Nyphron hadn’t touched a weapon of any kind at such a young age. Like most Instarya, his first century was considered childhood, his first decade was looked on as infancy, a time for unencumbered frivolity and discovery. “It’s not the same with them as with us.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that in one year the kid managed to master what takes most Instarya a hundred. I didn’t call him Techylor to boost his confidence. Right now, he has enough skill to best most Erivan Fhrey. And he’s just sixteen.”
Nyphron dismissed the idea. “In a practice bout perhaps, but there’s a big difference between training and the real thing. The kid will hesitate. He has no experience.”
“He’s Dureyan,” Malcolm reminded them. “Traditionally, they aren’t a squeamish people.”
“Even so, it’s not the same.” Nyphron stared at Sebek.
Sebek shook his head. “He’s still a danger. If he’s this good now and remains dedicated to improving, what will he be like after fighting in a war? What will he be like in ten, twenty, fifty years after he’s gotten used to taking the lives of Fhrey?”
“Old,” Nyphron said. “More than likely, dead. Don’t forget; he’s still a Rhune.”
“He learns fast, too fast. He’s soaked up everything we can teach him. And the bow!” Sebek rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Moya tried to train us. Eres should be a natural, but compared to Tesh, they’re bumbling fools. That kid can do anything. Now he’s asking for armor—iron armor.”
“A lot of them are.”
Sebek shook his head. “Don’t you see? That’s the last thing. When he gets that, Techylor will be ready. You nearly died fighting Raithe, do you—”
“I did not!” Nyphron scowled. “You should know better.”
Sebek smiled. “I do. I fought him just to be sure. But it’s still nice to hear you say it.”
Nyphron glanced at Malcolm, who looked up at him from his perch on that stool with an almost whimsical expression. “Everyone had to believe a Rhune could beat a Fhrey in fair combat—even the Galantians.”
“Well, guess what?” Sebek stared at him. “You don’t need to pretend anymore. In five or ten years, there’s a good chance Techylor could beat you in a fair fight, but something tells me Techylor isn’t partial to fair fighting.” Sebek walked toward the cup and gestured at it. “You want to go back to your room one night and find a full-suited Rhune with two iron swords swinging at you from out of the shadows while you’re squatting on your chamber pot? Maybe that’s what they’ll leave standing untouched in the middle of your shrine for people to visit.”
Nyphron looked at the cup on the ledge and nodded. He had too many plans to let it all fall apart because of some revenge-driven brat. Disappointing. If what Sebek said was true, Tesh might have been the first Rhune Galantian. Sounded like he’d fit right in. Maybe that was the secret of the Rhunes. They didn’t last long, but while they lived they burned brighter.
“Kill him.” Nyphron sighed and looked up at Sebek. “Make it look like an accident—nothing embarrassing, either. The kid deserves that much. I can’t exactly hate him for wanting revenge against the people who killed his kin, now can I?”
Sebek drew his sword and looked down at it as if the blade spoke to him. “I’ll do it in a practice fight. I’ll kill him and say Techylor caused me to slip. That he was that good.”
Nyphron nodded. “A fine epitaph. He’ll be a legend after that. The Rhune that tripped up Sebek.”
“He deserves it. One day he might actually have done it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Avempartha
What Drumindor is to the Dherg, Avempartha is to the Fhrey. To the rest of us, it was a terrible boulder in our path.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Fenelyus had once referred to the tower of Avempartha as the mill wheel of magic. Only Fenelyus could have gotten away with calling the Art magic, but then Fenelyus got away with a lot of things. She grew her hair long, forgave the Dherg after a horrific war, and made a habit of crying late at night in the Garden until she was escorted back to the palace. No one had seen her drink anything stronger than apple juice, but Mawyndul? had heard there were rumors.
He’d barely known his grandmother. Mawyndul? saw the old fane only during official gatherings. By the time he was born, she was too old to do much more than drool. She lived to the ridiculous age of three thousand one hundred and twenty-seven. Some people thought she’d never die. First in that line had to be his father, who had waited forever to be fane. Mawyndul? imagined his father had gone to bed at night and dreamed of smothering the old lady with a pillow. He hadn’t; instead, Lothian endured the passing of years in the shadows as the son of an icon that no one was eager to see die. Such a sentiment was understandable; the old fane was the first-ever Miralyith and the savior of the Fhrey. Mawyndul? had never been a fan. He never liked anything old, and she was beyond ancient. The fact that Arion—The Traitor—idolized Fenelyus only made him dislike the old fane more. Nevertheless, he remembered having second thoughts the first time he had seen Avempartha.