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

“Wonderful. It’ll be good for the lad to get out of that viper’s nest you call Estramnadon,” Jerydd said. Then his voice grew a tad louder as he added, “I heard you got yourself in with a bad crowd there.”

Bad crowd. In his mind, Mawyndul? saw the fleeting image of Makareta’s face under a bridge, lit by magical light—the way he always remembered her. She was probably dead. He’d never found out, and the lack of knowing was difficult to take. The memory of her always hurt, and he wished it didn’t. Makareta had used him, tried to kill his father, did kill dozens of good people, and yet in his mind he still saw that beautiful face and remembered how being with her had felt.

No one had said anything for several seconds, and Mawyndul? realized Jerydd had been speaking to him when he made the comment. They were awaiting his reply. He turned back from the window to see everyone watching. He focused on Kel Jerydd. The old Fhrey looked far too satisfied. “Bad crowd? Perhaps. All I know is that I was invited to a casual gathering by people considerate enough not to drink in front of me.”

The fane stiffened. “Mawyndul?, show respect for the kel.”



“Of course, Father. I shouldn’t wish to insult such an accomplished Fhrey.” He continued to stare at Jerydd. “I heard you got yourself in with a bad crowd of giants…Oh, and congratulations on killing Arion. You did a superb job there.”

“Mawyndul?!” his father erupted.

Jerydd held up his hand to settle him. “It’s fine. The child is wild. I’ll fix that. Mawyndul?, you might be a prince in the Talwara, but here you’re an infant. If you want grape juice, make your own. You’re Miralyith, aren’t you?”

“The Art doesn’t create,” Mawyndul? said.

“No?” Jerydd held out his hands, indicating the walls around them. “What’s all this, then?”

“Fenelyus drew up stone. She didn’t make it.”

“Really? Touch the wall there. What kind of stone is that, do you think? Granite? Limestone?”

“I’m not an Eilywin; I don’t know rocks.”

“What you don’t know is vast,” Jerydd said. He snapped his fingers and a goblet appeared on the windowsill. Rather than wine, it was filled with a stack of strawberries. “There,” he said. “Try one of those. They’re perfect. With the real thing, you can never find them at their peak. Or if you do, they’re always too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”

Mawyndul? stared at the cup of fruit, stunned. Even Gryndal never created.

He was scared to touch any of the berries, but curious about how they would taste. Were they real? He reached out, plucked one off the top and bit into it. Perfect.

Across the room, the kel of Avempartha smiled. “Still think I can’t teach you anything?”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. Even without the Art, you’re an easy riddle to solve. You’re the heir apparent to the Forest Throne. But you don’t get the job unless you can win the challenge. If we held it right now—if your father dropped dead this very minute, and Imaly gave me the Horn of Gylindora to blow—who do you think would win? A child who whines about not being given a cup of wine, or an old Fhrey who can snap perfect strawberries into existence? If you want wine—if you want anything, Mawyndul?—you make it yourself or go without. Don’t rely on anyone but yourself.”



* * *







Mawyndul? was up early, standing on the south balcony. This was something Gryndal had shown him when they were last there.

The First Minister had roused Mawyndul? from a deep sleep. The prince wasn’t used to getting up before midday, and being up before dawn was unconscionable, but Gryndal had whispered for him to follow. The whisper had caught his attention. Whispers were for secrets. Maybe Gryndal was going to share something personal, Mawyndul? thought. And indeed he had.

That morning, just a year ago, Mawyndul? had slipped out with Gryndal to observe the sunrise over the Parthaloren Falls. The light sent shafts across the brink, and through the spray vivid, brilliant rainbows formed. Standing on the damp edge of the balcony, he stared in awe at a world that appeared more magical than he knew it was.

The view this morning wasn’t as grand as before. Mawyndul? had wanted to recapture that moment when he and Gryndal had stood side by side on that balcony and watched the glory of the world awaken—one of his best, untainted memories. But what had once thrilled him now left him feeling dull, empty, and lonely. Gryndal was dead. Even Avempartha felt smaller.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Mawyndul? spun to see Jerydd in the archway. The ancient Fhrey wore a heavy cloak that he clutched to his wrinkled neck with bony hands.

What’s he doing here? What’s anyone doing here?

Fenelyus rightly assumed that people would want to look out into the falls, and as a result, she’d created hundreds of balconies. Mawyndul?, like Gryndal before him, had selected a remote one. Yet here was Jerydd.



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