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

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Rival?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  She didn’t answer. Her eyes searched the bedspread for one.

  “I had it in my head that the reason I wasn’t allowed into the Kype to see you was because of him, that he had given orders to keep me away. But he didn’t, did he?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  Persephone started to push herself up and cringed in pain.

  “Easy,” he told her.

  She shook her head and made a dismissive wave as she struggled to breathe. “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.” The pain looked to have mostly subsided, and Persephone seemed more embarrassed than anything else. “You were saying that you tried to see me?”

  “Yes. I came almost every day at first, then less so as winter came on. Guess I started getting the hint. I was always told you were too busy. I believed it because I needed to.”

  She didn’t say anything. Refused to look at him.

  “Do you love him?”

  “It’s complicated. He…” The words struggled to come out. She smoothed the covers. “He asked me to marry him.”

  Raithe didn’t say anything after that. He couldn’t. He was too frightened. When he was a boy, Didan had once crept up behind him and put a dagger to his throat, whispering, Don’t move. That was how it felt when standing beside Persephone’s bed, those words lingering in the space between them, dropped but not swept away. He waited, waited for her to say that she had turned Nyphron down, waited for her to laugh at the very thought. She didn’t. Persephone said nothing at all, and the moment lingered until finally Raithe couldn’t bear it any longer. “Have you slept with him?”

  Her head jerked up. “No! It’s not like that.”

  “Then how is it?”

  “I don’t see how my personal life is your business.”

  The words hurt. She wouldn’t have said that a year ago when Konniger wanted her dead. Back then she’d welcomed him into her world, begged him to stay, wanted him to be part of her personal life. Back then, when he had asked for her hand, she had said the memory of her dead husband made remarrying impossible.

  She must have seen the look on his face and read part of it correctly. “Listen, Raithe, I’m the keenig now. I have to think about what’s best for the clans, and you’re right; Nyphron is brilliant.”

  Why did I ever say that? He’s brilliant, all right. He’s twisted you to his will, that’s how brilliant he is.

  “He’s given us the chance to survive. He and I have united the Rhunes and the Instarya. Together we can—”

  “I’m too late, aren’t I?” The phrase he and I was what did it. They were a team now.

  Raithe looked away, his sight drifting across the shiny sheets, across the big bed—big enough for two. Does he visit her, creeping in when it is dark, or does Nyphron live with her now? Does he sleep there every night? Which side is his?

  “I’m just saying that without Nyphron, we don’t stand a chance. He knows how to fight them, and he keeps the Instarya from—”

  “You’ve already decided. You’re going to marry him.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You are, aren’t you?”

  She looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. “It’s what will be best for everyone.”

  Even Didan hadn’t actually slit his throat.

  No, not a slit throat, a stab to the heart.

  Raithe stood still, feeling the pain slip in through his ribs—a fine spear thrust—very fine indeed.

  I am too late. I just thought that she…He sucked in a breath. “Persephone, did you ever love me?”

  He saw her stiffen. Her hands were clasped on her lap, a pile of pillows behind her head. Brin had likely propped her up and brushed her hair to receive him, so she could look her best for the execution. Persephone did indeed have loyal friends. Moya had led him there, and Brin had held the door.

  “Raithe, this isn’t about love. You have to be able to see that.” Her tone became concerned. “If I were to refuse, if we were to lose Nyphron’s support—”

  “You refused me. Did I leave? Did I turn against you?

  “He’s not you, and it’s not the same thing.”

  “How is it different?”

  “You were being selfish. You wanted me to run off to some mythical land of perpetual sunshine and a life without want. You asked me to abandon my family. Nyphron wants to help save them.”

  “Selfish? You’re calling me selfish? I gave that dream up. I stayed. Stayed when I knew I was a fool to do so. You say Nyphron wants to save your people. But who volunteered to fight the Gula keenig? And why did I do such a stupid thing? For me? No—but I can tell you this, that’s exactly what Nyphron is doing. He’s the selfish one, not me. I didn’t see him out there on that field.” His words were spiteful and bitter. He didn’t want them to be, but he couldn’t stop. “I was the one who nearly died when a huge giant hit three of us with a sledgehammer—the same one that killed Wedon. I was the one out there saving your family. Where was Nyphron?”

  “He can’t—”

  “He could. He just won’t.” Raithe’s voice rose. “I asked you to come with me because I didn’t think we stood a chance fighting the Fhrey, and because I know what war is like. I lived with men who made a profession of it. I’ve seen what it does to people, to those who fight year after year, and even more to those they leave behind. And maybe I was wrong about part of that; maybe we can win. But I was right about the effects of war…and still I stayed. And I know one more thing. I know I love you. Nyphron doesn’t, but I do. And I thought—I thought you loved me, too.”

  She stared at him, a hard look on her face. Stone. She looks like stone, cold and unmovable. A perfect keenig.

  “Did you? Do you?”

  “No,” she finally said.

  Silence followed.

  In a fight, it was possible to get used to the sound of the crash. The clang of metal on metal made a rhythm, a kind of music. Combat slipped into a duet, with each side playing their role until one attack slipped through a guard. Then the music stopped. Unexpected silence always followed, made loud by the expectation of the beat that never came. Raithe stood in that silence. His guard had been broken; her stroke pierced true. In her eyes he saw the shock and fear, the regret he often spotted on the faces of the trainees when a move worked and they actually hit him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Raithe said softly. “Even that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t change the way I feel. Can’t say I know much about it, but I know that’s not how love works.”

  Persephone’s hands gripped the covers. She opened her mouth, but he no longer wanted to hear what she had to say, and he wasn’t done. She deserved to hear all of it; at least the Persephone he knew, or thought he knew, deserved it. That’s how it felt—not like she had rejected him, but like someone he loved had died. She had evidently passed away some time ago, but he was only now hearing the news. Not having been invited to the funeral, Raithe offered his eulogy. “I’ve loved you from the start. Maybe from the moment I first saw you in the forest, but certainly after you spoke to me like a real person, even though you knew I was Dureyan. And it doesn’t matter if you can’t love me—whether it’s because you’re still in love with Reglan’s memory or because you want to marry Nyphron. None of that matters because…” His voice cracked. “Because even now…even now…”

  His voice broke the way his father’s sword had. He was left with the shattered, useless remains, except Malcolm wasn’t there this time, and he wasn’t saved. Raithe spun away and headed for the door. He’d wanted to see her so badly for so long, but at that moment he wanted nothing more than to get away.

  “Raithe!” she called, but he didn’t stop.

  He moved past the group waiting in the hall. Why do there have to be so many
witnesses?

  “Raithe?” Brin called. “What happened?”

  He headed for the stairs, wiping tears from his eyes.

  There’s just no winning for some people. Doesn’t matter if you do everything right. Once the gods hate you, there’s no happiness that can be achieved, and hope is just another torture.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dawn’s Early Light

  I honestly do not know what happened that morning. Only one person alive did, and I never had the courage to ask her.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Mawyndulë. Mawyndulë!

  He opened his eyes to find a dark world where a stretched canvas tarp quivered in the wind. Took a moment to remember where he was: in a tent on the edge of a barren battlefield. Depression filled him. He had been dreaming of Makareta. He’d spotted her in a crowd on the streets in Estramnadon and had struggled to reach her, then woke up. That left him in the lonely dark, listening to the gusts and thinking about her again.

  No one knew what had happened to Makareta, or maybe they did and chose not to tell him. He thought it possible that she was locked in the same cell where they had held Vidar. Or maybe they gave her to Vidar to make up for his wrongful imprisonment. As much as he hated Makareta for what she’d done, he thought he would kill the senior councilor if he’d hurt her. That’s why he thought he might be in love with Makareta, and maybe that was also why everyone had lied to him about where she was.

  A gust of inexhaustible wind made his tent sing a dull note. I hope the stakes were driven in deep.

  Mawyndulë was bundled up in a pile of wool blankets topped by a bearskin. Only his head was exposed, and his nose felt numb. The sound of the wind made it worse. He couldn’t actually feel it, but the howl spoke a rumor of bitter cold.

  Mawyndulë, answer me.

  Mawyndulë cringed. He’d thought it was fun to listen in on Jerydd’s conversations or turn the kel into a personal storyteller as he rode. But having Jerydd invade his mind uninvited in the dark hours of the morning, left him feeling violated. While he knew Jerydd couldn’t hear his thoughts, Mawyndulë didn’t feel safe even in his own head.

  He considered not answering. He could even pretend to snore. He was thinking just how annoying that could be when Jerydd spoke again. I know you can hear me. I know you’re awake. I’ve listened to you breathing for hours, and I can tell the difference.

  “I was sleeping,” he said.

  Sleep tomorrow. We need to get to work.

  Mawyndulë yawned, wiped his eyes, then began to moan. He moaned a lot, a dull low tone that he was certain made dealing with life easier. “What kind of work?” He hoped it wouldn’t be any more lessons. He was sick to death of them. At the academy, they made him do all kinds of repetitive tasks that made him wonder whether jumping off the Talwara balcony would really hurt so bad, or would it be better to just die instantly.

  We’re going to kill Arion.

  Mawyndulë’s head came up off the pillow. “How? The Spiders tried that yesterday. They can’t find her. She’s hiding.”

  She can’t hide from Avempartha.

  Mawyndulë pushed up, letting his covers slip and swung his bare feet to the ground. Forgetting that the floor of his tent was the field, he flinched when he felt the brittle grass poking against his soles and tickling his bare legs.

  I thought the Spiders and Kasimer could handle it, but she’s crafty. Should have guessed. Did you know Fenelyus named her Cenzlyor?

  “What do you want me to do?” Mawyndulë wiped his eyes and ran a hand over his bare scalp, cringing as he felt the stubble forming. He hated hair. Couldn’t understand why Ferrol allowed it to grow on Miralyith. The more it grew the dirtier he felt, as if the Rhune world was infecting him.

  This won’t be without risk, you understand.

  “I don’t care. I want her dead.”

  Good. Then I need you to go to where you can see the fortress. Get away from the camp, away from others, especially away from other Miralyith. Get in a nice lonely place where you have a perfect view of the whole fortress and then let me know.

  “Right now? It’s the middle of the night.”

  It’s almost morning, and, yes, right now. I wanted to do this hours ago, but you sleep with the dedication of a depressed drunk. We need to do a search, and it’ll be easier the quieter things are. Stillness makes hunting more efficient. So get up and—

  “Okay, okay. I’m moving. It’s not like where you are, you know? I’m in an awful tent. It’s dark. It’s cold. And there’s a wind that doesn’t stop blowing.”

  You whine a lot. I suppose that being the spoiled child of the fane people don’t dare tell you that. They should.

  “As I am indeed the son of the fane, how is it you dare?”

  Because I know your father would side with me.

  “Treya!” he called. An instant later, his bleary-eyed servant stepped in, rubbing her face and blinking repeatedly. Treya wasn’t much to look at. Most of the time Mawyndulë didn’t bother. She was an ever-present staple in his life, like his shoes or his goldfish—always there, never noticed. But he couldn’t recall having seen Treya fresh out of bed. She was always up much earlier than he. At least it seemed that way. This was the first time since he was a child that she appeared unkempt. Her hair, which was always hidden in a wrap on the top of her head, was down. He was surprised to discover she had light brown hair—he was surprised she had hair at all. This revelation did nothing to enhance her appeal. Not only did Mawyndulë not find hair attractive on anyone, hers was an atrocious mess of tangles and jutted up in peculiar, inexplicable ways. “My sandals and cloak, get them, and pour water into the basin.”

  Just enough starlight pierced the canvas for Treya to find her way around.

  “Shall I make a meal for you, my lord?”

  Mawyndulë shook his head. Too early, his stomach wasn’t ready for food yet. With sandals and cloak already on, he paused to splash water on his face. It was icy cold, so he opted to just dip his fingers and wipe his eyes.

  “Are you going out, my lord?” Treya asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I come with you?”

  Mawyndulë hesitated but shook his head. Best he did this alone, and he couldn’t endure another minute near her hair. As much as he tried not to look, he’d catch sight of it out of the corner of his eye, bobbing and dipping like some ghastly puppet performing on her head.

  He pulled back the flap on his tent as much to comply with Jerydd as to escape Treya. He had no idea how stuffy the interior of his tent had been until the fresh air greeted him. Damp and chilled, the world outside was alive with crickets and peeping frogs. All around were other tents and fires that had dwindled to glowing coals.

  Stepping outside, letting the tent flap fall behind him, Mawyndulë didn’t know where to go.

  “Pits are that way, my prince.” The duty guard stationed outside pointed to the south.

  “Ah…thanks.” Mawyndulë didn’t know why he said it or why he turned and went south or why he felt he had to be secretive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it felt that way. He was on a clandestine mission following the instructions of the voice in his head. Some might even call that insane. Look out! Look out for the mad prince!

  He slipped into the shadows and around to the south past two more guards, who just nodded respectfully. He picked his way, moving fast. Cold had a way of adding urgency to any endeavor. He passed the pits and kept going down the slope out beyond the pickets, then he veered to the west—toward Alon Rhist. In the starlight, he could see fine, and he pinpointed a pillar of rock rising from the plain. Looking a bit like a crooked finger, it jutted up and out. The crag appeared to have a small trail running up one side.

  Where are you? What are you doing? Jerydd pestered him.

  “I’m having breakfast with a family of bears,
tarts with jam and cinnamon tea. Bears are very good cooks, you know.”

  Don’t get flippant. This is serious.

  “I’m climbing a rock to get a good vantage point to see the fort. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Are you outside the camp?

  “Yeah, about two, three hundred yards, I guess.”

  Good. Let me know when you’ve found a spot—a quiet spot.

  The trail was precarious, and Mawyndulë was regretting his decision to take it. Narrow, with a sheer drop on one side and the cliff wall on the other, he found himself shimmying along. By the time he reached the top, he was no longer cold. He was sweating.

  “Okay, I’m at the top.”

  Have a good view of Alon Rhist?

  Mawyndulë peered west. He was up only sixty feet, but it felt as if he could see forever. Below him, the entire Fhrey camp was visible so that he could see the orderly precision of the tents punctuated by the glowing red points of burned out fires. “Yeah. It’s across this chasm: bunch of walls, big dome, massive tower—not so tall now that they cut the top of it off.”

  Just sit down. Make yourself comfortable. Keep your back straight, cross your legs, and just concentrate on Alon Rhist. Try not to let your mind wander. Just focus on the fortress.

  “Okay.”

  And try not to scream.

  “Scream? Why would I—”

  Mawyndulë jerked as he felt a jolt of power slam into him. He didn’t scream. He couldn’t. All he was able to utter was a weak squeak as his mind and body were blasted with the indomitable force of the tower of Avempartha. Power flooded him so that he felt he might drown. Every muscle contracted, as if someone had dumped a barrel of ice water over his head.

  He managed a weak gasp as the fortress rushed at him. In an instant, he was viewing the great bronze doors. They were close enough to touch. Then he flew through them. A moment later, he was standing in a courtyard where soldiers—both Rhune and Fhrey—stood or walked. Not needing to use the stairs, Mawyndulë flew upward to a higher courtyard and passed through barracks where men were waking up, getting dressed, and eating at long tables or with bowls in their laps. Next, he reached the dome and rose to a balcony overlooking a huge room filled with decorative weapons. He’d been there before when he and Gryndal had visited. Then he was whisked away, flying across a bridge toward a sturdy square tower built just in front of the decapitated Spyrok. This was the Kype, the fortress inside the fortress. Lamps were being lit. People were dressing. The fort was waking up, and Mawyndulë felt himself growing dizzy. He flew again, back this time toward the front of the Rhist. The jerking, haphazard motion was making his stomach queasy as he flew through the many rooms and hallways spinning left and right searching for—