Age of War (The Legends of the First Empire #3)



“What do you want me to do?” Mawyndul? 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 Mawyndul? 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 Mawyndul? 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?”

Mawyndul? 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?”

Mawyndul? 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, Mawyndul? didn’t know where to go.

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

“Ah…thanks.” Mawyndul? 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.

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