Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)

“How did who do what?” Arion asked.

“Fenelyus. How did she get inside? How did she get past the Door?”

“I don’t know that she did.” Arion didn’t care for this stranger. A full head of hair indicated he probably wasn’t a Miralyith, which made her wonder about his comment, Even a master of the Art can’t breach it.

How does he know what the Art is and isn’t capable of? Arion wondered.

“Oh, she did. Trust me.”

Arion didn’t trust him, not in the least. Her discomfort wasn’t merely because he was a stranger; his appearance was disturbing. She prided herself on proper grooming, and he was the most unkempt person she had ever seen. His brown robe was frayed, torn, and stained in more than a few places.

He has actual dirt under his fingernails. She shuddered at the sight and turned away.

“No one saw her go in or come out,” he went on despite Arion’s obvious avoidance. “The visit was all very hush-hush, and she denied it—or rather avoided the subject—for the remainder of her life.”

“Then she didn’t go inside,” Arion declared. “Fenelyus was an extremely honest person. I knew her well.”

“I know.”

Arion looked back at him then. “You know what?”

“She was the mother you always wished you’d had, instead of the pompous, pious, prejudiced prude who just left. Nyree still considers your decision to leave your birth tribe and join the Miralyith an act of heresy. She can’t understand why you turned your back on the priesthood to become one of them.”

Arion felt uneasy. She was certain she’d only referred to Nyree as Mother, yet this man had used her name. Since her mother lived in seclusion, it was unlikely the two were acquaintances. Even more disturbing, Arion didn’t remember seeing this man while talking to her mother. For that matter, she hadn’t seen anyone around them during their chat.

Has he been spying on me? And if so, why?

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He smiled. “You don’t have time for me to answer that; you have a prince to teach. The only reason you stopped was because you accidentally stumbled on your mother while cutting through the Garden on your way to the palace.”

The uneasy sensation turned to a chill.

If he’d somehow overheard their conversation, he would know about tutoring the prince. It’s even possible he could have known about her history with Nyree—a lot of people did. Even if he didn’t, he could have guessed as much after listening to them. But thinking more carefully, she was now certain no one had been around them during their conversation.

And how could he know why I’m here?

“Who are you?” she asked again.

“For the sake of expediency, let’s limit the answer to a name. You can call me Trilos.”

His cavalier attitude made him even more of an enigma. Although her mother wasn’t impressed with Arion’s accomplishments, almost everyone else was. Being a ranked member of the ruling tribe demanded respect in and of itself. But the Art made Miralyith practically invincible—as demonstrated during the recent challenge—and most Fhrey avoided any contact with practitioners of the Art if at all possible. Those who did summon the courage to speak would do so reverently, carefully avoiding anything that might provoke ire. And Trilos had said more than enough to get on her nerves. Ferrol’s Law prevented Fhrey from killing Fhrey, but as she had reminded Aiden, it didn’t prevent inflicting pain. Miralyith were called Artists because of the creativity needed to manifest magic, and when that creativity was applied to acts of retribution, the results could be terrifying.

Maybe she had been premature in her assessment of his tribal status. Most Miralyith kept their heads shaved in the belief that knots and snarls impeded the flow of the Art, but even Fenelyus had maintained a luxuriant mane that grew wavy and thick down to the middle of her back, but that was Fenelyus. Being the first to wield the Art, she didn’t know the impediments knotted hair created. Once she found out, she was too old to care.

I’ve done well enough in ignorance, wouldn’t you say? the old fane had told Arion. And I admit to my vanity. I wouldn’t look nearly as beautiful without hair as you do.

Using the Art, Arion performed the mystical equivalent of a harsh stare, examining Trilos. Most often this revealed only a person’s demeanor represented in the form of colors, which wasn’t terribly useful. One didn’t need the Art to detect emotions or moods, but if the subject was an Artist, the scrutiny would provide insights about his or her proficiency. What Arion discovered was nothing—nothing at all. According to the Art, Trilos didn’t exist.

“What are you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Fenelyus was no more capable of opening the Door than you or even I, so a more interesting question is how did she do it?”

You or even I?

Arion felt an unfamiliar twinge of fear. Trees had gone from seeds to towering giants since the last time she’d felt afraid. Fear was a childhood monster banished to a distant memory after she’d discovered the Art—at least the life-threatening brand of terror.

But this isn’t life threatening, is it?

A person brandishing a blade was an obvious threat. The truly unknown, when it arrived uninvited and used your mother’s name, possessed a horror all its own. Arion was Miralyith—the next best thing to a god according to some ardent practitioners—but what sat beside her was beyond her ability to fathom.

“The answer is obvious when you think about it,” Trilos said, and bit into an apple. “I’m sure you would have figured it out if you weren’t so preoccupied. The answer is this…Fenelyus didn’t open the Door.”

Did he have the apple before? She couldn’t remember. Maybe it was in his hand all along and I just— Wait, where did he get an apple in early spring?

She watched him chew, the juice of the fruit slipping over his lower lip and running down his chin. When at last he swallowed, he said, “The Door was opened for her.”

He smiled as if expecting her to care, or maybe he thought she would be impressed or intrigued. Instead, she focused on the impossibility of the juice dripping from his chin. Arion was an accomplished Artist, probably the fourth most powerful in the world now that Fenelyus had passed, but she couldn’t manifest creation. As far as she knew, no one could. Not even something as simple as an apple.

“Now you have to ask yourself, who opened it for her, and why?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Do you know what’s inside?”

He wasn’t going to answer any questions. She considered walking away and wondered if he would let her.

Let me? The thought was odd, irrational.

She had no reason to believe he would interfere or cause harm, and Arion was far from helpless. So it was strange that she felt threatened. She remained standing in front of the bench—her curiosity battling trepidation. Curiosity won out, and she replied, “The First Tree.”

Trilos nodded as he chewed. “Your mother would be proud. Yes, the oldest living thing is currently encased in a sarcophagus of stone accessible only by a small white door that can’t be opened.”

“Is there a point? I need to leave.”

“History repeats itself. Frequently, in fact, but not by its own doing.” Trilos looked at the Door. “Once does not make a pattern, so the world is about to change again, about to go for a spin. You’ll be at the center, I think, able to influence the tilt, much like Fenelyus. You need to be heedful of strangers. Strangers and doors. Then we’ll both find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Who opened that Door.”





CHAPTER SIX


Rumors




That spring, we had a new chieftain named Konniger. We also had a new mystic. Her name was Suri. Konniger had a talent for drinking, boasting, and the ax, but Suri could talk to trees.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN