Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “What should be and what is are usually very different. Doesn’t change the fact that armed battle is how these things are decided.”

  “She could have a champion fight for her,” Brin said.

  Both Moya and Raithe looked at the girl.

  “According to the Ways, anyone can have a champion stand in for them so long as that person agrees to fight and has no desire to be chieftain themselves.”

  “Is that true?” Moya asked.

  Brin nodded. “I thought everyone knew that.”

  “Not everyone studies the Ways like you, Brin.” Moya turned to Persephone. “There you go. Have Raithe fight Konniger and take the First Chair.”

  “I wouldn’t ask someone to risk their life for me.”

  “He fights gods! You’re only asking him to kill Konniger. I don’t think there’s much of a risk.”

  “The Fhrey aren’t gods, and I don’t care if it was Cobb being challenged. I wouldn’t ask such a thing of anyone, especially someone I hardly know,” Persephone said while avoiding looking at Raithe. The man had feelings for her, and she was calling him a stranger. “You just don’t want to be forced to marry Hegner.”

  “Of course. Would you? Would anyone? But that’s not the point. Fact is, you’d be a great chieftain. We all know it—those of us capable of thought, anyway. Everyone looks to you in an emergency, and not a single person hesitated when you said to take the Fhrey into the lodge. I was just a kid, but I remember the famine and how you saved us. My mother hated you, by the way.”

  “Oh, thanks for that, Moya.” Persephone frowned. “Always glad to add another name onto the long list of people who’ve hated me.”

  “Let me finish.” Moya rolled her eyes. “She cursed your name every night because you convinced Reglan to ration the grain.” She turned to Brin, who had stopped carding to listen. Brin loved stories. “The Long Winter was over, summer was here, crops were looking great, but everyone was hungry because Persephone demanded the granary remain locked.”

  “A lot of people hated me for that,” Persephone said softly, remembering what, at that time, had been the worst year of her life. She had survived back then by thinking life couldn’t get any worse. Maybe that was why everything was so upside down on the dahl since Suri’s prediction of death—the gods felt the need to prove her wrong.

  “My mother said the only reason Reglan appeased you was because you nearly died in childbirth a few weeks earlier,” Moya continued. “He was worried about you, and my mother said you used your loss to get your way. She thought you forced the ration because you wanted the rest of us to suffer along with you.”

  “Your mother said that?”

  Moya nodded. “And you wondered why I didn’t cry at her funeral. Well, it was stuff like that.”

  “What happened?” Brin asked. “I never heard this story.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Persephone said, looking out at the rain.

  “You were young then, Brin. This was what? Ten years ago?” Moya asked.

  “Eleven,” Persephone said. “But let’s not talk about it.”

  “Oh, no, you have to finish it,” Brin pleaded. “I might be the next Keeper, and this could be important. You know, for the future. In case something like that happens again. Please?”

  Moya shrugged. “You tell it, Seph. You know it better than anyone.”

  Persephone was quiet for a long while; then she sighed and said, “It started with Tura. She had come from the forest and warned Reglan and me about a famine. I believed her, but he didn’t. Part of the reason was because Tura so infrequently visited the dahl. For her to come, it must have been important.

  “Another reason was because I knew how low our stores were and how much people wanted to gorge themselves after so long on rations. If Tura was right and we didn’t take precautions, the entire dahl would have starved. I pleaded with Reglan to seal the granary. People were hungry; they almost revolted. They saw no reason for such measures. I had never fought so vehemently with him before, but I couldn’t back down. Maybe Reglan did go along just to calm me. I don’t know. But he heeded my pleas.” Persephone paused, and the room was silent.

  “When spring came, everything was fine. The crops were growing well, and everyone gave me angry looks. I ended up spending the nice weather holed up in the lodge. Then the storms came. Weeks of them. Wind, hail, and rain destroyed everything. After that there was a drought, two whole months without more than a few miserable drops of rain. Just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, winter came early. We went into it with only what we had saved in the granaries. That was the start of the Great Famine. There were a lot of deaths. We stacked the bodies in the snow because the ground was too hard to dig. We waited for spring to bury them. When bodies started to disappear, Reglan and I prayed it was wild animals or even ghouls stealing them.”

  “But you saved us,” Moya said. “No one would have survived otherwise, and everyone knew it. People listened to you after that. They still listen to you. You just have to talk to them.”

  Persephone shook her head. “Konniger is chieftain.”

  “Sure, now he is, but you could—”

  “No, Moya. Don’t you see? When Reglan agreed to ration food that spring, what would have happened if your mother had found herself a Dureyan warrior and challenged him for leadership? How would that have been? You wouldn’t have liked that, would you? Konniger isn’t a great chieftain—not yet—but if we stand by him, he could be. He just needs a little help at the moment, and it doesn’t help that Hegner is whispering lies about me.”

  “Konniger is worthless. Did you know he named Hegner as his new Shield?” Moya said. “What kind of idiot makes a one-handed man their bodyguard?”

  “There has to be a reason; he’s just not telling us. When I was Second Chair, Reglan and I couldn’t always tell everyone everything. We had secrets we had to keep hidden for the good of the clan.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what really happened to the missing bodies waiting for a spring burial.”

  “What did happen?”

  “Let’s just say it wasn’t animal tracks we found.”

  —

  Suri sat in the rain outside Roan’s home, her back against the doorposts and legs outstretched to the edge of a mud puddle. Minna lay beside her, the big pile of wet fur rising and falling with the wolf’s breath. As always, the animal’s heat kept her warm. The mystic had the loop of string in her hands again, weaving another web with the added challenge of the rain, which created pretty liquid jewels on the string.

  Suri felt time slipping away, and she had to think. The yakking going on in the roundhouse was distracting, but the rain helped. The gray curtain and the constant patter assisted in blocking out the rest of the world. Not all of it. She still could hear the conversation inside if she listened. That was where the string came in. It helped her concentrate. Strings were like that. So were ponds—hard to find a good thinking pond, though. They needed to be isolated in a deep wood with plenty of cattails and dragonflies and few, or preferably no, biting bugs. A good thinking pond was located on the northern side of the Crescent, but it was too far so she settled for her string.

  What is the secret of the bear?

  If she’d had a chance to speak to Konniger, she might have learned something. The bear might be a bendigo, morvyn, or yakkus. A bendigo she could deal with; a yakkus would be bad. She didn’t think it was a yakkus. They killed with sickness, and so far everyone had been ripped apart. It was probably a morvyn. In fact, it was most likely a morvyn. The eating of people was a big hint, but she didn’t want to face a demon on a guess.

  Despite the sound of the rain and the distraction of the string, Suri heard Persephone’s accounting of the Great Famine. We stacked the bodies in the snow because the ground was too hard to dig. We waited for spring to bury them. When bodies started to disappear, Reglan and I prayed it was wild animals or even ghouls stealing them.

  That was par
ticularly strong evidence they were dealing with a morvyn, unless Persephone was right about having a ghoul problem. Suri pulled the string through her fingers, thinking about bears and forest spirits. One thing was certain—death was coming unless she could stop it, and she couldn’t stop it unless she understood what it was.

  Inside, the conversation had shifted from famine to a debate about who the chieftain ought to be. Raithe and Malcolm were also in there but said little. She liked that about them. Reminded her of Minna. Fools believe silence is a void needing to be filled; the wise understand there’s no such thing as silence.

  “Nice wolf,” said a young man, hobbling forward assisted by a wooden stick under one arm.

  His back was twisted, his face misaligned—one eye and the corner of his mouth higher than the other. His right shoulder was pinched up to his cheek, and his left leg dragged as if one foot were dead. He wore a surprisingly clean tunic, although at that moment it was soaked through. His hair was combed neatly back, which was probably easier since it was wet. In his free hand, he held a beautiful clay amphora with an enamel finish. Around the belly of the pot was the image of a woman with a broken chain in her hands.

  “Her name is Minna,” Suri replied.

  “Fiwst wolf with a name I’ve met.” The man paused. “Come to think of it, I can’t say I’ve met a wolf.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, and sounded as if his nose was stuffed. “Pleased to meet you, Minna. I’m Gifwadd.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Suri asked. “Are you cursed?”

  Gifford laughed. “Many times, I suspect.”

  “Nice stick,” Suri said. “I have a staff but never tried using it that way.”

  Roan came out of the roundhouse. “I call it a crutch.”

  “She made it fo’ me,” Gifford said. “Should have named it without an r, though.” The cripple smiled…or the closest thing to a smile that his face could produce.

  “I’m sorry, Gifford. I should have thought about that. We could change its name,” Roan said.

  “No. It’s fine.” He held out the amphora with his free hand. Rainwater splashed off its sides; the few drops that found the opening made a deep, hollow sound. “Woan, this is a peasant I made you. I think it’s my best yet.”

  Roan didn’t move. Her hands covered her face as she stared at the ceramic vase, shocked. “It’s…it’s so…it’s lovely. And is that the new glaze?”

  He nodded. “Inside and out. Difficult to paint the inside, too. Took awfully long to do.”

  “You can’t give this to me.”

  “I don’t see why not. I made it fo’ you. It has a pict…ah…an image of you.”

  Roan bent over and peered closely. “That’s me?”

  “Who else?”

  Roan squinted at the image as raindrops ran down the side of the ceramic. “But…but she’s beautiful.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gifford nodded. “Exactly. Now please take it. It’s quite light, but holding it out like this is—”

  “Oh! Sorry.” Roan took the vase, continuing to marvel at it. “This is a work of art. I don’t understand why you would give such a thing to me.”

  Gifford hesitated a moment. Suri had trouble understanding the expressions of people, and seeing as how Gifford’s face was already squished and askew, he was harder to gauge than most. Still, he looked as if he was about to say something, then changed his mind. He made an attempt to shrug, but only one shoulder responded. “Goes with the set of cups I gave you.”

  “You can’t keep giving me things.”

  “Did the chieftain pass a new law?” He gave another lopsided smile, but Suri imagined all his smiles were that way. “Even if he did, I’d bweak it.”

  Roan looked flustered. “I meant that I don’t deserve this, any of these things. I’m just a—”

  “He’s dead, Woan,” Gifford told her, his voice louder. “You not a slave now. You fwee. And I’d—” The potter bit his lip and sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. “Cups and pots would be the least I would give you. If I could…if I wasn’t…”

  Gifford squeezed his lips together and stared at Roan. The two of them stood in the rain, facing each other and breathing hard so that their breaths created a single cloud.

  Roan hugged the big amphora to her chest and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “No,” Gifford said miserably, then glanced at Suri. “She’ll tell you. I’m cussed.”

  Roan looked puzzled.

  “Cursed,” Suri clarified.

  “Yeah, that. Keep the pot. Bweak it. Give it away. You can do what you want, Woan. You can do what you want because you fwee. Wememba that. And you beautiful, too. You should have the best of anything, but all I have to give you is a pot.” He offered one last misshapen smile, or maybe that one was a frown.

  “Nice meeting you, Minna,” Gifford called as he limped away.

  The wolf lifted her head at the sound of her name.

  “Who cursed him?” Suri asked Roan as she continued to watch Gifford hobble off.

  “What?” Roan looked down at her, puzzled for a moment. “Oh. The gods maybe. He was born that way.”

  “His mother died giving him life,” Persephone said, appearing in the doorway. She was looking at Roan, a sad expression on her face. “When he was born, the people of the dahl thought it would be best to leave him in the forest, but his father refused. He said Gifford was a fighter like his mother, and he was right. The son of Aria just may be the bravest man on the dahl.”

  “What do you mean leave him in the forest?” Suri asked.

  “Hmm?” Persephone looked over. “Oh, well…some children, the unwanted ones, are sometimes given over to the mercy of the gods.”

  Suri let the string fall from her hands.

  —

  The next morning Raithe went to work on the eaves of the forest. His shirt was off and his swords hung from a nearby tree branch. He was still carrying his father’s broken blade for reasons he couldn’t put into thoughts. The sky was clear blue after the rain, and the light of the climbing sun pierced the leaves in shafts. Out where the forest met the field, out in the stillness of a dewy dawn, it was possible to forget the world was ending.

  Or is it?

  The question itself appeared up for debate. The doomsayers—and Raithe acknowledged he had been one—believed the Fhrey were coming to kill them all and him in particular. But the Fhrey had come three times, stayed twice, gone once, and everyone was still alive. The whole affair was almost enough to inspire hope…almost.

  What fun is there in crushing the hopeless? Like with pigs or cows, there is a period of fattening before the slaughter. The gods are just waiting for the right time, and my time is running out. Why am I still here?

  The answer was obvious; he just wasn’t happy about it.

  He wiped his face and remembered the land across the rivers where his father had dragged him. Herkimer had been wrong about many things, but not about that place. While exploring, he and his father had crossed both the Bern and the Great Urum rivers, where Raithe had beheld paradise. On the far side, he’d climbed a hill and seen a new future for himself. A land the Fhrey called Avrlyn was filled with lush fields and rich forests. That was where he wanted to go, where he hoped to live. Afterward, Herkimer had picked the meadow at the convergence of the two rivers, but Raithe couldn’t get the other hill out of his mind.

  He couldn’t go there alone. Even his father had understood that and brought Raithe along. Probably would have sent Raithe back to get a wife once they were established. Maybe given a year or two, Persephone might change her mind, and if she came, others would, too. He fantasized about her, Malcolm, Suri, and a few of the others joining them. They could do it. Together, they could build something…something beautiful.

  He picked up the ax again.

  Since the death of Krier, there had been a notable lack of volunteers to cut wood and an abundance of talk regarding the community’s dwindling supply. When the morning arrived without rain, Raithe bor
rowed an ax from Roan. She apologized when handing it to him, saying she’d made it the previous fall after the season’s wood supply had been cut, so no one had tried it yet. She continued to apologize three more times in the event it didn’t work well. Apparently, she had beaten the blade from a chunk of metal she and Gifford had found when searching for glaze materials.

  Raithe hadn’t used many axes in his life. Trees were rare at Dahl Dureya, but he had gone with his father and some others during their pilgrimage to a forest far to the south. The few axes he had used were straight poles with a wedge of flint jammed into a split on one end and lashed tight with leather strips. Usually a strong man needed an entire day to drop and reduce a tree to usable pieces. Doing so would leave him with aching arms, and the ax heads broke so often that dozens of replacement flints were brought along.

  The tool Roan had given him was nothing like the ones he’d used before. It had a long, curved handle that went through a hole in the metal head. When he swung, Raithe cut through small limbs in a single stroke, bark and all. Working alone, he’d already taken down a respectable maple and limbed it in less than two hours. The ax had to be magic.

  He dragged the leafy branches out of his way and then rested, catching his breath, leaning with one foot up on the body of the naked trunk. He marveled at the bright nibs of wood the ax had clipped away so cleanly.

  “If I were a bear, you’d be dead.”

  Raithe whirled, lifting the ax in defense. Behind him stood a Fhrey, the one who had disarmed him during the fight with Nyphron.

  Sebek stood casually, weight on his heels, back straight, chin high, arms relaxed. He wore only a leather skirt and sword belt; his bare chest appeared just as bronzed, just as indelible, as armor. Sculpted by the morning sun, his body was a series of sharply hewn muscles, a landscape of lean strength. Angled planes formed his face: high cheeks, a broad jaw, and precise lips. Cold and blue, the Fhrey’s eyes smiled with a hungry delight.

  Raithe didn’t say a word. He looked toward his swords still hanging on the tree branch. The Fhrey was between him and his weapons. Sebek saw the glance. He stepped back, picked up Shegon’s blade, and swung it menacingly.