Age of War: Book Three of The Legends of the First Empire

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “But you think I can?”

  Arion held up her hand and rubbed it again. “Yes,” she said. “I believe you can.”

  * * *

  —

  Suri didn’t say anything as they walked back up the alley. She glanced at Arion a few times but didn’t ask. Maybe it was none of her business. They were nearly out of the Rhune District when Arion stopped.

  “You want to know why I lied,” Arion said.

  Suri wasn’t the only one with the ability to read feelings. Suri didn’t answer, but she waited.

  “Because I think he can.” She began walking again, heading toward the lantern that hung near the well. “Most of the time people just lack confidence. Doubt kills any chance they might have. People believe magic is impossible, and so it is because they refuse to try, or if they do try it’s only half-hearted because they know—deep down, they know—they can’t. Sometimes all a person of talent needs is a little encouragement and someone—sometimes anyone—believing in them. Avalanches have been caused by the tossing of a pebble, and miracles have come from wishful thinking that just happened to spill out in words.”

  They were alone in the square that was dominated by the common well. This was where Brin, Padera, and several others from Dahl Rhen now lived. Spring had arrived, but nights were still cold, and Suri pulled her asica tight.

  “Gifford will think about what I said. He’ll play with it in the back of his mind, wondering. The seed of doubt in the absolute certainty of the visible world will grow. And when no one is looking, he’ll try to make something happen. He’ll try to hear the whispers of the world. And because I said it worked once, he’ll keep trying long after he would normally have given up. Sometimes sheer tenacity does the trick.”

  “Why is it so easy for me?” Suri asked.

  “People are different, and maybe you suffered somehow.”

  “Suffered?”

  Arion paused at the well and nodded. “When people are happy, they can become deaf. I don’t know why that is, but I’ve noticed it to be true. Misery helps us hear. We notice more when we’re in pain. We see beauty more clearly, hear the sufferings of others more loudly. Since you pulled me back, every sunrise is so much brighter, every breeze a delight. I think people who survive tragedy aren’t so much scarred as they are cleansed. The wax comes out of their ears and the clouds leave their eyes. The barriers between them and the world are reduced.”

  “You think I suffered somehow?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But I’ve been able to make flames since I was young.”

  “Then whatever it was must have happened when you were a child, which makes sense. I think the younger the pain, the stronger the influence. That’s why Gifford seems a likely candidate. Looking at him, you can see he must have suffered for a long time.”

  Suri was left to ponder this as they continued on. She couldn’t remember being unhappy as a child. All the misery in her life had started a year ago with Tura’s death. Before that, her life had always been wonderful, her youth a marvelous experience—at least the parts she remembered.

  When I found you, you were wailing so loud you made the trees quiver, Tura had said.

  And back in Dahl Rhen, Suri remembered Persephone saying,…Some children, the unwanted ones, are sometimes left in the forest, given over to the mercy of the gods.

  Even Gifford hadn’t been dumped in the forest, thrown away as garbage and left to die. His father had loved him, and Gifford belonged to a village that raised him. For her, a desperate infant abandoned in nature’s palm and clawing at anything to live, how thick could the veil between worlds be?

  You made the trees quiver.

  They were heading out of the square, rounding the corner of the quaint little house that Suri thought might be Brin and Roan’s new home, when she felt abruptly cold, so cold she shivered.

  Arion asked. “Feel that?”

  Suri nodded. “Cold and clammy chills? Like someone dropped fish down the back of your shirt?”

  Arion nodded.

  “Thought it was my imagination.”

  “You need to recognize that your imagination is more accurate than other people’s sight.” Arion moved to the side of the house. She put her hand to the stone and ran her fingers along it.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Arion replied. “A message, I suppose.”

  “Message?”

  “A warning, like a bear urinating on a tree.”

  Suri smiled; usually Arion’s explanations were vague or built on examples she didn’t understand. This, at least, she knew.

  “Something is marking their territory with the Art?”

  “Maybe, or just leaving its scent in its wake. This is strong or I wouldn’t notice. I’m not all that gifted in second sight. You probably are. Do you get any impressions? I just feel cold—cold and threatened.”

  Suri nodded. “Very cold—like death, but damp and clammy. And…”

  “And what?”

  “Hungry—starvation and exhaustion; frustration, too.”

  “Can you see it? Do you know what it is?”

  Suri shook her head. All she had were sensations, emotions that lingered like smells. “What does it mean?”

  Arion shrugged. “Maybe someone did something unpleasant here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Suri replied as she, too, touched the wall of the house.

  “What are you feeling?”

  “I don’t think something bad was done, I think something bad will be done. And I don’t think someone will do it. I think some thing will.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lord of the Rhist

  The Kype was this huge stone building filled with rooms, stairs, and corridors. It was where the rulers of Alon Rhist had lived. On the ground floor was the Karol, a small chamber where the keenig listened to grievances and passed judgments. Persephone used to call it her torture chamber: Each day there was a different torturer, but always the same victim.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Being the keenig, Persephone realized, was as rewarding as a punch in the face. The perks were equally as stellar, consisting of no sleep, no privacy, and excessive ridicule. Nothing she did was enough, yet every act was going too far. She’d been accused of favoritism toward people she’d never met, of knowing too little or too much, and of being insane. There were those who actually believed she was mentally unstable, suggesting the stress was driving her mad. Women weren’t built to bear such weight was a common sentiment expressed when she made an unfavorable judgment against someone. People, Persephone realized, had very short memories, even shorter tempers, and acted like children.

  This was on grand display with Erdo, Chieftain of Clan Erling, who came before her that day in the Karol to plead his case for taking his entire clan home so they could help with spring planting. She sympathized with him—the man had a point—but sacrifices had to be made. That day it was Clan Erling.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking down. She tried as hard as she could to sound compassionate, but after giving the same disappointing news hundreds of times, to hundreds of people, the sincerity was difficult to maintain. “We can’t afford to lose so many men at this time.”

  “My people will starve!” He slapped the bronze railing that divided the room between the lower and upper half. The metal bar rang in the small chamber with a dull note.

  “Erling will receive shipments of grain from the south to help them survive until—”

  “We don’t want charity!”

  “It’s not charity. Consider it payment for standing guard.”

  “It’s putting the Gula at the mercy of Rhulyn. That’s what it is! Putting a noose around our necks and calling it a leash.”

  Erdo had succeeded Udgar as the leader of the Erling after Moya killed the prior chieft
ain in the contest that made Persephone the keenig. She had expected more challenges from the northern clans, but trial by combat was seen as sacred by most and especially by the Gula, for whom combat was such a large part of their lives. The Gula so far had been honorable in their acceptance of her rule and obeyed her judgments, even if they couldn’t always control their people. Over the winter there had been eight cases of murder that had come before her. The majority had been committed by Gula-Rhunes against people from Rhulyn, but the Rhulyn-Rhunes weren’t innocent and had a fair number of killings on their hands. Even more deaths had been reported in the territories, where interaction between the two sides had been required. Persephone had left those issues to the local elders and hoped they would prove to be wise.

  There were no reports of Fhrey killing or being killed.

  Erdo, new to his post, was the loudest of the Gula-Rhune chieftains. This wasn’t his first visit to the Karol. Most of the Rhune leaders aired grievances in the monthly council meetings, which made them run notoriously long. Erdo wasn’t the sort to wait.

  “The south is better equipped to grow food,” Persephone explained. “There’s better soil and a longer season, and the fields are farther from the enemy who might otherwise be inclined to burn them. I promise you—your people will be looked after, but right now we need you here.”

  “Makes no sense,” Erdo said. “All we do is sit. Easy for you, all warm and happy here in the city. Me and mine have to sit in the fields, in the cold, in leaky tents. No need for us to be here. Been two full seasons. The Fhrey are scared of us. All this waiting is stupid. Use us or send us home!”

  Persephone looked at Nyphron, who sat to her left.

  Nyphron leaned forward. “How many times did Alon Rhist launch attacks on the Gula in winter?”

  The Gula-Rhune shook his head. “Don’t remember.”

  “Then let me help you recall—never. Wars are fought in warm weather. If you look outside, you’ll see the snow is off the ground. Your enemy is on the march. They will be here soon enough. And if I were you, I wouldn’t be so eager for their arrival. Now, we have others to listen to.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal.

  Persephone cringed.

  Erdo glared at Nyphron, his mouth a stiff, tight line. He spun and stomped out.

  “You really shouldn’t do that,” Persephone whispered to Nyphron.

  The Fhrey leader looked at her, puzzled.

  “It’s not your place to dismiss—”

  “Oh!” Nyphron nodded. “You’re right. My apologies.” He glanced across the hall as Erdo retreated out the door. “It’s just…I don’t like the way they speak to you—these Gula especially. They show no respect. No Instarya would dream of speaking to a superior in such a way.”

  “No?” Moya asked. Only one word, but she managed to saturate it with a sea of sarcasm. “That’s not what Tekchin tells me.” She smiled at Nyphron.

  Moya stood to Persephone’s right. There was a chair, but Moya always stood, leaning on her strung bow. She complained endlessly about the need for more than a mere bronze bar and a four-foot step separating those coming to complain to Persephone. People with grievances were angry folk. But Persephone wasn’t worried. Moya had proved she could nock and launch three arrows faster than a man could jump the bar. The tale of her stunning victory over Udgar and her increasing mastery with the bow had made her a legend. Most of the clans imagined her in mythic hero terms, which was the only way most could resolve the contradiction of someone so beautiful being so deadly. Even the Fhrey extended an unusual degree of…perhaps not respect, but caution…for something they, too, did not entirely understand. While the secret of the bow had been disseminated to those interested in learning, Moya, who practiced daily, remained the master. And just the sight of her standing at the ready was better than twenty armed guards.

  The doors to the Karol opened and Petragar and Vertumus were led in. Seeing them, Moya grinned. “And what do you think these two would say about the respect Instarya show their leaders?”

  Nyphron smirked as the two approached the bar. “I didn’t say leaders; I said superiors.”

  The Karol was excellently suited for grievance hearing. Located in the base of the Kype, the chamber was off-limits to most of the inhabitants of Alon Rhist, and as such, it sustained an air of mystery and awe. The room was also small enough to be intimate, but divided to maintain a judicial separation. There were no windows and only the two doors, one for the petitioner and one for the judges, making the proceedings appropriately private. In some ways, the Karol reminded Persephone of the lodge in Dahl Rhen, but this was far more formal and ominous. She especially bemoaned the lack of windows. This time of year the doors of the lodge would have been thrown open to let the spring light and air in. Instead, she was trapped in a dim cave of flickering flame, listening to complaints about her leadership and being forced to disappoint nearly everyone.

  “We have spent…” Petragar began in the Fhrey language, then faltered. He looked to Vertumus, who whispered in his ear. “We have spent more than eight months incarcerated. I am a ranking member of the Fhrey, and as such, I demand our immediate release.”

  Throughout this demand Petragar never once looked at Persephone. His attention was focused on Nyphron.

  And while it didn’t please her, it didn’t surprise Persephone when Nyphron responded on her behalf.

  “You’re responsible for sending a troop of Grenmorian killers to murder me,” Nyphron said. “You’re lucky to be alive. Thank Ferrol you were born Fhrey.”

  “A civilization’s worth can be measured by its treatment of prisoners,” Vertumus said to Persephone; then he, too, directed his comments to Nyphron. “Returning us to the fane would be the first step in changing minds.”

  “We don’t need to change minds,” Nyphron said. “You had your chance to listen to fair debate. Now it’s our turn to repay the kindness.”

  “Nothing can be gained by keeping us here,” Petragar said. “If anything, we are a drain on your resources.”

  “Good point.” Nyphron turned to Persephone. “I agree with Petragar. You should authorize their execution immediately. No sense wasting good porridge on the likes of them.”

  The two looked at Persephone in wide-eyed horror.

  She had never ordered the death of anyone before, and the idea made her nauseous. She could do it; Reglan had. But it was never easy, and rarely sensible. A clan needed all hands working together to survive. Execution was a last resort when all else failed, but there were times when it was necessary. This wasn’t one of those times.

  “Escort them across the Grandford Bridge,” she ordered, still speaking in Fhrey. “Give them food and water in the necessary quantity for a journey to Erivan, then let them go.”

  Smiles brightened the faces of both prisoners as the guards hauled them out.

  “You’re being foolish,” Nyphron said quietly, switching back to Rhunic, “and also weak. Weakness is no way to run a territory.”

  “I’m not running a territory. I’m leading a war.”

  “All the more reason. You need to be more decisive, less accommodating.”

  “You may feel comfortable kicking your feet up in your home, but I have not forgotten that I am living in the house of my enemy. They watch us. You don’t notice, but the Fhrey in the city stare at us with loathing. Padera cooks my food because the Fhrey chefs refuse. Roan and her smiths are struggling to produce weapons and armor working in Alon Rhist’s smithy, but your metalworkers refuse to help. They don’t know how to make iron and refuse to learn from a Rhune. It’s as if those Fhrey who chose to stay did it in expectation of our failure. They’re waiting for us to give up and go home so they can scrub the smell of us off their floors and return to their old lives.”

  “What does that have to do with—”

  “To date, only Shegon and Grynd
al have died at the hands of Rhunes, and no Fhrey has been killed while I’ve been the keenig. The Fhrey are watching. If I execute two high-ranking Fhrey, if they witness two of their own being murdered by humans, their tolerance may well fade. I already have one war on order. I don’t need another conflict inside the walls of my fortress.”

  “Power is kept with fear, not compassion. Fear of the fane united the Rhunes and made you the keenig. Fear of the keenig will keep your people and mine united when they no longer fear the fane.”

  “I don’t want my people to fear me. They shouldn’t have to fear anyone. That’s the whole point.”

  “A fine ideal, which you should repeat in public every chance you get.”

  Persephone frowned. She didn’t want to be sucked into the same old argument. Mostly because she was starting to think Nyphron might be right.

  Initially, the gleaming Fhrey lord had terrified her, but over the last year she’d come to depend on him for so much. Unlike the clan chieftains, Nyphron, in fact all the Fhrey, hadn’t showed the slightest concern with her being both a military leader and a woman. She knew that, until recently, the Fhrey had been ruled by a female fane named Fenelyus, who led them to victory against the Dherg. Nyphron in particular had been very supportive. Persephone found it odd how she felt more comfortable with, and accepted by, a member of another race than she had by her own husband, which made resisting Nyphron’s counsel all the more difficult. “How many more prisoners are there?”