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

For the past twenty years, Persephone had sat in the Second Chair beside her husband at every general meeting of the clan. That morning she entered the lodge as a visitor. It felt strange walking into what had been her home—into a world of memories—as a guest. Her eyes were drawn to the changes. The woodpile had been moved to the east wall and the bear rug brought down from the bedroom upstairs. Konniger’s ax hung from a winter pillar. Of all these changes, the one she couldn’t help staring at was the addition of Reglan’s shield to the pantheon of past chieftains’ weapons hanging from the rafters.

The inhabitants of the dahl clustered around the central fire, sitting on the floor. Konniger sat in the First Chair, waiting for the crowd to settle. Although he had suffered no wounds from his duel with Holliman, he still bore the gash on his head from the fight with the bear. The bandages were gone, but the bright-pink marks were slow to fade. From the way Konniger avoided looking Persephone in the eye, she imagined the injuries were trivial compared with the deeper pain of failing to protect his chieftain and friend.

Beside him was his wife, Tressa, wearing Persephone’s silver torc and ring. A circlet of spring flowers adorned her elaborately braided hair. Persephone had been terrified her first day on display; Tressa didn’t look the least bit frightened. She rubbed the arms of the chair, squirming like an excited child; a great smile hoisted her round cheeks.

Persephone felt sorry for her. She has no idea what she’s in for. She sees it as a grand party, but that won’t last.

A few in the crowd looked over at Persephone and smiled awkwardly, unsure how to act. Her presence made the gathering uncomfortable. Everyone saw Konniger’s first official meeting as an end to the mourning period, and she was the leftover debris of a once beloved, but now ruined, reign. She purposely sat in the rear to give Konniger and Tressa the chance to establish themselves. Persephone’s plan was to remain silent and invisible.

The lodge filled, causing everyone to shift and press tightly together. Some from the outlying villages had come, and the room had never been so packed. Everyone was there, including Adler and Hegner, the two men maimed in the bear hunt. Adler had gained the nickname One-Eye. Hegner, having lost his hand, was now called The Stump. Persephone didn’t use either moniker out of respect for those who had received their wounds in defense of her husband. Like Persephone, they had sequestered themselves since Reglan’s death but had come out for this. Even Tope, who farmed the high ridge and was late getting his field tilled due to sickness and heavy rain, had pulled his family away from work so that they could all be present. Parents brought their children, who sat cross-legged near the fire pit, the light of the flames dancing on their cheeks. The younger ones smiled; the older ones knew better. This wasn’t a story night; there would be no feast or songs.

The new chieftain had called a full meeting to discuss the rumors that had obsessed the dahl’s residents for several days. Two troubling stories had arrived, one on the heels of the other. Both had come from the north. The first, clearly impossible, hadn’t been believed at all—until they’d heard the second. The second rumor was so unimaginably terrifying that it had to be true.

“Are the gods coming to kill us?” Tope shouted over the murmurs. The farmer, as well as everyone else, was understandably impatient.

Konniger stroked his beard and frowned in irritation at the question, even though he’d called the meeting to discuss exactly that. Perhaps he’d planned some opening statement. This was his first official address as chieftain, and he probably wanted to make it momentous.

Konniger was a handsome man with a thick black beard, long loose hair, and a Rhen-patterned leigh mor pinned over his left shoulder. The cloth was bright and looked to be new. He sat with both hands gripping the arms of the chair, his feet flat and back straight. The model of a chieftain, he appeared strong and fit, firm and solid, a rock for his people to latch onto. Persephone spotted her husband’s ring on Konniger’s finger and felt the familiar falling sensation in her stomach that made her wonder why she was still there. She was the floating oar after the boat had sunk, the marred, wooden handle of a shattered stone ax.

“It can’t be true,” Maeve responded with her indomitable tone of absolute confidence. The Keeper of Ways stood slightly behind and between the two chairs. Hood up, white hair tucked away, face as stern as weathered stone, the old woman—all that remained of the previous leadership—lent legitimacy to the pair. “The gods have always treated us fairly. The rules by which we live peacefully were agreed upon in ancient treaties. So long as we pay our tribute on time and in full, don’t cross or dam the western rivers, or otherwise bring harm to the Fhrey realm, we are protected from their wrath. This was promised by their Chieftain Fenelyus.”

“And what does this ancient tweety say will happen when one of us kills a god?” Gifford asked, his twisted lips mangling the word treaty. In a different setting, it might have elicited smiles or even a laugh.

Gifford had been born wrong. His back was twisted like ivy on a post, making walking across the dahl an achievement worthy of praise. His head, which always tilted to one side, looked as if a giant had squeezed it, leaving one eye in a permanent squint and his lips squished. His mother had died giving him life, and many had questioned the wisdom of letting Gifford live. His father had been convinced Gifford would be a great man. Everyone knew he spoke out of grief for his wife rather than from sense, but no one had the heart to intercede. Besides, leaving the infant to the mercy of the forest spirits probably wouldn’t be necessary; the boy hadn’t been expected to last a week. Gifford’s father had died seven years ago, and some of the people who’d advocated abandonment had also died over the years. Gifford, however, was still alive, and at the age of twenty was the best potter in the seven clans.

Maeve’s face hardened, if such a thing were possible. “It doesn’t say anything. Because a man can’t kill a god.”

“Trader Justen of Split Road swore it was true,” Brin said, her youthful voice piercing the grumbling din. “Said he’d met Raithe and saw the broken copper. And the god’s blade, he—”

“Hush, girl,” Sarah whispered to her daughter.

Brin caught the stern look and diminished, settling back on her heels.

“That’s right,” Atmore said. “I’ve known Justen for most of my life. He’s never lied to anyone. If he says it’s true, then it is. Why else would the gods turn against us? What else could draw such a punishment?”

“A man can’t kill a god,” Sackett said. At the sound of his low voice, the room quieted. Sackett rarely said much, so when the new Shield of the chieftain spoke, people listened. People believed.

“What have you heard, Konniger?” Adler shouted from the door, his new eye patch granting him a veteran’s importance.

Konniger looked over to where a group of strangers stood, ten men wearing solemn faces and the predominantly brown Nadak pattern. “Although I agree with Sackett that a god can’t be killed, there is no doubt they have turned on our kind. The gods have destroyed Dureya.”

A confused silence followed.

“What do you mean, destroyed?” Farmer Wedon asked.

“These men”—he gestured toward the strangers—“are from Nadak. Five days ago, they saw smoke in the north. They crossed into the highlands of Dureya, but the dahl was gone. Men, women, and children butchered. Their lodge and all the outlying villages are nothing more than burned-out shells, only the wind left to howl.”

The entire hall murmured in disbelief. No words followed, only gasps and curses, which died on stunned lips.

“How many survived?” Tope asked.