Age of Myth

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Grin was coming to kill everyone.”

  “That’s why you went after the bear? Because you thought it was coming to attack the dahl?”

  Suri nodded. “The bone told me Grin would attack this morning.”

  “Looks like Magda was right. We did what she said, and Grin has been killed.”

  Suri didn’t look convinced.

  “What?”

  “The signs I saw indicated something that—something bigger. Grin was a bear with a hunger for human flesh but still just a bear.”

  “Maybe you just read them wrong. Saw more danger than there really was.”

  “What do you think, Minna?” Suri asked the wolf.

  The wolf panted alongside her with saliva dripping off her tongue.

  “Minna is not so sure,” Suri said. “And Minna is a very smart wolf, maybe the wisest in the world.”

  The light rising from behind the jagged teeth of the forest turned the sky purple and orange and shone on the walls of Dahl Rhen. Persephone made out the banners flapping above the lodge roof. She slowed, then stopped altogether. She glanced at Suri, and her eyes narrowed.

  What if Suri didn’t read the signs wrong? What if the wolf is right?

  “What’s wrong?” Raithe asked after noticing she was several steps behind the rest.

  “No horn,” she replied.

  “Is that unusual?” Malcolm asked. “It’s just us, after all, and it’s early.”

  “No men on the ramparts, either.”

  —

  Circling, they found the gate open, both doors flung wide—too wide. Usually only Delwin and Gelston left early, and they had a habit of opening only the left side because the doors were heavy and the right one always stuck. Also, the gate doors had been thrown inward rather than pushed out. No one pulled the massive doors open from the inside; they were easier to push.

  Nerves and exhaustion, that’s all it is, she assured herself. It would be strange if I didn’t have a sense of dread creeping with me after what I’ve been through.

  Still, she couldn’t shake the fear. She imagined walking through the roundhouses and finding everyone slain, just as she had found Konniger’s men lying among the trees. What she actually saw when she stepped through the open gate was far less macabre, but far more disturbing.

  Everyone on the dahl was awake and standing in perfect rows in front of the lodge, facing the gates. Persephone was startled at the size of the crowd. Even on meeting nights, when everyone was supposed to show up, not everyone did. The sick and injured didn’t come, and there were always sick and injured. Usually, those caring for them stayed home, too. A dahl the size of Rhen required a lot of food, and there was always a hunting party or two that would be out, sometimes for weeks. And then there were those who didn’t want to come. Padera had stopped bothering to show up years ago.

  More disturbing than the number of people assembled was the way in which they were grouped. Sarah was nowhere near Delwin or Brin. Roan was in the front row even though Gifford was in the back, and Moya was shoulder-to-shoulder with Tressa.

  “Something is very wrong,” Persephone whispered.

  “Sarah? Moya?” Persephone called out. “What’s going on? Why are you all out here?”

  No one moved or spoke, and there wasn’t a smile among them. But in their eyes Persephone saw screams. Raithe pointed toward the storage pit at a remarkable sight: two tethered horses.

  The Fhrey laid Maeve on the grass. Nyphron drew his sword from its scabbard, and it made a gentle hiss against the metal sheath. The giant pulled free his massive sword. Sebek pulled both of his blades, and Tekchin drew forth a thin, delicate blade. Malcolm held his spear at the ready. Beside Persephone, Raithe put a hand on his sword but didn’t draw it. Minna let out a low guttural growl, and Suri bent over to pat her neck.

  They moved forward as a group but had taken only a few steps when a tall Fhrey, as hairless as Arion, emerged from the lodge and stopped them with his stare. Numerous rings pierced the skin of his ears, cheeks, and nose, and chains hung between them. On his hands, the fingernails were so long that they curled around themselves in yellowed swirls. His chest was bare, and he wore a skirt of gold. A mantle, also gold, draped across his shoulders and flowed to the ground. Beside him came a smaller, younger Fhrey wearing a shimmering robe of purple and white, the hood of the garment raised.

  “Nyphron, son of Zephyron.” The god of chains spoke in Fhrey, and his voice boomed with unnatural volume. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Surely that is a god, Persephone thought. Not a kind or benevolent one but the embodiment of great and terrifying power. His face lacked even a single hint of compassion.

  Beside the god the younger Fhrey shifted his weight and fidgeted with nervous excitement like a boy on his first hunt. Behind them, eight more Fhrey strode through the lodge doorway. They carried swords and wore armor similar to that of the Galantians, but they had helms shaped like the heads of lions. They took up positions on either side of the younger Fhrey and stood in stiff lines, not dissimilar to the way everyone else was standing.

  The god of chains walked forward, descending the steps of the lodge and moving through the ranks of villagers, who shifted in perfect unison to allow his passage. The other Fhrey remained on the elevated porch, watching.

  “Gryndal, you cuckold cur and craven whore’s son,” Nyphron replied in Rhunic.

  Persephone held her breath, her eyes wide, but the god of chains merely stared at Nyphron with suspicion.

  “It’s a common Rhune welcome,” Nyphron said, this time in Fhrey.

  “I’m certain.” Gryndal advanced until he stood in the exact center of the dahl, with the villagers behind him and the Galantians in front. “You know why I’m here.”

  “Of course. You’ve finally found wisdom and decided to join the Instarya. Unfortunately, we don’t—”

  Nyphron collapsed to his knees, fell forward, and gasped for air.

  “I’m not Petragar,” Gryndal said, baring his teeth. “And I’m not Arion. I won’t be toyed with. I have full authority to act as the fane in these forsaken lands. You know what that means. All of you stand guilty of rebellion, rebellion against your fane, against your god, and against nature.”

  Gryndal walked around Nyphron, and as he did, Persephone felt a jolt, as if an invisible giant had grabbed hold of her neck and wrists and shoved her back a step. The unexpected lurch knocked Math’s spear from her hand. The weapon fell to the grass, and she was unable to retrieve it. The unseen giant hands held her so tightly that she couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak and could barely breathe.

  “Fenelyus is dead. She, who ushered in the new order, was an anchor. It’s time for the Miralyith to assume their proper place as gods and for ordinary Fhrey to realize they’re just one more race that crawls upon the world.” Gryndal bent slightly to look at Nyphron, who remained on his hands and knees, his face clenched in pain.

  Stryker made a noise—something no one else had managed. The goblin also succeeded in sluggishly raising his clawed hands. This caught the god’s attention.

  “You have a ghazel, I see. An oberdaza—an abomination. The Art is not for the likes of them.”

  Gryndal made a slight motion with his fingers, and the goblin flew backward. The sounds the goblin made weren’t the cry of a man but the high-pitched shriek of an animal, not unlike the noises Konniger had made. But the goblin’s screams didn’t last as long; after some snapping he became still and silent.

  Gryndal looked toward the young Fhrey standing on the lodge’s porch. “Have you met the prince, Nyphron? This is Mawyndulë, son of Lothian, come to see how gods conduct themselves—to witness justice. I’m his teacher, and you are today’s lesson. The fane has granted me the power of execution to deal with the trouble you’ve caused. You have displeased us, and for that I’ll take your life just as I crushed it out of your ghazel. But let it not be said that I’m an ungenerous god. Your life is over, but I’ll allow the Galantians to li
ve if they repent for their crimes—if they bow and worship as is proper.”

  He pointed to the gathered villagers. “As your god, I demand a sacrifice. Demonstrate your remorse. The Rhunes are a plague upon the face of Elan, and you have wallowed with them for far too long. Destroy them. Cut them down as evidence that you are still worthy to be called Fhrey. In return, I’ll grant you permission to live. Sacrifice their lives to your new gods, to the Miralyith, and I’ll forgive your weaknesses. What is your answer?”

  “We don’t take orders from a culina brideeth!” Sebek said.

  Persephone didn’t understand either word, but Gryndal certainly did. His eyes widened, and his lips drew back, revealing white teeth. Just then, the prince stepped forward, a puzzled look on his face. “You care more for Rhune animals than your own people? Your own friends?”

  Nyphron looked up at the prince, helpless.

  “Gryndal, let him speak,” Mawyndulë requested.

  “As you wish,” the god of chains said, and the strain on Nyphron’s face lessened.

  “It is not that I care so much for the Rhunes,” Nyphron said. “But more that I hate you—you, your father, all the Miralyith, and, most of all, this miserable excuse for—” Nyphron grunted in pain, his words choked off.

  “Hate?” the prince asked incredulously. He uncovered his head, revealing that he, too, was as bald as Arion and the god of chains. He took a step forward as if to present himself more clearly, as if it was possible that Nyphron didn’t recognize him. “How can you hate me? I’m your prince.”

  Gryndal twitched a finger, and Nyphron could speak again, though his voice was strained. “You’re not my prince. You’re a worthless Miralyith.”

  “Worthless?” The prince looked stunned. “The Miralyith are your betters. I should think at a moment such as this you’d be painfully aware of that fact. How can you deny it?”

  “Because power doesn’t equal worth,” Arion said. She stepped through the lodge door, walking slowly and favoring her left side. “Wisdom, the sort that your grandmother Fenelyus employed, is a far greater virtue.” She turned to Gryndal. “I told you that I had agreed to take Nyphron’s proposal to Fane Lothian. This madness can end in a sensible conclusion that doesn’t require rivers of blood.”

  “Acting as fane, I’ve heard and rejected that proposal,” Gryndal replied.

  “You can’t.” Arion descended the porch steps with some effort and approached the god of chains.

  Gryndal fixed her with a withering stare. “I’m empowered by Fane Lothian to do as I see fit.”

  “As a member of the Miralyith, I demand that the fane personally hear what I have to say.”

  “As a member of the Miralyith?” Gryndal sneered. “Not anymore. As you explained, your wound has ejected you from our order.”

  “A Miralyith is not defined solely by the Art.”

  “Of course we are.”

  Arion faced him in the center of the dahl, in the open lawn beside the common well where the Galantians had camped, where the ladies of the dahl had led a well raid, and where Persephone had married Reglan. Now two godlike beings in shimmering clothes stood on that same grass, glaring at each other like a pair of contentious thunderclouds, and Persephone felt the same unease as if a storm were rising.

  “The fane needs to know what I’ve discovered about the Rhune girl. About Suri. I won’t let you kill them,” Arion said in a low voice.

  Gryndal laughed. “How will you stop me?” He faced the porch and looked to Mawyndulë. “Power does equal worth. You are seeing the proof of that today. Fenelyus appointed Arion as your teacher because of her wisdom—I have to assume. Shall we see how well she fares against me?”

  He offered Arion a chilling smile. “Go back to your bed, Arion. I’ll grant leniency because I suspect that blow to your head has relieved you of your better sense, and because I’m certain the prince still harbors some misplaced appreciation of you.”

  “But I told you, Suri is—”

  “Quiet!” Gryndal shouted, and turned his attention back to the Galantians. “Your leader is going to die. You can’t save him, so save yourselves. I won’t ask again. Destroy the villagers, or—”

  “Take off bandages.”

  As Suri took a step forward, everyone who could do so turned to look at the young mystic.

  “Said it would come back,” Suri said to Arion. “Take off bandages.”

  “How are you speaking?” Gryndal asked.

  “With my mouth,” she said. “Does everyone play that game?”

  “I’ve silenced you.”

  Suri offered only a shrug. She looked back at Arion. “The bear was only a bear, but…” She pointed at Gryndal. “His name is Grin—dal, yes?”

  Arion’s eye’s widened. “Yes!”

  Suri nodded. “The last part of the name was burned. Take off bandages I made for you, and it come back.”

  “You sure?” Arion asked.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “It’s a Rhune. It can’t be speaking,” Gryndal insisted, continuing to stare at Suri in shock.

  “That’s Suri,” Arion explained. “The one you said couldn’t exist—remember?”

  She began unwrapping the bandages from her head. A week’s worth of fuzz and a horrible discolored bruise emerged.

  Once the cloth was off, Arion’s eyes went wide. She sucked in a startled breath and staggered back a step. The bandages fell from her hand, revealing a series of runes drawn on the underside, the same Dherg markings from the walls of the rol.

  Gryndal scowled at Suri. “Abomination! Worse than the goblin. A Rhune with the Art!” He raised his hands toward her, but Arion raised hers as well. A warm wind blew past Persephone, billowing her hair.

  Gryndal spun and glared at Arion.

  “I’m feeling better,” she said. “And I won’t let you hurt them, any of them.”

  With those words, Persephone felt the pressure leave her throat, and she could move again. Nyphron got to his feet, and the villagers staggered. Mothers rushed to their children and husbands embraced and shielded their families. Some scurried off to their homes, but the vast majority stayed, eyes fixed to the center of the dahl where Gryndal and Arion faced off.

  “Suri has the Art,” Arion declared. “The Rhunes aren’t animals, aren’t worthless in the eyes of Ferrol. This changes everything.”

  “It changes nothing!” Gryndal said. “Except to reveal that the Rhunes are a greater threat than previously realized.” He turned and looked at Mawyndulë. “Leave, my prince, and be quick. It is time I erased the Rhune menace. You would be wise to leave as well, Arion. I’m done playing games.”

  The ground began to tremble.

  Persephone felt the vibration in her legs. Near the well, a rake fell. Along the side of the lodge, two splits fell off the woodpile. Dirt shook out from between the logs of the walls. Sheep bolted in panic. Minna retreated behind Suri, and overhead the clear sky grew dark with violently expanding clouds.

  “Here it comes,” Nyphron said, trying to steady himself. “I hate this part.”

  Arion clapped her hands. The ground stopped shaking. The sky cleared.

  Gryndal glared at her again. He looked to the prince. “Do you see that she is interfering with the fane’s orders?”

  “The fane doesn’t have all the facts,” Arion said. “The fane’s orders are outdated.”

  “I want you to witness that she is defying your father’s edict. Do you understand?” he said directly to the boy.

  Mawyndulë nodded.

  “It’s important you do, because I must exercise the power granted to me by your father and not just with Nyphron, but Arion as well. This problem is too big, too deep for half measures. I was ordered to bring the thunder, and by the power vested in me, I shall!”

  “Gryndal, don’t!” Arion shouted.

  Gryndal said a single word and clapped his hands.

  Arion grunted and cringed, glaring at Gryndal with a stiff, strained expression as if
in great pain or suffering from heavy exertion. Then she folded her hands together and muttered softly. When she opened her hands, a gust of wind blew Gryndal onto his back.

  “Seriously, Gryndal?” she asked with an incredulous look. “I’m not one of your arena opponents, and I’m not a goblin witch doctor.”

  In an ominous jingle of rings and chains, Gryndal got to his feet. “You’re right. You’re Cenzlyor, aren’t you? Let’s put that to the test, shall we?”

  “Let’s not. What you’re doing is crazy,” Arion said.

  “You shouldn’t have interfered,” Gryndal told her. “It shows a lack of intelligence, a lack of foresight. Lothian granted me the Blessing of Ferrol. I’ll kill you without consequence, but you can’t attempt the same. Besides, on your best day I’ve always had more power, more skill—and Arion, this isn’t your best day.”

  Gryndal whirled his arms as if opening invisible curtains and then made hooking gestures with all of his fingers, causing his nails to whip. A whirlwind curled around Arion, wrapping the asica around her and lifting her into the air. Arion was only a few feet off the ground when she shouted words Persephone didn’t understand. The winds died, and Arion fell, collapsing to her knees. Even Persephone could tell the tornado had been a distraction: Before Arion hit the ground Gryndal had begun singing an incomprehensible tune and working an intricate pattern with his hands. As he did, the air above the dahl changed, losing transparency. Through it, the light of the sun narrowed and was aimed directly at Arion. Seeing it, she made her own gestures, rotating her hands as if winding a rope. Gryndal threw his arm forward as if throwing a ball, and a brilliant beam of blazing white light came from the sun and fired through the distortion.

  Whatever Arion was doing, she completed it none too soon and deflected the blinding flash with her hands. The white-hot beam of light ricocheted off her palms, ripping across the ground between them. It left a scorched line as Arion struggled to redirect the light at Gryndal. When the light got close, Gryndal dropped his arms and stopped singing, and the light vanished.

  The two glared at each other across the zigzagging line of burnt grass. Nothing moved within the walls of the dahl. The remaining villagers watched with wide eyes and gaping mouths. No force held Persephone any longer, but she didn’t dare move. Like everyone else, she held her breath in the face of powers beyond her comprehension.