Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “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.”

  At her raised voice, Petragar took a step back. Vertumus remained frozen, staring at her; he didn’t look to be breathing.

  Petragar elbowed his servant.

  “As…as you wish, Your Eminence,” Vertumus managed to choke out.

  The commander whispered to his assistant, who nodded and then said, “We will, of course, provide you with whatever you need, but…” He bit his lip. “Exactly how many soldiers should we have prepared for the morning?”

  “Soldiers?”

  “Yes. How many do you think you’ll need to subdue Nyphron and his Galantians? Will fifty be enough? Would you prefer more?”

  Now was her turn to be puzzled. “Why in Ferrol’s name would I need soldiers?”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Lost One

  When I was born, the name Moya had no meaning or significance in the Rhunic, Dherg, or Fhrey languages. It does now. And in all three it means the same thing—brave and beautiful.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The people of Dahl Rhen had gone without drawing water for as long as they could. Once the Fhrey had settled next to the well, no one was willing to go near it except Raithe, and Persephone refused to make him the village water boy. The women decided to go together, hoping there was safety in numbers, and a herd of women would be less likely to spark a problem than a troop of men. Tense husbands and sons watched from doorways as their wives and mothers gathered all the containers they could carry.

  Persephone led the expedition since it had been her idea. All told, they had more than twenty women, each laden with poles and gourds. Tressa was notably absent. No one from the lodge had ventured out, and Persephone wondered what they were drinking in there.

  The former chieftain’s wife lined everyone up single-file along the outer wall in front of Bergin the Brewer’s row of aging clay jugs. She offered words of encouragement, telling them to be calm and quiet. They were to fill their containers and then head back the way they had come. Delwin, Tope, Cobb, Gelston, and Gifford stood alongside Bergin, watching. Each looked about as relaxed as a turtle without a shell.

  “You be careful,” Delwin told Sarah. “And if there’s trouble, you drop that pole and run back to me as fast as you can. You understand?”

  Persephone wondered what Delwin, or any of the men, thought could be done if trouble arose. Raithe was the only one capable of standing up to the Fhrey, and even he didn’t stand a chance against so many. Not that there were nine at the well. Each day a few of them left the dahl and went into the forest. No one knew where they went or why, but she took advantage of the daily excursions when planning the “well raid,” timing it for when the fewest Fhrey would be present.

  Brin had been one of the first to volunteer to haul water, but her parents had refused.

  “If it wasn’t for the good of the dahl, do you think I would be going?” Sarah asked her. “This is dangerous. We have no idea what they might do.” Sarah was trembling, and Delwin gave his wife a long, tight hug.

  Persephone, Moya, and Sarah led the column across the byway on the far side of the lodge. They passed the newly turned black soil of the Killians’ garden, where green beans were already sprouting. Then they moved past a pile of green wood Viv and Bruce Baker’s boys had stacked. As they neared the lodge and the well, Persephone saw Raithe and Malcolm not far from Sarah’s roundhouse, watching the procession.

  The Fhrey watched as well.

  There were only three in their camp near the well, and Persephone was disappointed that neither Nyphron nor Grygor was among them. She had talked to those two before and wasn’t sure if any of the others knew Rhunic. Persephone spoke Fhrey, but she wasn’t confident in her ability. Knowing their language was a requirement of all chieftains because the Fhrey held meetings to review treaties and discuss grievances. Reglan had learned it from his father, and she learned the vernacular when Reglan had taught their son. Konniger didn’t realize it yet, but he was going to have to learn the language from her.

  Thankfully, the goblin wasn’t there. The assortment of Galantians who ventured into the Crescent Forest each day was different, but each party always included him.

  Aside from their daily outings, the Fhrey stayed mostly in their camp: stitching clothes, sharpening blades, polishing armor, and speaking quietly among themselves. That morning the tall one who carried the spear, a gigantic pole with a fearsome blade, sat rubbing it with a cloth. Next to him was the quiet one, who braided his hair and had a fascination with tying knots in lengths of rope or in the frayed threads of his clothes. The last was the one called Tekchin.

  Persephone had heard his name from several of the others, usually when they told him to be quiet. Tekchin was a scary-looking Fhrey with short-cut hair, intense eyes, a scar cut along the side of his face, and a sneer that seemed just as permanent. The scar was easy to see as none of the Fhrey had beards. Persephone had previously thought Fhrey were like women in that respect, but since their arrival, she’d seen them scraping their faces with blades.

  As the line of women approached the well, Tekchin stood up and moved to the edge of their path. Sarah faltered at his approach, and Persephone grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly to keep her walking. The Fhrey folded his arms and glared as they neared. So merciless was his gaze that the whole line slowed. Sarah tugged backward, and even Persephone had trouble keeping her feet moving forward.

  From behind her, Moya shouted, “What are you looking at?”

  Moya!

  Persephone thought her heart might have stopped at that moment. Her feet certainly would have if they weren’t in a procession, and it was hard to stop twenty people moving as one.

  “I’m looking at you,” the Fhrey growled back in Rhunic, and moved toward her.

  The line did halt then, jostling to a standstill. This time it was Sarah who squeezed Persephone’s hand, and she did so with enough force that it hurt. Persephone guessed the only reason the women hadn’t scattered was that they were too scared to move.

  Then Moya did the unthinkable. She stepped out of line and closed the distance between herself and the sneering Galantian. She walked so forcefully that the empty gourds dangling from the pole over her shoulders bounced together making hollow clunks.

  “Well, this ain’t a show, you know?” Moya said with the same saucy disdain she’d used when Heath Coswall asked her to dance last Wintertide. “We need water. So why don’t you help us out and put your eyes back in your head.”

  No one breathed for a moment as the two faced off; then all three Fhrey began laughing. Tekchin nodded and held out his hand. Moya looked confused. She obviously had meant for the Fhrey to help by getting out of their way, but he’d taken her words of assistance literally. When she didn’t react, he reached out and lifted the pole off her shoulders. Moya stood still, as if a bee were buzzing around her. Tekchin took her gourds to the well, where he began pulling water.

  The women just st
ared.

  “Get over here and give me a hand,” Tekchin demanded of the others in the Fhrey language.

  The one with the spear set his weapon down and began working the rope, tying it around a gourd and lowering it. The Fhrey with the braided hair approached Persephone and took both her and Sarah’s sets of jugs. He brought them over to the well, and Tekchin filled each.

  “What’s your name?” Tekchin asked Moya.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Don’t push it! For all that’s sacred, don’t push it! Persephone thought. She was ready to kill Moya yet wanted to kiss her at the same time.

  “I’m Tekchin,” he said, exchanging an empty gourd for a full one. “The handsomest and most skilled of the Galantians.”

  This brought an immediate and loud moan from the other Fhrey.

  “That scar suggests otherwise,” Moya replied. “On both counts.”

  More laughter, louder this time.

  “Pretty and smart,” Tekchin said to the others in Fhrey.

  Persephone was thankful Moya couldn’t understand their language. A comment like that would have been tantamount to putting torch to tinder.

  “This?” Tekchin returned to Rhunic and touched his cheek. “Naw, this is a beauty mark given to me by a special friend. He’s dead now, of course, but he was a gifted opponent and aiming for my throat. I can assure you it proves my skill. So what’s your name, or shall I call you Doe-Eyes?”

  “Doe-Eyes? Seriously?” Moya rolled her same-said eyes in disbelief. “I would have expected something less sappy from a god. My name is Moya. Call me anything else and you’ll receive a second beauty mark.”