“Yes. Caric is a small port city, but Neith was the first home of the Belgriclungreians. It’s largely abandoned now. Few people go into the mountain anymore. Mined out, they say. But Flood and I thought we could still find treasure there. So we put together a team and set off. That’s how we met Rain.” He gestured in the direction of the younger Dherg, and Rain bowed once more. “Rain is a digger—the finest there is. Flood and I are builders.”
“Hah!” Flood erupted. “One of us is.”
Frost ground his teeth and glared up through the bristles of his brows. “When are you going to get over that? It wasn’t my fault that the scaffolding broke. And besides, you weren’t even hurt.”
“Then why do I have this limp?”
“You don’t have a limp!”
Flood folded his arms. “No thanks to you, I can tell you that.”
“You’re an idiot.” Frost shook his head and smiled apologetically in Arion’s direction.
Before Frost could continue, Flood retorted, “Yeah, well, your mother slept with the entire village.”
“We’re brothers!” Frost replied.
Flood turned then. With a smirk on his lips and hands moving to his hips, he said, “That’s your answer for everything, isn’t it? We’re brothers. You don’t have a limp. My name isn’t Shirley. Fish don’t fly. You’re always the one with the answers, aren’t you?”
Frost lowered his voice and addressed Flood, “Now isn’t really the time. Can you just keep your big mouth shut?”
Frost tugged his brother’s beard and glared. Flood scowled back just as intently. For the first time, Persephone noticed that the two had similar eyes, the same nose, and most certainly the same exact scowl. She had no idea how she’d missed the family connection before.
Immersed in their altercation, the Dherg were oblivious to Arion’s irritation, and Persephone cleared her throat to get their attention.
Frost looked sheepish, and he bowed respectfully toward Arion once more, then repeated the gesture to Persephone. “I apologize for the interruption, Your Majesty.”
Persephone addressed Arion, “They went into a mountain to find treasure.”
“Seriously? All that boiled down to they are treasure hunters?”
“Well…”
“Doesn’t matter. What is it they want?”
“I think it would be best if you got to the point,” Persephone said to Frost.
“Of course, of course,” he said apologetically. “As I was saying, we were part of a team, exploring the depths of Neith…the unmapped areas…the old places. Eight of us including Rain. We were in a corridor when we heard it coming. That happens in the deep places. You hear things, feel them, too, and there’s no place that goes deeper than Neith.”
Fear crept into Frost’s face. “It came from behind us. We were at the end of a corridor with no place to go. I’m not exaggerating when I say we feared for our lives. We would’ve died. Should’ve really. But Rain, well…he started digging. No one digs like he does. He gets going and it’s like he’s a mole. The giant ignored us and chased him; it follows sounds, you see. The rest of the party scattered. Easy to get lost down there. Of the remaining seven, only Flood and I got out. We never expected to see Rain again. And we didn’t, not for a long time. Then one day he popped up. He’d spent months in the deep, in the dark, with hardly any supplies. No one knows how he survived. He don’t talk about it, and we don’t ask.”
Persephone asked, “Is he also related to you two?”
“No, but we’ve sort of adopted him. Flood and I are alive because of Rain, so we owe him. First thing we did was get him out of Neith, out of Belgreig entirely. Away from all of it, because, well…it wasn’t exactly legal what we done…digging in the old mines. So we crossed the Blue Sea and headed north. No idea about where to go, just traveling, running really. But now we’re here and after seeing what she did, well…” Again he looked at Flood, then at Arion. “I think we might have discovered a way to fix things so that we can go home, if you understand me.”
Persephone shook her head. “Sorry, not a clue.”
“Not surprising,” Flood said. “Your people only recently discovered the wheel. How bright can you be?”
Frost slapped Flood across the back of his head, making the gray-bearded Dherg flinch. “Show some respect to the lady. She’s the queen of her people.” Frost turned back to her. “Please forgive Flood, Your Majesty. Our mother never cared for him, and this is what neglect yields.”
“So what is it you need?” Persephone asked. “To go home, that is?”
“Oh, see, it was huge, a giant about the size of the one Arion subdued a few days ago. It’s still down there, barring our people from their homeland. If Arion could come to Neith and get rid of it, then we wouldn’t be in so much trouble for digging around in places we shouldn’t have been. Gronbach would surely grant us pardons.” Frost smiled hopefully.
Persephone said to Arion, “They went to forbidden area and found a giant. Now can’t go home. If you could get rid of it, they might be forgiven.”
Arion shook her head, and Frost’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I appreciate their situation, but I need to focus on stopping the war. Perhaps if I manage to do that, then maybe I can do something for them, but right now I have more important problems.”
Persephone spoke to Frost, “I am sorry. You’ve been a great help to us these last few days, but Arion is needed here. She’s trying to stop a war between the Rhune and Fhrey peoples. You are welcome to join us during our trip to Tirre. There are many of your kind down south, and perhaps you can find a group to take up with.”
The three bowed formally once more. “We thank you both for your time and for the invitation.” Then they turned and walked away.
—
“You really messed that up,” Flood told Frost when they were once more back among the piles of wool. “A giant? Seriously?”
“What? It’s big, isn’t it?” Frost replied.
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know. That elf is our best chance. Maybe if we convince her that Balgargarath is a greater threat than the war, she would help.”
Flood shook his head. “In order to do that, you’d have to tell her the truth.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Prince
The land of the Fhrey is called Erivan, a vast nation of great cities and numerous woodland villages set within the ancient forests of the east. The capital is Estramnadon, the seat of the fane and his son Mawyndulë.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Mawyndulë was certain he hated Vidar. The senior councilor was old and he smelled, a bit like sour milk. Thinking about it, Mawyndulë realized he hated most people, but made a distinction for those he truly despised. People like Vidar, Arion the Traitor, the God Killer, and Mawyndulë’s own father fell into this especially loathed group. The rest of the world was filled with individuals he merely disliked. As Mawyndulë followed Vidar up the marble steps to the columned building where the Aquila met, he realized Gryndal had been the only person he honestly liked. Gryndal had been the greatest of the Fhrey and he had been killed by Mawyndulë’s ex-tutor-turned-traitor, Arion. Although the God Killer had removed Gryndal’s head from his body, it had been Arion’s fault for helping the Rhune get so close.
As the new junior councilor, Mawyndulë was to assist Senior Councilor Vidar in representing the voice of the Miralyith tribe in the Aquila. Mawyndulë’s task was quite simple. He did nothing. Only the senior councilors could vote or speak in the Aquila, which relegated Mawyndulë’s role to that of an observer. He was there to learn, which meant Vidar was another tutor—his third in less than two months.
“The Aquila was formed in the year 8901 as a formalization and public recognition of the group of Fhrey who had been assisting Gylindora Fane for more than a century.” Vidar had stopped, turning back to lecture.
As he did, Mawyndulë noticed the gleam of sweat on Vidar’s ample forehead. He’s pretending
to teach me, but the dusty old relic is really out of breath from the climb.
“Gylindora had always asked the leaders of each tribe their opinions on matters of governance. They worked as her general council, and their role, as she explained it, was to present problems, make suggestions, and assist in the overall administration of our people. At the time, the Fhrey nation was small, but she knew it would grow. One person couldn’t hope to effectively run the whole thing.”
He thinks he’s being so clever, but if he’s stopping to catch his breath, why does he talk so much?
Mawyndulë stood with one foot on the next step, wondering what would happen if he just went on ahead; the two wore identical purple-and-white asicas, which Mawyndulë believed was the only requirement to gain entrance to the main floor. Instead, he tapped his foot to show impatience. Vidar, being the oblivious lout that he was, didn’t notice.
“The Aquila is still composed of six councilors and the fane, but he doesn’t attend often. The councilors usually have assistants, like yourself.”
Assistants? As Mawyndulë’s father had explained it, the prince was to be the junior councilor. Since he was paired with Vidar, Mawyndulë saw his responsibilities more along the lines of making sure the older Fhrey didn’t embarrass himself by drooling or forgetting his own name.
Forget you are the prince while you are with Vidar, his father had said. Learn from him, from all of them. See firsthand how the Aquila works. This will be invaluable to you in the future when you are fane.
Mawyndulë didn’t know why he should listen, especially given that the fane was under no obligation to take advice from the Aquila. Gryndal wouldn’t have cared what they thought. Mawyndulë wished he could have been made junior councilor when Gryndal represented the Miralyith in the Aquila, one of only a few First Ministers to share the dual roles. Serving with Gryndal, Mawyndulë would have certainly learned things, lots of things.
Vidar prattled on, “Imaly is the Curator of the Aquila and presides when the fane isn’t present. She’s very clever for a Nilyndd, and not to be trusted. In the event the Curator is unable to conduct the responsibilities of their office, the Conservator of the Horn appoints a new one.”
Mawyndulë had lost interest, if he ever had any to begin with. Not his fault, he reasoned. The old Fhrey had a droning manner that could put a rushing river to sleep. The prince’s gaze strayed, as did his thoughts. Since he’d never had any interest in the meetings of the Aquila, Mawyndulë had never bothered to climb the stairs to the Airenthenon, where the council met. Although the stairs were not above the forest canopy, they nevertheless granted an impressive view of the capital. The city was nestled in the valley amid three hills: the one where the Airenthenon sat, the one where the palace stood, and the one with the Garden. At the foot of the hills, the Shinara River snaked its way among great trees, homes, and shops. In several places, it was crossed by bridges, the largest near Florella Plaza where artisans set up stands to hawk their wares.
From this vantage point, Mawyndulë saw the Garden as a small ring of rich green surrounding a great edifice of stone. The most sacred place in the world was how the Garden had always been described. Mawyndulë had never thought much of the Garden, or of the wall at its center that supported a great dome. The wall had only one entrance, a permanently sealed door. From above, it didn’t look so sacred. It looked small.
He soon grew bored with even the bird’s-eye view and his attention was drawn to the nearby fountain built as a decoration on the marble steps. The excessively noble-looking statue of a stag stood within a gurgling pool of water, its head bent down as if to drink. With a flick of his wrist and a swirl of his fingers, Mawyndulë summoned up three balls of water the size of fists. He made them whirl in the air, chasing one another in a circle. So much easier to do with the Art. The Traitor was a fool to force me to juggle by hand like a common Fhrey.
“Stop that!” Vidar snapped.
Mawyndulë let the balls drop, splashing on the steps. A few drops sprayed the bottom of Vidar’s asica, causing him to glare. “This isn’t playtime, my prince. And it is forbidden to use the Art in the chambers, so restrain yourself.”
Should have dropped the balls on his head.
“Now, back to what I was saying. The Aquila holds no direct power, since the fane’s authority is absolute, ordained by Ferrol. However, this esteemed body has an important role in determining who shall be given the right to blow the Horn of Gylindora. They don’t decide who will be fane. Ferrol does that. But they determine who gets the opportunity to challenge, and this makes them very powerful.”
For the first time, Vidar had caught Mawyndulë’s attention.
“How is that done?” Mawyndulë asked, and he noted a superior smile on the senior councilor’s lips as if the old Fhrey had won something. Then Mawyndulë realized Vidar had done just that. How could the prince maintain an air of indifference, proclaim he already knows everything worth knowing, if he asks questions? This defeat—his thoughtless misstep—irritated Mawyndulë, and Vidar’s little smile was a gloating insult.
“The Horn of Gylindora is kept by the Conservator who is charged with keeping it safe and producing it when, under the leadership of the Curator, a decision is made as to who shall blow it. In theory, anyone of Fhrey ancestry has a right to challenge, but since only one Fhrey can do that every three thousand years, it is an important responsibility to determine who that will be. Challengers must apply to the Aquila for the right. Then from those applicants, the council decides. Applicants appear before the council to argue their case. All this is done confidentially. No identity is revealed until the horn is blown. Those who aren’t chosen remain anonymous, and the deliberations and the proceedings are never disclosed. This hill, on which the Airenthenon sits, gives our council its name. Aquila literally means ‘place of choosing.’ ”
So endeth the lesson, Mawyndulë thought when Vidar finally resumed his climb.
Mawyndulë didn’t follow immediately. He remained on the step staring up at the marble columns of the Airenthenon, wondering about the list of applicants. His father had been challenged by Zephyron, the leader of the Instarya. Until that moment, Mawyndulë had assumed he had been the only challenger.
Were there others? How many? Who were they? Since Gryndal had been a senior member of the Aquila, had he known who they were?
Mawyndulë turned to look back at the city. Below him, the Fhrey went about their lives on that beautiful summer morning, and the prince wondered how many of them were his enemies.
—
Mawyndulë had been told about his first and, until that day, only visit to the Airenthenon. He had no memory of the occasion, seeing as how he was an infant at the time. The council chamber, while open to the public, wasn’t for children. And as far as the world of the Fhrey was concerned, he’d only recently crossed the line into adulthood by reaching the age of twenty-five. Before entering the Aquila, Mawyndulë had expected something truly wonderful, but after arriving, he couldn’t say he was impressed.
The hall wasn’t overly large, nor unusually grand, nor particularly breathtaking. He imagined some might think so—those who hadn’t grown up in the palace—but for Mawyndulë, the meeting chamber was a disappointment. The place was little more than a simple stone room with meager adornment except for the ghastly frescoes of Gylindora Fane and Caratacus painted on the underside of the dome. The two wore almost-smiles as they looked down on everyone from thrones of intertwined birchwood. Gylindora wasn’t pretty. Mawyndulë didn’t understand why anyone would create a painting and make her unattractive. He wondered if she had been alive when they painted it, and if so what became of the artists after she saw the fresco. Her famed adviser, Caratacus, wasn’t terribly handsome, either, which made Mawyndulë wonder if all the Fhrey from those days were homely.
The rest of the chamber was a semicircle with three rows of tiered benches capable of seating twenty or thirty people. Mawyndulë was surprised at how small the space was but also c
urious at the number of seats. If there were only six councilors and their junior counterparts, why were there more than twelve seats? This led Mawyndulë to wonder who else was present. Not everyone wore purple and white, which identified the senior and junior members. Maybe some councilors had others on their staff. He considered asking Vidar about it, but remembered the smirk the old Fhrey had given him after his last question, and he refused to provide any further entertainment.
In the center of the room sat a large chair. Like everything else inside the Airenthenon, it was carved of stone, but it was also endowed with lush gold cushions. That must be where his father would sit, if he were there. He wasn’t. Fane Lothian was still at the tower of Avempartha. Mawyndulë didn’t know the details of his father’s visit. Maybe Vidar did, but, again, the prince refused to ask.
An old woman approached the gold-cushioned chair and took a seat. Like Gylindora Fane, she, too, was homely. She had a wide, flat face, thin lips, brittle hair, and eyes just a tad too big—like a bulbous-eyed fish. The woman was tall and stocky, with wide shoulders and masculine hands. He didn’t like her, could tell that even from such a distance. She was odd, different. Ladies shouldn’t be so strapping. She sat with too much confidence, too much authority. She wasn’t fane, not even related, and yet she looked back at the gathering crowd of purple and white like a teacher waiting for a class to assemble. Mawyndulë was tired of teachers and tutors. This looked like another one, and he didn’t care for her in the least.
Vidar directed him to a bench, where they seated themselves. The stone was cold and hard, and the back support too straight, forcing him to sit more upright than he was used to.
“Is that the Curator?” Mawyndulë asked grudgingly, figuring if he guessed correctly it would deny Vidar the upper hand and prevent the insidious grin.
Vidar didn’t even look at him, but whispered, “Yes, that’s Imaly Fane, mind yourself around her.”
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