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 b
ald 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.
The javelin and knife froze in midair and fell. A moment later seven of the nine Galantians slammed into an invisible wall. Three hit so hard they bounced and collapsed, dazed. The giant staggered and reeled, blood running from his nose. The woodpile was swept aside, revealing the yellow-eyed goblin chanting and dancing until he, too, stopped. With a wave of Arion’s hand, the goblin froze and the fire surrounding her vanished. She was still dressed in pristine white; not so much as a thread of her wondrously white robe had been singed.
“Sit down, all of you!” Arion ordered. The Fhrey, as well as the creature near the woodpile and the giant, were thrown to the dirt. “I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”
The remainder of their weapons flew from their hands and scabbards, clattering into a pile near Arion’s feet. “This is why you’re treated poorly. You dare to attack your fellow Fhrey?” She pointed at the goblin. “You’ve enlisted practitioners of the Dark Art! You’ve become wild and are too dangerous to be allowed back into society. Association with the Rhunes has distorted your ideals of loyalty and honor. What virtue is there in living like an animal? What honor is there in rebellion? You’ve become feral—no, worse—you’ve become rabid! It isn’t for you to decide whom you serve or the wisdom of the fane’s actions. Lothian is fane because Ferrol has decreed it. Your father died because our god knows who will make a better fane. When you disobey Lothian, you’re defying Ferrol’s will. Who do you think you are to—”
Arion crumpled, sprawling face-first on the gravel where she lay awkwardly twisted, her cheek pressed against the little rocks of the path. She didn’t move. Her robes billowed up briefly with a breeze then settled as lightly as dandelion tufts. Everyone stared in shock at the pool of white robes and the bright-red blood that began to stain them.
Behind her, holding a rock in both hands, stood Malcolm.
—
“We really need to talk about this habit of yours,” Raithe told Malcolm as he stared down at the pile of cloth and the frail Fhrey at his feet. “This wasn’t our fight.”
“Shegon wasn’t my fight, either, but you didn’t seem too upset then.” The ex-slave continued to stare at the bleeding Fhrey with a look of sadness so pronounced that Raithe wondered if the man would vomit. As he thought about it, Raithe realized Malcolm had looked the same way after hitting Shegon.
The Galantians rushed forward. Nyphron stopped, looking down at her. “She’s breathing.” Then to Raithe and Malcolm he said, “She’s still alive. You need to finish her.”
“What?” Raithe asked, stunned.
“You’re the God Killer.” Nyphron looked squarely at him. “You have two swords. Use one of them and kill her.”
“She’s defenseless,” Raithe said, hoping Malcolm didn’t say anything. This was not the time to be admitting past transgressions.
“I know.” Nyphron took a tentative step closer, a step wide of her pretty white robes. “Which means it’ll be easy.”
“I don’t kill women or children.”
“That’s not a woman. That’s a Miralyith.”
“I don’t even know what Miralyith means.”
“It means she’s too powerful and dangerous to live.”
Sebek looked at Malcolm. “You do it. Kill her. You don’t attack a Miralyith without finishing the job. Leaving her injured is suicide for you, us, and pretty much everyone.”
“Don’t lay this at our feet. If you want her dead, go ahead and kill her yourselves,” Raithe said. “We can’t stop
you.”
“We can’t. Fhrey can’t kill another—” Nyphron looked irritated. “Where’s Grygor?”
“No! Don’t hurt her!” Persephone cried, rushing forward. She held her skirt above her ankles and muscled her way into the ring surrounding the fallen Fhrey.
“Grygor, get over here,” Nyphron called, and the giant lumbered toward them, pausing to pick up his sword. “I need you to kill this bitch.”
“Don’t let them hurt her!” she shouted at Raithe.
Raithe wondered when, and how, he had become the arbiter of all things. He hadn’t even been the one to use the rock. “Why?”
“Protect the injured,” she said, looking deep into his eyes as if this was a magic spell she was casting. “Protect the injured, remember?”
He didn’t. Not at first but then it hit him, and he understood what had lit a fire under her. “You are kidding.”
Persephone stood before the giant, holding up a palm to stop him. Then she faced the Galantian leader. “If you want to stay with us—and since you can’t go back to Alon Rhist, this might be the only place you are welcome—I forbid you to harm her.”
“You, you, what?” Nyphron asked. The Fhrey blinked repeatedly, as if trying to get a clear view of her. For the first time, Nyphron appeared genuinely and unequivocally dumbfounded.
“Persephone!” an enraged Konniger shouted from the doorway of the lodge, a fortress of wood he’d retreated to. “Stay out of it. This isn’t our affair.”
“It is! This lady cannot be harmed. Raithe, help me,” Persephone pleaded. “Don’t let Nyphron kill her.”
“Nyphron can’t kill her,” Malcolm said, his voice a refuge of calm assurance. “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey.”
“That’s why you have to do it,” Nyphron told Raithe. “Or let Grygor.”
Raithe had no intention of killing anyone. He had nothing against the lady, and she was pretty, which made the idea even more distasteful. It was always more difficult to snap a rabbit’s neck than crush a spider. He found himself agreeing with Konniger. This was none of their business. Around them, the inhabitants of the dahl inched closer, closing a hesitant circle. Children were pushed back or held close as parents watched with worried eyes.
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