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

“Call me superstitious.”

“You? Malcolm of the Rhist, who scoffs at the idea of manes and leshies? You’re afraid of the Tetlin Witch?”

Malcolm didn’t reply. He pulled his legs up tight to his chest and stared out at the hill and the walled village of the dahl. “You know, rather than praying for rabbits we could just check out the dahl. It worked out all right at the roadhouse.”

“You call that all right? Did you forget Donny?”

“What if I promise to keep my mouth shut?” Malcolm asked.

“Is that possible?”

Malcolm frowned. “I meant no storytelling. Aren’t dahls supposed to be generous to strangers? Isn’t that a thing? They’ll at least give us a little to eat, right?”

“Maybe…if they follow tradition. Hard times among the clans these days. And it could be dangerous for us. What if someone from the roadhouse is there? A group of traders might welcome the God Killer, but dahls are different. Dahls have chieftains tasked with keeping everyone safe, men who agreed to live by the Fhrey’s rules and force others to do the same.”

“But I don’t see that we have a choice. We can’t keep running like this, especially without food.”

“Our only hope is to keep moving south and stay ahead of the Fhrey. We do that and we’ll stay alive.”

“No man can escape death,” Malcolm said. “But it’s how we run that defines us. And aren’t you getting a bit—” Malcolm stopped, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the sunny field between them and the dahl.

“What?” Raithe whispered, trying to see what Malcolm was looking at.

“I think they’re women.” Malcolm pointed out a pair of figures coming from the dahl and heading their way.

They were women. The taller one wore a long black dress that made tramping through the tall grass a struggle. She had wavy black hair that whipped behind her, exposing a lovely face. Beside her walked a girl with painted markings, short hair, and a battered cape dyed the color of red clay. Bounding by their side was a white wolf.

—

It’s just a forest, only trees, Persephone assured herself as they approached the meadow’s edge.

But people have died inside it.

Her son had been killed while hunting deer with his two best friends—both able men. And an entire war party had accompanied Reglan.

I should have brought someone along. I could have asked Konniger to send Sackett as an escort, but what would I have said? “I’m afraid of the forest, so I want to borrow the Shield of the chieftain. Oh, and by the way, the reason I’m going into the woods that terrify me is because I feel it’s important to talk to a tree. For the good of the dahl, of course.” Yeah, that would go over well.

The murky forest grew larger as they approached. Persephone had hoped the trees would appear smaller than she remembered. Things usually shrank when people grew older. The steps of the lodge used to seem mammoth and the stone foundation it sat on had been a veritable cliff when she was a child. But the trees hadn’t gotten smaller. If anything they looked bigger. Since her son’s death, Persephone hadn’t left the dahl, and after Reglan died, she rarely left Sarah and Delwin’s roundhouse. But the forest was another matter, and she hadn’t entered it, not since…

It’s just a forest. Only trees.

When Persephone was seven, she and the other children would goad one another to venture deeper into the wood and touch certain trees. Everyone managed to reach the white birch, but only she and her best friend, Aria, had managed to touch the elm beyond the shade line. Then one of the children, perhaps Sarah, dared them both to touch the black tree. No one knew what sort of tree it was. They could barely see it from where they stood in the safe warmth of the afternoon sun. Sarah, if it had been Sarah, hadn’t been serious. Everyone knew it. That tree was too deep, farther even than where the grass turned to ferns. It lived where the undergrowth loomed and darkness reigned. The whole idea was silly—crazy, really—and Persephone had laughed. Choosing that tree was a sort of revenge because they’d all been humiliated by Persephone’s and Aria’s courage.

It couldn’t have been Sarah, Persephone concluded. We’re so close now, and I hated the little girl who made that dare.

She hated her because Persephone had laughed but Aria hadn’t.

It didn’t matter that Aria was two years older; they were best friends and had always agreed on everything, but this time was different. Aria had taken Persephone’s hand and said, “We’ll do it together.” Her friend had been serious. Persephone, shocked at the words and frightened by the prospect, ripped her hand away. She could still see the disappointment in Aria’s eyes, inside of which Persephone’s reflection became smaller.

“Just me, then,” Aria had said, disappointed.

Persephone had tried to stop her, saying it was stupid and dangerous. She wanted to believe her attempts to hold Aria back stemmed from fear for her friend’s life. The truth was she didn’t want to be second best. She wanted to be brave but felt like a coward—embarrassed and ashamed.

Aria had entered the forest alone.

No one believed she’d do it, but as they watched, the small girl crept deeper and deeper into the branches and leaves until the underbrush swallowed her. They waited, then called out, but she didn’t answer. Hours passed, or so it seemed. To children, time—like the sizes of things—wasn’t constant. Persephone eventually panicked and ran back to the dahl to get help.

If only I had run the other way. If only I had run into the forest to save my friend, everything would have turned out so different.

She’d gone only partway up the hill when Aria reappeared. Persephone had heard the cheers behind her. Some called Aria crazy, but there was also awe in their jibes, and Aria had laughed with them. Persephone watched from a distance. She didn’t join them. She couldn’t, couldn’t meet her best friend’s eyes, couldn’t face seeing herself grow smaller still. Instead, she walked home alone. Aria had called out. Persephone pretended not to hear. Aria shouted she was sorry, but Aria had nothing to be sorry for.

After that, Persephone avoided Aria. Every time they saw each other, Persephone was reminded of her failure and cowardice. A decade had gone by before she spoke with her friend again. The occasion had been Persephone’s wedding, and Aria, who was pregnant at the time, stood in the long line to congratulate the new bride. Like all the others, Aria took Persephone’s hand, and their eyes met. She expected to see anger, maybe even hatred, but neither waited for her. All she saw was the unbridled happiness of a married woman waiting for the birth of her first child and who wanted the same joyful life for her childhood friend. Aria had forgiven Persephone even if Persephone hadn’t forgiven herself.

She had made plans to go to Aria after the baby was born, using the birth as an excuse to visit. She’d apologize for all the years of avoidance and bring a gift for the baby. They would laugh again the way they used to, and all the troubles of the past would fade away. That day never came. Aria died giving birth to her son, Gifford. Maybe the boy inherited his mother’s courage. Cursed by the gods, twisted into a tragic wretch, he’d proved them all wrong by living. With awkward hands, he did the impossible over and over, fashioning clay masterpieces that were the envy of every artisan. In his own way, Gifford dared to touch the black tree every day.

Aria died before Persephone could say she was sorry. Sorry for ignoring Aria for years, sorry for pretending not to hear her shouts when walking home, sorry for not running into the trees to save her, but mostly for not accepting her friend’s hand and going into the forest.

It had been three decades and Persephone was finally ready to touch the black tree.