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

It had taken so long, Brin had actually allowed herself to believe that they might never come, that the war had already ended. Optimism had disappointed her again—a childhood friend who made many promises it couldn’t keep. Death, fear, blood—the only shining light in all of it was Tesh. He was the one good thing of her blossoming adulthood. While not exactly how she’d thought, how she’d dreamed of a sweetheart, she found she liked the real Tesh even more. And he seemed to like her; but she wasn’t convinced. He was certainly eager to kiss her, but she wasn’t so naive as to think a kiss meant love.

Maybe it does, optimism told her, but pessimism was quick to point out, Maybe he’s just yearning for any girl. Not a lot to choose from here.

She remembered the feel of his hand on the back of her neck. Just thinking about it raised hairs, in a good way.

Where is he now?

She imagined he’d be back with Raithe, preparing to fight. There would be a battle in the morning, or the one after. Tesh would go out with the rest. He might be a fantastic warrior, but even optimism had a hard time selling her on the idea that such a thing actually mattered on a battlefield. If he died, Brin didn’t know what she’d do. While only having really known him for a few days, she realized he was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. She had a glimpse into how Persephone must have felt when Reglan died. And while she had hated Tressa along with everyone else, she’d lost her husband, and that sort of pain deserved sympathy no matter how awful the man had been.



The top of the Spyrok was a stone parapet open to the sky and filled with a two-story building’s worth of stacked logs that sat in a basin ready to be filled with oil. Hem, a member of Clan Melen, was a short, balding fellow with pudgy fingers and sad eyes. His watch would have only just started, but already he had a blanket around his shoulders and pulled tight at the neck. Hem was at the railing, looking east. He jumped when he heard her.

“Is it…” He pointed at the field of lights far below as the high wind blew what little hair he had. “Is it the Fhrey?”

Exhausted from the mammoth climb, Brin took a breath and said, “Light it!”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The Signal


I still feel as if it was my fault, which I understand is stupid. But like I said, I only had the one job.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN

A fire ignited at the top of the Spyrok.

Mawyndul? was just outside his father’s tent, which was still being raised by a team of Eilywin busily pounding stakes with mallets. Ever since his first visit, Mawyndul? had thought of the great tower of Alon Rhist as an upthrust spear punching out of the ground, stabbing at the sky. Now the tip of the spear burst into flame.

“Does that mean they’ve seen us?” Mawyndul? asked his father.

Fane Lothian was observing the construction of his battlefield home, which, when completed, would be a circular purple monstrosity held up by twelve-foot poles. He turned and squinted at the fortress; then, without a word, he marched across the camp.

Mawyndul? followed his father, who was already shadowed by the ever-present Sile and Synne. The silent twins who looked nothing alike—the giant and the hobgoblin—went everywhere his father did. What has the world come to when the fane needs constant protection?



The four of them weaved between tents and cook fires. Why the evening meal was taking so long, he couldn’t imagine. Remembering Jerydd’s trick of making strawberries, Mawyndul? made a silent vow to master it.

The only thing worse than his hunger was the soreness and exhaustion from riding. They’d traveled far that day, his father pushing them, anxious to end the ordeal. All the Miralyith rode horses, and Mawyndul? was certain his animal was the worst of the lot. The beast wouldn’t obey, and Mawyndul? spent most of the trip pulling its reins and kicking its sides. By midday, he’d found himself thinking that walking would have been a better choice.

The fane arrived at Kasimer’s tent, which inexplicably was up before the fane’s own. Lothian shouted for him to come out.

“My fane?” Kasimer asked. He was in dark robes and still wore the Spider helm.

Mawyndul?’s father pointed at the spire, which, now that it was burning, reminded Mawyndul? of a candle. His father apparently thought the same, saying, “Blow it out.”

“My fane?”

“It’s a signal. Put it out now!”

“Yes, my fane.”

Kasimer shouted to his troops. The Spider Corps had trained to work as a group. This wasn’t easy. Miralyith were by nature a pack of individualists. Artists enjoyed meeting and talking, but collaborating on a project was the behavior of the Nilyndd or Eilywin—two tribes that needed to team up to accomplish anything worthwhile. The Art was personal, and Artists rarely needed help manifesting their dreams. Execution was also always part self-expression, and suppressing the instinct to act freely was difficult. To follow another’s lead was counterintuitive and took months of practice, but the benefits were obvious. Like a dozen oarsmen on one ship, a handful of spiders could weave bigger, stronger webs. In this case, a team of Miralyith could snuff out a massive bonfire at a distance no individual could manage alone.



Mawyndul? watched as they rapidly assembled, forming in a circle around Kasimer, who acted as lead Spider. Everyone else would feed him power.

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