey, I think.”

“Shayla would never do such a thing. She's a good girl.”

“Shayla?” Suri asked, puzzled. “You call Grin
Shayla
?”

“If you don't leave, I'll call Hegner. He's Konniger's Shield now. He'll—”

“Shayla means ‘lost one.' ”

Maeve's face hardened. “I want you gone. Not just out of this lodge but off the dahl. I'll have Konniger banish you.” She looked around but only found Habet and scowled. “Hegner!”

“Why would you call Grin the Brown
Lost One
?”

Maeve came down from the stairs and rushed to the wall. She pulled one of the spears from the hooks and whirled at Suri.

“I wouldn't do that,” the mystic said. “Minna doesn't like it when people point sticks at us.”

To emphasize this, the wolf began to growl, fur rising.

Maeve stopped. “Hegner!
Hegner!
”

“Come on, Minna.”

The two left the lodge. Behind them, the doors slammed, hard.

The mystic glanced down at the wolf. “Well, what do you make of that?”

The wolf looked back at the closed door but again kept her own counsel.

“You are so smart, Minna. You must be the smartest of all wolves.”

To the Fhrey we were little more than dust, as unnoticeable as pebbles along a path. It gave us an advantage, but not for long.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Arion left Thym and Naraspur in Alon Rhist and traveled south alone. For her, loneliness wasn't a problem. She reminded herself of this twice. The second time she added the adage about how Miralyith were trained to live inside their heads and being with people was the real hardship. The third time she considered how, being alone, she could stop and rest when she liked, walk when she wanted, sleep where she wished. By the fourth time, she wondered why she had to keep reminding herself that she was better off alone. Then she faced the obvious realization that she wasn't just alone with her thoughts. She wasn't isolated in her home, away in the Garden, sitting in a quiet room of the palace, or studying at the art academy. Arion was completely alone. There wasn't another Fhrey for miles and no Miralyith at all on this side of the Nidwalden. Those thoughts were sobering.

Before being appointed as the prince's tutor, Arion had taught at the Estramnadon Academy of the Art. One of the hardest things to teach, after students learned the basics, was that Miralyith weren't invincible. Everyone in Erivan treated them with respect, deference, and even fear. Such behavior made it all too easy to believe, as Gryndal did, that they were above others. Such thoughts led to a number of serious and sometimes fatal accidents. Arion knew of one student trying to fly who had nearly died from jumping off the roof of the Airenthenon. Another student, grieving over a lover's death, had entered the afterlife to save him and never returned.

Being a Miralyith wasn't the same as being all-powerful. The fall from Naraspur had been a reminder of just how vulnerable she was. If Arion had landed on her neck or slammed her head on a rock, she'd be just as dead as anyone else. A more immediate concern was that she couldn't create or summon food and water. She had to carry supplies on her back and hope more would be found before her provisions ran out. And while she wasn't worried about being attacked when awake, she would need to sleep. While unconscious, she couldn't maintain even the simplest weave. As she often told her students, a Miralyith was like a diamond—harder than anything, but if hit in just the right place, it shattered like glass. And there she was, alone in an unfamiliar wild wilderness, a diamond in the rough.

At least she had her string.

String patterns were taught at the art academy to boost concentration, creativity, and dexterity, as well as to familiarize students with the idea of weaving patterns out of interconnected threads. The Art was all about recognizing and making delicate patterns, and string games were as much an illustration as a tool. Such games were used only briefly, early in a Miralyith's training. Most gave up their strings as soon as they touched their first deep chord and discovered the addiction of the real thing. Arion still used her string more than two thousand years after learning the technique. Teaching students had reintroduced her to the simple joys of the game, a series of repeating chords representing the circle of life that could be bent, twisted, and looped to create new patterns, new paths.

A particularly elaborate web was forming between her fingers when she noticed a crude wooden fort on a hill, rising ahead of her. She'd passed two others—charred ruins on blackened mounds. This one looked to be the first inhabited encampment. Arion had used Nyphron's hair to track him. A simple location weave accompanied by burning a strand produced smoke that drifted in the target's direction. The color gave an indication of distance. Judging by the last reading, Nyphron and, probably, the rest of the Galantians were inside. She might have cast another location check, but the weave she had going was beautiful, and she was having fun with the string. The warrior Fhrey she had met at Alon Rhist didn't impress her as being overly intelligent, which was reason enough to assume the son of Zephyron was hiding in the most obvious place.

She heard a horn when she was still a quarter mile away, three blasts in quick succession. With a sigh, she unwrapped her fingers and let the string once more return to a simple loop. She slipped it around her neck and began a weave of another sort.

Nyphron and his band of warriors were known to be excellent combatants. One named Eres was deadly with a thrown spear. Another, called Medak, could throw a knife with accuracy for several dozen yards. Neither of these could harm her at such a distance, but Arion was a cautious sort. The weave she made was a simple thing, which required little concentration, the magical equivalent to putting a hand out in front of her. It probably wasn't necessary; Fhrey didn't kill Fhrey. But that didn't mean they couldn't hurt one another, and Nyphron had battered Petragar easily enough.

She hoped Nyphron wouldn't make a fuss. She had no desire to harm or embarrass him, especially given the way Lothian had treated Nyphron's father. In her eyes, the fane had shown poor judgment in making such a spectacle. No one could challenge again until Lothian's death or the start of the Uli Vermar, which wouldn't occur for three thousand years. But, of course, the memory would linger. In the future, only another Miralyith would ever challenge, which was the real point of the show.

Arion had weak ties to her parents, but she recognized the Instarya might feel differently. Thym had suggested as much. Nyphron must hate Lothian, which would account for his recent rebellion. He'd likely feel the same way about the fane's emissaries as well. She would try to be as gentle as possible. He only had a party of six Fhrey, and Vertumus had assured her the Rhunes wouldn't interfere.
More docile than inebriated sheep
is how he had described them as she left Alon Rhist. And, of course, their belief that the Fhrey were gods would work in her favor. Despite this, she felt uncomfortable; far too many people were thinking of themselves as gods these days.

When the horn blew, Persephone came out of the roundhouse with everyone else.

The sky was blue, the sun bright, and the breeze warm. A perfect spring day for shearing. Delwin and Gelston, who spent all year with the flock, directed the operation and did most of the actual clipping. A number of others had gone to help round up and wrangle the sheep. Raithe had been one. He'd asked Persephone for work, and there was plenty of need. On that day, he'd gotten up before dawn, split wood for the boiling, and went with the other men to fetch the flock.

Wedon, a farmer and occasional leather worker, was the gate's guard that morning. He shouted down from the wall through cupped hands, “Fhrey!”

“Again?” Moya said, coming out of Roan's roundhouse to stand beside Persephone, hands on hips. Staring out the open gate, she shook her head.

Wedon was looking down at Persephone, who once again looked to the Galantians. All nine were there, forming up beside the well and donning their weapons. Nyphron was speaking to the goblin in another language that she couldn't understand; it sounded like he was mostly coughing and spitting. He spoke quickly, earnestly, and wore an expression more serious than she'd yet seen. The little creature nodded and ran off behind the woodpile.

Konniger came out of the lodge along with The Stump and stood on the top of the steps.

“Should we seal the gate or leave it open?” Persephone asked Nyphron.

“How many are coming?”

“Wedon?” Persephone asked.

“Just one.”

Nyphron ran a hand through his hair and looked at his fellows. The expressions on their faces made Persephone nervous. The last time they were all smiles and laughter. This time no one joked; no one laughed; no one smiled.

“Should we seal the gate?” she asked again.

“That depends on how much you like your gate,” Nyphron replied.

Wedon looked to Konniger, who remained on the steps, now flanked by Tressa and Maeve. Konniger, in turn, stared at Persephone, who finally replied with a shrug, “Leave it open, I guess.”

“Why do we even have these walls?” Moya asked.

Roan appeared on the other side of Persephone, shifting to one side to allow Gifford a better view. The potter still wore his leather apron, which was soaked and smeared with clay. No one said anything. No one moved, and at nearly midday Dahl Rhen came to a stop. The only sounds were distant birdsong and flapping banners on the lodge.

Out of that silence, a figure appeared, framed in the open gate. Dressed in flowing robes of white, which billowed in the breeze as if made of gossamer, she appeared ghostly. Tall, thin, and more delicate than one of Gifford's best vases, she didn't seem of the same world as everyone else. Too elegant, too perfect with eyes of bright blue and pale, thin lips.

She made no sound.

It's as if she floats,
Persephone thought.

The lady in white entered the gate. Drawing back her hood, she revealed a bald head. She walked until reaching the center of the dahl, then stopped—just a few feet from Nyphron and Persephone.

Behind the lady Fhrey, Delwin, Malcolm, Raithe, and a few other men entered, each of them out of breath. Delwin still held his shears and Raithe the prod stick. The bald Fhrey didn't turn her head or look around; she remained focused on Nyphron.

“You are Nyphron, son of Zephyron, of the Instarya?”
the bald woman asked in the Fhrey language.

“Yes,”
Nyphron replied. He stood where he was, stiff and still, his hands hanging at his sides.

“I'm Arion of the Miralyith. I have been sent by Fane Lothian to request your return to Estramnadon.”

“Request? In that case, I'll decline the offer.”

The lady took a step closer.
“Your fane insists.”

“I no longer recognize Lothian as my fane. So I see no reason to care if he insists or not.”

Persephone didn't understand why the lady in white was such a problem. There were seven strong Fhrey warriors, a giant, and the creepy goblin thing, presently hiding behind the woodpile, arrayed against her. And yet the Galantians' apprehension was palpable.

“Please don't make this harder than it needs to be.”
The lady Fhrey took a breath and another step forward.
“I was at the arena and saw what happened to your father. I'd like to spare you any more humiliation and pain.”

“And how do you propose to do that? If I appear before Lothian, do you think he will treat me any different? I won't go back with you.”

The Galantians gathered around Nyphron with hands on weapons.

Arion granted them a cursory glance.
“I have no instructions concerning the rest of you. Don't involve yourself, or you'll share Nyphron's fate.”

“We're Galantians,”
Sebek said.
“And Instarya. Sharing fate is what we do.”

“Touch him and you're going to have to fight all of us,”
Tekchin declared.

Arion didn't appear concerned. If anything, she looked sad.
“I'm trying to be kind. We both know what's going to happen. Wouldn't you prefer to follow me out of here with dignity? You can explain yourself to the fane. Tell him you were distraught from witnessing the death of your father. He's not without compassion.”

“No? I thought you said you saw what happened in the arena?”
Nyphron replied with a growl in his voice.
“Were those acts of compassion? Had the situation been reversed, my father would have made Lothian's death quick, painless, and honorable. Don't stand there and tell me to throw myself on a tyrant's mercy. All of you Miralyith are the same. Since Fenelyus became fane, you've lorded over the rest of us, set yourselves up as gods. The war with the Dherg ended centuries ago, but the Instarya are still condemned to serve in the wilderness while you, all of you, bask in the security we provide. Why is that? What are we doing out here? Why only Instarya and a handful of Asendwayr? Why don't the great Miralyith send a few to serve? Why are there no Eilywin? During the war, when Alon Rhist was fane, other tribes were out here with us, wielding hammers and shovels. They built the Rhist, but not one of them remains. Where are the Nilyndd? Ferrol knows we could use them. And the Umalyn—”

“I came here with Thym of the Umalyn,”
she said.

Nyphron rolled his eyes
. “Yes, once a year, two or three of the most unfortunate Umalyn priests condescend to visit and find fault. What a great help they are. We have been forced to live and die out here, denied the rights of every other Fhrey to cross the Nidwalden and go home. We aren't good enough to be a part of Erivan, we are only fit to suffer defending it. Protecting a fane who treats us without respect. No, I won't willingly return with you, not while I have breath in my body. Lothian is your fane, not mine. I no longer serve him, for he no longer values me.”

Arion sighed.
“I'm sorry, but you are Fhrey, and you are coming with me. I just want you to know that I'll take no pleasure in this.”

The lady Fhrey gestured with her hand, and Nyphron's wrists came together in front of him as if they'd been bound. Then, she twitched her finger, and he jerked forward. At the same time, Persephone heard an odd sound. Someone was singing. Less a song than a chant, and all the words were in another language.

Arion staggered then, shoved back several steps as if blown by a powerful wind. She nearly stumbled into Malcolm. Nyphron stopped walking forward.

“Now!” Nyphron shouted in Rhunic. “Do it now!”

Persephone heard a loud roar and watched in amazement as Arion caught fire. In an instant, her whole body was engulfed in a pillar of flame that swirled and coursed up twenty feet into the sky. Those close cried out, backing away.

The Galantians drew weapons and ran at the blistering column of fire. One threw a javelin, another a knife. Then everything stopped.