Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Persephone pressed on, ignoring everyone. She bent down and touched the face of the Fhrey. “Delwin, Cobb, Wedon, take her into the lodge. Gently. Carry her upstairs and put her in the bed in the loft.”

  “Are you insane?” Nyphron asked. “You don’t understand. She’s Miralyith. If she wakes up…” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “She’ll—she’ll erase Rhulyn from existence, and all of you along with it.”

  “I don’t care.” Persephone tilted the delicate, bald head and grimaced at the blood leaking into the dirt. “It’s what the tree said to do.”

  “The what? Did you say the tree?” Nyphron asked.

  “She’s right.” Malcolm was nodding.

  Nyphron focused on the ex-slave even as Delwin and Cobb crept in, moving like cats terrified of the Galantians and not terribly thrilled with the Miralyith.

  “Go on, pick her up—gently,” Persephone instructed. “Be very careful. She’s bleeding badly. We need to stop it or she’ll die.”

  “Good, let her die!” Nyphron declared.

  His outburst caused the men lifting the Miralyith to flinch, but Nyphron wasn’t looking at them; he hadn’t taken his eyes off Malcolm. “You’ll be the first one she’ll come after, you know? You and your rock.”

  The path to the lodge was blocked by the giant. “What do you say, boss?” Grygor asked. The giant was still holding his sword. Not that he would need a blade to kill the delicate Miralyith.

  “I mean what I said,” Persephone told Nyphron sternly. “Leave her be, or you won’t be welcome here anymore.”

  Nyphron broke eye contact with Malcolm. “Never mind. Forget it. You heard the woman. We don’t want to jeopardize our welcome.”

  “You sure?” Grygor asked.

  Nyphron shot the giant a look.

  “Just asking.”

  “Stryker! You lousy goblin,” Nyphron shouted at the creature still near the fallen woodpile. “Get over here. We need to talk.”

  The giant turned sideways, letting the men carry the Miralyith past him toward the lodge.

  “Dammit, I said no!” Konniger shouted. “You aren’t bringing her in my house.”

  As the lady Fhrey was borne up the steps, Hegner and Devon joined Konniger’s side, spears at the ready. The three stood, blocking the entrance, a wall of muscle and stone-tipped sticks.

  Raithe caught Persephone by the arm. “Does it have to be in there?”

  “It’s the best place, the most comfortable, and it will be quiet and safe.”

  Raithe nodded, then looked at the chieftain. “Move out of the way.”

  “This is no concern of yours, Dureyan,” Konniger growled.

  “Your maimed friend and I have unfinished business. I’ll be happy to include you in the fun if you like.” He drew Shegon’s sword. “So we can settle everything now, or you can get out of the way.”

  Konniger didn’t move, but he also didn’t attack. The man appeared just as trapped in his position as he was in that doorway. Instead, he repeated himself, speaking louder. “This is no concern of yours!”

  “Well, it certainly is my concern,” Nyphron said as he and the other Galantians came up. This included the goblin, who had escaped the woodpile and was wiping blood from its hooked nose. “If we aren’t going to kill her”—Nyphron shook his head in disgust—“then she’s going to have the best bed possible. Maybe that will make a difference when she wakes up. I doubt it, but we can hope.”

  Konniger was still frozen. Only his eyes moved as they darted between Raithe and Nyphron.

  “Grygor, give him some help, he looks stuck,” Nyphron said.

  The giant took a step forward, traversing half the lodge’s steps in one stride. That was all it took to make Konniger move. “C’mon.” The chieftain grabbed Tressa’s wrist, abandoning both the porch and the lodge while Hegner and Devon followed close behind.

  “You just better hope she dies,” Nyphron told them. “You’re putting a dragon to bed in there, and when she wakes up—Ferrol help us.”

  Tekchin sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it. Ferrol will be on her side.”

  —

  By the time they laid Arion on Persephone’s old bed, the bald Fhrey had a purple bruise covering the back of her head and a bump roughly the size and shape of a small apple.

  “Open the window and light the lamp,” Persephone ordered. “Wedon, run get Padera and Roan. Oh, and Suri the mystic, too.”

  Cobb opened the window without saying a word, and Delwin lit the lamp without question. People were used to following Persephone’s orders. They’d been doing it for twenty years, and when gods fought within the dahl’s walls—for surely this bald Fhrey was a god—doing what felt normal was the next best thing to feeling safe. Persephone didn’t pause to question if she should be taking control. Things needed to be done, and the stakes were too high to leave matters to a novice chieftain.

  “He bashed her good,” Padera said with a whistle when she arrived. The old woman tilted the Miralyith’s head to one side. A small cut near the crown bled more than Persephone would have thought possible. Bright splashes of red were on the floor, and the sheets and pillow were starting to soak. “Need bandages.”

  “Suri, there’s a sheet in that chest,” Persephone told the mystic. “At least there used to be. Go ahead and tear it into pieces.”

  “Strips,” Padera corrected. “Long strips. Need water, too.” The old woman peered at the wound with her squinting eyes. Persephone grabbed the lamp and held it up.

  “Cobb, get water,” Persephone told the man, who looked happy to have an excuse to leave.

  “Gonna need your needle and thread, Roan.” Padera held her hand out to the woman expectantly, while Roan dug into the purse on her belt. As she did, Padera eyed the injured Fhrey. “You sure you want me to fix her, Seph? I’ll do my best if you say so, but”—she turned and looked into Persephone’s eyes—“in my experience, when you find a mountain lion caught in your rabbit snare, it’s best to accept good fortune and spear the thing rather than let it loose. Might be better off putting a pillow over her face.”

  The Fhrey lady was so small, her skin so pale against the brilliant explosion of red.

  Protect the injured.

  “We have to save her,” Persephone insisted.

  The old woman nodded. Getting the tools from Roan, she went to work.

  It didn’t take long for Padera to sew and bandage the Fhrey. Roan stood beside her, passing threaded needles, wet cloths, and the bandages Suri had prepared. Now that things were beginning to settle, Persephone had time to think, and doubt. She felt sick.

  Maybe I’m wrong. What if it’s all just a coincidence? What if the tree meant something else, or if Suri can’t hear trees at all and is simply delusional? Am I killing all of us? Grand Mother of All! I challenged the leader of the Galantians and threatened to throw him out of the dahl! And I defied Konniger…again. If he didn’t have a reason to side against me before, he does now.

  Everyone was against the idea. Nyphron, Konniger, even Padera had questioned the wisdom of healing the Fhrey woman. Although merely a poor farmer’s widow, who likely hadn’t traveled more than ten miles from the dahl, the old woman knew everything. Maybe not everything, but certainly everything worth knowing. Padera understood how best to lay out a garden and knew what to do when a little girl like Persephone ate a handful of poisonous berries. In all her long years, there wasn’t anything the old woman hadn’t seen. If the world operated logically, Padera would have been made chieftain years ago. So if the old woman felt it was best to let the Fhrey—

  “Heal the injured,” Suri said, and punctuated the words by ripping another sheet.

  “What?” Persephone asked.

  Suri tore the sheet again. “Magda’s instruction. You said it wrong outside. It wasn’t protect the injured. She said to heal the injured.”

  “Did I say it wrong?” Persephone couldn’t remember. Does it even matter?

  Persephone stared at the Fhrey wom
an, so slight and fragile. She didn’t look like a monster. If Magda was to be believed, this woman’s fate was tied to that of Persephone’s people. Her path was clear. Heal the injured.

  Persephone turned to Padera. “This woman must live. Will she?”

  The old woman nodded. “Whether to praise or curse, she’ll live. Question is, will we survive her waking?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Boulder

  We once thought that Alon Rhist comprised the entire Fhrey world. We’d never heard of the Nidwalden River and what lay beyond. If we had, we wouldn’t have believed. At that time, we couldn’t. How can a fish understand the aerie of an eagle?

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The forum of the Aquila was packed, every council member in attendance. The frescoes of Gylindora Fane and Caratacus stared down from the ancient dome of the Airenthenon as the great room filled to capacity with spectators. The counselors were uniformly dressed in their finest asicas; even Gryndal had suspended his love of shiny yellow and wore the purple-and-white counselor robes. Under the dome, only the fane wore gold.

  The Airenthenon was one of the oldest buildings in Estramnadon, held aloft by a ring of giant columns. Its age was painfully obvious to Gryndal as he sat on one of the torturously hard stone benches on which all except the fane were forced to perch. Efforts to introduce any change or a bit of luxury into the Aquila’s council chambers had always been struck down. Serving on the Erivan high council was believed to be a sacred privilege, not a reward. Gryndal planned to erase the building along with its miserable benches. No sense leaving old symbols lying about. He’d replace it with a park.

  “I wish to offer my congratulations on this, your first day in the Aquila as fane.” Curator Imaly was on her feet, addressing Lothian. Apparently, she found the stone benches just as unpleasant.

  The fane sat on pillowed cushions, but his smile faded all the same. Imaly had that effect on people.

  “I do hope you’ll be making the plight of the Instarya one of your top priorities,” she went on. “How go your plans in that regard?”

  This was the first official meeting of the Aquila, the high council of Erivan, since Lothian’s victory. Its intended purpose was to be an uneventful opportunity for handshakes and back-slapping, a social gathering with no agenda, debates, or demands. Yet that didn’t stop Imaly from straying from the program. She’d always been an irritant, but since her election to Curator she’d graduated to a genuine problem, one of the many Gryndal had marked for disappearance after he replaced Lothian.

  “Well enough,” the fane replied from his chair in the center of the chamber.

  “Well enough?” Imaly asked, standing obnoxiously straight and appearing five times more regal than Lothian.

  “Proper planning takes time and consideration. Nothing happens overnight. If that’s what you’re thinking, you will be disappointed.”

  “Actually, that’s not at all what I’m thinking.”

  Gryndal didn’t know how she did it, but at that point Imaly managed to stand even straighter. Being a direct descendant of the Fhrey’s first ruler, Gylindora Fane, Imaly possessed an unerring stately demeanor, which, thankfully, wasn’t complemented by beauty. The Curator was large for a female, endowed with brutish shoulders, thick fingers, gathering jowls, and a square jaw. Her voice was equally harsh but also loud, clear, and commanding—the exact opposite of the fane’s. Although she was nothing to look at and certainly had no future in any choir, she possessed one of the shrewdest minds in the council, making Gryndal pay attention whenever she spoke.

  “I was thinking,” Imaly said, “that you have no plans at all, nor will you be setting the matter as a priority at any time in the near future. Like those who have come before you, you’re content to maintain the status quo.”

  “This is the first day of the new council, Imaly. I’m here to learn names, not set policy.”

  “Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Forgive me. Would you like to begin by learning the name of the Instarya senior council? I know I would.” She went through the drama of looking around. “Where is the Instarya senior council? Oh, that’s right, we don’t have one. Their seat was replaced by the Miralyith some two thousand years ago, wasn’t it? Makes it easier to ignore them that way.”

  Lothian glanced at Gryndal, who said nothing and wouldn’t speak up. Imaly knew that, too. Everyone in the Aquila knew it. The council had Gryndal on a chain—for now. Plans were in motion to break those links. In the meantime, he was making lists.

  “As I said,” Lothian resumed, raising his voice and adding a hint of displeasure, “today I’m not here to set policy.”

  “No, of course not. Why would you? There’s certainly no rush. The Dherg menace was vanquished, what, a thousand years ago? What difference will another thousand years make? Still, I have to wonder…Why are the Instarya still out there? And why only them? Is it so the rest of us will forget they even exist? Or is the warrior tribe no longer wanted? After all, if they returned, where would we put them? With no more wars or battles to fight, would they be content to lay down their swords and pick up hammers or lutes? Do you expect them to enter the priesthood? Awkward, uncomfortable issues are often pushed to the back of the line, dropped in some dirty basket and shelved indefinitely. Given enough time, such things begin to stink.”

  She raised a finger to her chin, thoughtfully. “Which brings me to my next question. What of Zephyron’s son? I have reports from Alon Rhist that Nyphron and a handful of followers are in open revolt. Is this what you mean by well enough?”

  “It is going well enough to suit your fane,” Lothian said, leaning forward in his chair. “Or are you suggesting that isn’t well enough for you?”

  Imaly hesitated.

  The pause was so long that even Gryndal sat up to watch. Imaly was too smart not to back down. The fane had raised the stakes beyond her means, and she was just making a good show to save face. She continued to wait, impressing Gryndal with her fortitude. Someone coughed. Sandals scraped on the stone and parchments shuffled.

  “Of course not,” Imaly replied at length. “As I said, I merely wished to offer my congratulations.” She made a modest bow and sat down.

  If not for the Law of Ferrol, Gryndal would have reduced Imaly to a black spot ages ago, yet he couldn’t deny that at least on this day she’d unwittingly helped him. The fane would be seething over this embarrassment when Gryndal broke the news of Arion’s capture.

  —

  The other counselors kept their distance as Fane Lothian and First Minister Gryndal descended the broad steps of the Airenthenon to Florella Plaza. Imaly had shaken the beehive, and no one wanted to get stung. Gryndal alone played the role of beekeeper.

  “I thought you handled yourself well in there,” Gryndal said. “Imaly can be—”

  “You’d best have good news from the frontier,” Lothian told him, lifting the hem of his asica as he descended the steps.

  “I’m afraid not,” Gryndal replied. He made no effort to cushion the news with his tone. Imaly had set the spark to kindling; now he would gently blow on the embers. “Things have worsened.”

  “Worsened? How could they be worse? The council already fears Alon Rhist is on the verge of revolution.”

  “Arion has been taken captive.”

  “What? By whom?” Lothian stopped on the bottom step to glare at him. Several of the council members slowed their retreat, looking over their shoulders.

  “Nyphron and his Rhunes.”

  “His Rhunes? What do you mean his Rhunes?”

  Lothian had a wonderful tic that twitched the right side of his upper lip whenever he was irritated. As puppets went, Gryndal couldn’t have asked for a more accommodating one. But Gryndal wasn’t interested in a puppet.

  “It would appear Nyphron is in open revolt and has set himself up as a protector of the barbarians. He and his Galantians have taken refuge in a Rhune dahl. When Arion arrived to extradite Nyphron, she was captured.”


  “Captured?” The fane stared at him incredulously. “How can they capture her? She’s Miralyith!”

  Gryndal suppressed a smile that threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth. His efforts resulted in a grimace, which Lothian appeared to interpret as disgust for the crime. “But, she’s not the fane.”

  The march of withdrawing counselors came to a complete stop as everyone within hearing paused to listen. Gryndal began walking again, urging the fane away from the steps and farther into the plaza. He wasn’t concerned about them overhearing. Listening to the conversation might even be good, but eventually he’d lead the fane to the heart of the matter, and he’d rather be alone for that.

  Lothian followed as expected. He always did.

  “Arion was at a disadvantage, because Nyphron has forsaken the laws of his ancestors and embraced the wickedness of the barbarians.”

  As part of the ceremonial opening of the first council meeting under the new fane, the plaza was filled with celebrating craftspeople and entertainers. A thin crowd ebbed and flowed around artisan stands while dancers followed musicians; storytellers gathered flocks with promises of thrills and adventure.

  All of them so easily amused by silly things, like children, Gryndal thought. No, not children. He’d thought of other Fhrey that way when he’d graduated from the Estramnadon Academy of the Art, but they’d dropped lower in his estimation since then. Now it was his fellow Miralyith who were the children, Lothian being a prime example. The rest were industrious little beavers that were busily building their dams and scurrying in the sun.

  “What did they do to her?” the fane asked.

  “Bludgeoned her in the head with a rock.”

  Lothian halted again, his eyes wide in astonishment. “No! Are you serious?”