How did her problems become mine?
Raithe’s father wouldn’t have been trapped so easily. He knew better than to let emotions cloud judgment. Raithe hadn’t learned that lesson, despite hearing it so often. After trying for years to avoid following Herkimer’s footsteps, it was ironic Raithe would die in the same foolish way. He’d be just one more stupid Dureyan slain by a Fhrey. There would be a difference, though—he would be the last.
Despite Konniger’s order, the men at the gate lifted the rough-hewn log free of the hooks and tossed it aside when Raithe approached. They didn’t push it open. Once their responsibility was done, the pair bolted like rabbits.
Raithe looked back. Persephone stood next to Malcolm, clutching his arm and whispering into his ear. The shakes of the ex-slave’s head and the look on his face verified what Raithe already knew—he didn’t stand a chance.
With a sigh, he pushed the heavy gate open and left the dahl. Outside, the Fhrey party approached in two lines, walking side by side. Raithe expected exact duplicates of Shegon, but these Fhrey were different.
He didn’t care for the changes.
They wore yellow armor that shone like gold in the afternoon sun. Many had Shegon’s blond hair and draped blue capes of the same shimmering cloth over their shoulders, but these Fhrey had sunbaked skin and bodies of lean muscle. Two weren’t Fhrey at all, nor were they human.
One was easily the largest being Raithe had ever seen. Twelve feet tall or more, he had a bald head and flat brutish features. The giant wore only a skirt of leather and straps of hide, and he carried a mammoth sword. The other one walked on two legs but looked more like an animal than either a man or Fhrey. Its sickly-yellow eyes seemed too large for its head, and it loped along on short legs. With its hunched back and incredibly long arms, its claws dragged along the ground. The thing’s skin was dark and leathery, and the ears were pointed, though much longer and sharper than those of any Fhrey. Worst of all was its mouth, which was filled with so many rows of needle-sharp teeth that it couldn’t contain them all. They stuck out at odd angles, and Raithe wondered how the creature could eat without tearing its lips to pieces.
“What a helpful fellow you are. Opening the door for us like that,” the nearest Frey said with a smile. His blond hair was cropped shorter than Shegon’s, his pointed ears standing out. Unlike Shegon, this Fhrey’s shoulders were broad and his build muscular. Aggressive sky-blue eyes noted Raithe’s every movement.
“Sorry, but you can’t come in,” Raithe said, standing in the center of the path and realizing just how stupid that sounded, even to himself.
The short-haired Fhrey’s smile became a grin. “And why is that?”
Raithe didn’t like the grin. The Fhrey had a gleeful, eager expression; he was hoping for trouble.
“Because I said so.” Raithe let his hand settle on Shegon’s sword.
The Fhrey’s eyes followed the movement and narrowed with interest.
The rest of the party advanced and came to a stop behind the first, where they fanned out to get a better view.
“What do we have here?” another Fhrey said. Except for the giant, he was the tallest of the group. His hair reached his shoulders, but like all the Fhrey, he had no beard. “A welcoming committee of one?”
“On the contrary,” the first replied, “he says we can’t come in.”
“Can’t? How rude. I mean, even for a Rhune that’s ill mannered.”
“And he has Shegon’s sword.”
This revelation caught all of their attentions. Looks of surprise ran across their faces, followed by expressions of delight.
“So this is the famous God Killer we’ve heard so much about,” the tall one said. Like all Fhrey, he had beautiful, delicate features: flawless skin, straight teeth, and those brilliant blue eyes.
The entire group was relaxed, weight back on their heels, shoulders loose, not a hand on a weapon. Raithe wasn’t sure if he was pleased or worried about that. Maybe they weren’t there to fight. Or maybe, like Shegon, they knew he wasn’t a threat.
“Tell the truth. Did you kill Shegon?” the tall one asked.
“Yes,” Raithe said. “And I’ll do the same to any Fhrey who tries to enter this dahl.”
“Well, well. Aren’t you the bold one.” The tall Fhrey took a step closer, and Raithe realized they were the same height. Raithe glared back, refusing to blink.
“So you’re a great warrior, then? Do you think you could kill me?”
He didn’t reply. The Fhrey was sizing Raithe up, and he wanted to keep him ignorant.
“There are stories about you all along the road. I’m a little disappointed. I expected you’d be taller—the tales certainly are.”
The others laughed.
“Do you know who I am?” The tall, long-haired Fhrey held his hands out, palms up, and slowly pivoted to give Raithe a full view. Sun glared off his brilliant armor, and the wind blew his golden hair. “I’m Nyphron, son of Zephyron, leader of the Instarya tribe, and captain of the Galantians, these nice fellows with me. They are the elite of the Instarya, and as there are no greater warriors than the Fhrey, these Galantians are the best of the best.”
“Being their leader, I suppose that makes you the best of the best of the best?” Raithe spoke with a cavalier tone. He wanted to show he wasn’t impressed, which was difficult since he was certain the Fhrey told the truth.
Nyphron shook his head. “No, I’m actually not.” He clapped the short-haired Fhrey’s shoulder. “Sebek is.”
This brought a round of moans from the rest of the troop.
“Well, okay, each of us has specific fields of expertise. But…” He paused, holding up a finger and glancing at the others. “I’d still say Sebek is the best overall warrior. Anyone dispute that?”
Sebek grinned.
No one said a word.
Nyphron returned his focus to Raithe. “I suppose you think you’re something special now that you’ve killed one of us, yes? Before you get too full of yourself, look at the sword you carry. See all the fancy decorations on the hilt? The encrusted gems? Lovely, isn’t it? Do you think that’s a warrior’s weapon? Shegon was a member of the Asendwayr tribe, a hunter. They provide food for our kind. Although they’re skilled trackers and excellent in forests and fields, they don’t know much about real combat. That sword is merely decorative. A pretty toy. He received it as a gift from an admirer. Some idiot in Estramnadon who doesn’t know the first thing about battle made it.”
Nyphron drew his sword. He did it slowly, making a point not to threaten. Nevertheless, Raithe took a step back and gripped the hilt of his weapon more tightly.
“This”—he presented his weapon—“is Pontifex, one of the names we have for the wind. It’s a custom-crafted, curved cleve I designed myself—simple, short, and fast. Not as austere as Sebek’s more traditional twins, but as you can see it’s definitely not a toy. So tell me, Rhune, do you think you can kill me?”
“I’m not a Rhune. I’m a man.”
Nyphron smiled. The cheery, simple look disturbed Raithe more than anything that had happened so far. He didn’t know what it meant.
“Let’s find out exactly what you are. Go ahead, draw that pretty sword.”
Nyphron waited until Raithe had his blade clear. “And your shield, slip it on. We need to do this right.”
Raithe wasn’t certain if it was a trick. The Fhrey saw his apprehension and took a step back, providing him room to safely arm himself.
“That’s an odd shield,” Sebek said, and glanced at Nyphron. “Did Shegon have a weird little decorative Dherg shield?”
Nyphron shrugged. “Who knows?”
The Galantian leader also had a shield, and in one blindingly fast motion it moved from his back to his forearm. The action was beyond impressive—like magic. Raithe couldn’t help being intimidated, even as he realized that had been the point.
The rest of the Fhrey stepped back, and when they were both ready, Nyphron bowed while touch
ing the sword’s pommel to his forehead. Raithe returned only a nod.
He expected the same lethal speed as before and wasn’t disappointed. Nyphron was faster than Shegon, but not exceedingly so. If Raithe hadn’t already faced a Fhrey—if he hadn’t seen the lightning-quick strikes before—he would have been dead in an instant. But Raithe was ready this time. He gave himself over to instinct and caught the stroke with his new shield. He had no idea what to expect and was shocked when the power of Nyphron’s blow rang the metal and jarred the buckler from his grip. With no supporting strap, it fell to the grass.
“No protection,” Sebek muttered. “Just decorative.”
A following stroke was inevitable. Raithe acted in anticipation rather than in reaction. Nyphron struck, aiming to decapitate him. If Raithe had been an instant slower, he would have lost his head. His blade clashed with Nyphron’s, and Raithe feared a repeat of his failure with his father’s copper, but as the metals kissed, Shegon’s weapon—toy or not—held.
Nyphron wasn’t one to pause. Momentum was in his favor and he pressed hard, striking again—first low then high. Raithe caught the strokes an instant before they would have cleaved off his leg and arm. He had no time to counterattack as the Fhrey forced his advantage.
He’s fast, so incredibly fast.
Raithe’s brothers weren’t this quick. They were brutes, big and heavy. Raithe was the swiftest among them, and he used that to his advantage. If they caught him, Raithe was beat, so he perfected his ability to dodge. Speed had made all the difference in the past. Speed and balance, but Nyphron was better at both.
Stretched to his limit, Raithe fell back, holding on to life by his fingertips as he managed to barely place his sword in the path of Nyphron’s hammering. The blades had no time to stop singing before the next toll sounded.
Defeat was inevitable. Raithe only needed to make one mistake, and it wasn’t long before he did.
The Fhrey’s sword came across in a blinding sweep, and Raithe batted it aside, but with too much force. He lost precious time recovering his balance and wouldn’t be able to catch the next stroke.
From somewhere behind Raithe came a gasp of fear. He wasn’t the only one to see what was coming. In anticipation of the killing blow, he gritted his teeth.
Miraculously, Nyphron slowed. The Fhrey looked up, distracted by something near the dahl’s gate. Something behind Raithe. The lack of concentration was brief, but enough. Knowing he couldn’t counter Nyphron’s attack, Raithe didn’t bother. Instead, he made a dangerous gamble. For the first time, Raithe went on the offensive. He swung down instead of across. They would trade blows, blood for blood.
The move might have worked, but the Fhrey raised his shield—another first.
Before his stroke was through, Raithe was already shifting for his next. He had the upper hand now and intended to keep it. Spinning, Raithe cut upward. Nyphron was forced to dodge. Again and again Raithe pressed his attack, knowing he couldn’t allow the Fhrey to catch his composure or the tide would turn again. Raithe hammered his opponent, desperate to weaken the strength in Nyphron’s arm.
Sweat formed on the Fhrey’s brow, and his gleaming eyes weren’t so bright. Remembering his brothers’ tactics, Raithe moved in close to mitigate the Fhrey’s ability to dart clear of attacks. When he saw his chance, Raithe stomped down hard on his opponent’s foot. Surprise flashed on Nyphron’s face and Raithe took the opportunity to punch him hard in the jaw with the hilt of Shegon’s sword.
The Galantian staggered backward, stunned and off balance. Blood dripped from his chin, and his shield lowered.
Seeing his one clear chance to win, Raithe stabbed out—
Clang!
Raithe’s attack was parried away. A second stroke hit the hilt of Shegon’s sword, breaking Raithe’s grip and throwing the weapon to the ground.
Sebek stood before him, holding a cleve in each hand—violence in his eyes. Bold, confident, powerful. Despite Malcolm’s assurances, Raithe believed that what stood before him was indeed a god. He waited, but Sebek didn’t advance. He merely stood with one foot on Shegon’s sword.
Nyphron was bent over, panting for breath and wiping blood and sweat from his eyes. Raithe, also struggling for air, took a step back, and drew his father’s hunting knife. It wasn’t much, but it was slightly better than Herkimer’s broken blade.
Of course, how fitting that I’ll die holding the same knife. The gods are nothing if not poetic.
Nyphron waved a dismissive hand at them both. “We’re done.”
What does “we’re done” mean? Is this where they kill me?
Raithe didn’t mind the break; he needed a rest. The chance to clear his eyes and take in much-needed air was welcome. Waiting for what would come next, Raithe glanced behind him to see what had distracted Nyphron. Persephone and Malcolm stood together, watching wide-eyed from the open gate. Persephone had hands over her mouth. Malcolm appeared just as apprehensive but managed to offer Raithe an approving smile.
“How did you learn to fight like that?” Nyphron asked.
“My father taught me.”
“Your father?” He glanced over at Sebek. “Did you see?”
Sebek nodded. “Hard not to.”
“My father fought in the High Spear campaigns,” Raithe explained. “He was taught by your people.”
“He wasn’t taught by my people,” Nyphron said. “He was taught by my father. Those are his techniques.”
Raithe didn’t know what to say. He decided nothing was the best course and focused on breathing. Whatever came next, he would need air.
“Why did you do it?” Nyphron asked, and then spit a bit of blood. “Why did you kill Shegon? Was it for sport? To see if you could? To test your mettle?”
Raithe shook his head. “I thought you heard the stories. He killed my father.”
“That was true?” Nyphron looked surprised.
“Killed him right in front of me.”
Nyphron stared hard at Raithe, and for another long moment no one moved or spoke. Then the Fhrey nodded as if understanding something. “Thing is, Shegon was a brideeth eyn mer.”
“I’ve heard that about him,” Raithe said.
“If it wasn’t forbidden, I’d have killed him centuries ago.” Nyphron ran an absent hand through his long hair and looked at the sword beneath Sebek’s boot. “Give it back to him. He’s earned it.”
“We going again, then?” Raithe asked.
“No.” Nyphron held up his free hand as he sheathed his sword. “I found out what I wanted to know.”
“Which was?”
“That it’s possible.”
“What is?”
“For a Rhune to kill a Fhrey.”
“Glad to have helped.”
“Can we come in now?” Nyphron asked.
“Sorry.” Raithe shook his head.
“Not very courteous of you.”
“Neither is slaughtering thousands of people and burning down Dureya and Nadak.”
Nyphron nodded. “You make a good point. But would it make a difference if I told you we”—he gestured toward his group—“had nothing to do with that? In fact, we’re outlaws…rebels…because we refused to take part in that reprehensible affair. We went against the edicts of our ruler and declined to butcher defenseless Rhunes. We’re in flight, like you, and from the same pursuers. If you have been offered shelter, couldn’t we receive the same?”
Raithe was stunned. He had imagined the conversation going differently. “It’s ah…it’s not my decision to make.” He turned to look at Persephone again. She blinked then nodded.
“It would appear the lady approves,” Raithe said. “Welcome to Dahl Rhen.”
“Wonderful.” Nyphron smiled. “Where is Maccus?”
“Maccus?”
“He’s the leader here, right?”
This time Persephone spoke from the shelter of the open gate. “Chieftain Maccus…was…that is…he is…dead. He’s been dead for, ah, seventy years, I
think. He was my husband’s great-great-grandfather.”
“Oh,” Nyphron said. “Well, do you still make that marvelous wine? The pale red one, with a hint of nuts? I’ve boasted about it all the way here.”
“There was a vineyard once, up on the slope of the Horn Ridge,” Persephone said. “But it was lost to drought decades ago.”
Nyphron scowled. “Doesn’t anything in this place last?”
“Hardship,” Persephone replied. “We always have an abundance of that.”
The god looked directly at her. Their eyes met and he smiled. With a nod, he replied, “Well…at least you have that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Tutor
There were seven clans of the Rhulyn-Rhunes and three for the Gula-Rhunes. Each clan had a chieftain. When it was necessary to unite, a single leader was named and we called him the keenig, which eventually became the word king. The Fhrey had tribes instead of clans and no chieftains. Instead, they had a single ruler who was called the fane.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The three stones clattered to the marble floor. One rolled toward Arion, who picked it up and handed the smooth egg-sized rock back to Mawyndulë. The fane’s son acted as if the little stone weighed a ton—every movement dramatizing extreme effort. Even his breathing appeared labored, each exhalation a long sigh. He stood before her, frowning, head bowed and shoulders slumped so that the sleeves of his asica slipped down and covered his hands.
“I can’t do it,” he told her.
“Try again,” Arion insisted.
“I don’t want to.”
The two were in the palace’s entrance hall, which Arion had chosen for its high ceiling. She’d chased away the servants to give them privacy, and it was there, before the grand staircase and among the lavish frescoes, tapestries, polished stone, and vases filled with flowering plants, that the two faced off in a battle of wills.
“I don’t care. Do it anyway.” Arion folded her arms in a gesture that should have ended the debate, but this was no typical student of the Art. Mawyndulë was the prince, the twenty-five-year-old son of Fane Lothian, and every one of those years had been spent isolated in the Talwara Palace. Surrounded by servants and those eager to curry favor, the prince had developed an inflated sense of himself.
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