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

Suri was supposed to run to the safety of the runes below, but Arion didn’t even look like she was breathing. She was…

Suri looked down from what had become the new top of the tower. Like a swan left a wake on a still pond, so, too, did the Art. Such a massive blast left a clear signature. This one traced back to Misery Rock. Filled with anguish and rage, Suri raised a hand and spoke a single word—nothing she’d been taught, nothing she’d figured out. It wasn’t even a word she knew. Just as in Neith, she acted without thinking, pure reflex.

Power, she thought, and pushed out.

A blast tore through stone, exploding Misery Rock.

Suri thought she heard a cry or scream—not with her ears but along the same conduit that had sent the attack.

She waited. Nothing.

Suri reached out, searching, groping for the source. Power that strong should be easy to find, but she couldn’t. The wellspring had dissipated—or the caster was dead. The fight was over.



From across the Grandford Bridge came the sound of horns. The second day of the battle was starting, but Suri didn’t care. She ran over to Arion, who remained exactly where she had fallen. “Arion!”

Not a shudder, not a twitch, not a breath.

“No!”

Suri began chanting even before reaching Arion. She knew what to expect this time. She kicked the door to the spirit world open and leapt in. She dove head first into the waters of that awful river, dark and cold. She swam in search of Arion, calling her name as she went.

Arion! Arion! I’m here! I’ll save you. Hold on, I’m here! Just hold on!

She shouted the words into the void.

But Arion wasn’t there.

The river was empty. The dark waters clear.

Her friend had already been washed away.



* * *





Mawyndul? nearly killed himself on the trail coming down from what was left of the crag. The cliff-side path wasn’t built for running, much less a panicked dash, and now it was strewn with debris. He slipped three times trying to get down and banged his knee hard enough to make his eyes water. He raced blindly through the choking dust cloud kicked up by the oh-so-close explosion that had ripped the world a new hole.

“What was that?” Mawyndul? shouted as he reached the bottom. He was no athlete, and he struggled to breathe, his lungs burning, his heart pounding. But he kept moving. He knew he needed to get away. “I thought we killed her!”

Silence.

“Jerydd? Jerydd, answer me!”

I don’t know.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

Which word didn’t you understand?

“You act like you know everything, and yet, I almost died up there.”



I told you there would be risks.

“But we killed her. I saw her die.”

Yes. She’s dead.

“Did she have some kind of trap on her? Some kind of defense that triggered when she died?”

No. Such things aren’t possible.

“Then what?”

There was another person on that tower with Arion.

“Just some Rhune. She couldn’t—” Mawyndul? remembered the death of Gryndal. How Arion had defended the Rhune and said, This one has the Art.

Couldn’t what? Why’d you stop talking? What are you thinking?

“The Rhune,” Mawyndul? said. “That Rhune has the Art.”

That’s impossible.

“I saw her before, when I was with Gryndal. She defied his silence. She has talent.”

Talent is one thing; a knack is one thing, but a moment ago we were nearly hit by enough raw power to make me think Avempartha has a twin!

“I was nearly hit. Not we, me! I nearly died!”

You’re alive. It’s over. Quit making such a fuss.

“A fuss? What part of ‘I nearly died’ don’t you understand?”

You’re at war, not a tea party, and you wanted to go.

“I’m a prince, not some common soldier.”

Funny how death doesn’t discriminate. Makes you wonder about such privileges, doesn’t it?

“I’m still running—or at least—walking very fast for my life here. Can you stay on topic? What does it mean if I’m right and a Rhune did that?”

A long pause followed; then, as Mawyndul? crossed back inside the pickets, he heard Jerydd’s voice in his head.

Then Taraneh is more right than even he knows.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


The Art of War


The best way I can describe that day was like watching the world end with enough time to take notes—because it was, and I did.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN

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