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

The move might have worked, but the Fhrey raised his shield—another first.

Before his stroke was through, Raithe was already shifting for his next. He had the upper hand now and intended to keep it. Spinning, Raithe cut upward. Nyphron was forced to dodge. Again and again Raithe pressed his attack, knowing he couldn’t allow the Fhrey to catch his composure or the tide would turn again. Raithe hammered his opponent, desperate to weaken the strength in Nyphron’s arm.

Sweat formed on the Fhrey’s brow, and his gleaming eyes weren’t so bright. Remembering his brothers’ tactics, Raithe moved in close to mitigate the Fhrey’s ability to dart clear of attacks. When he saw his chance, Raithe stomped down hard on his opponent’s foot. Surprise flashed on Nyphron’s face and Raithe took the opportunity to punch him hard in the jaw with the hilt of Shegon’s sword.

The Galantian staggered backward, stunned and off balance. Blood dripped from his chin, and his shield lowered.

Seeing his one clear chance to win, Raithe stabbed out—

Clang!

Raithe’s attack was parried away. A second stroke hit the hilt of Shegon’s sword, breaking Raithe’s grip and throwing the weapon to the ground.

Sebek stood before him, holding a cleve in each hand—violence in his eyes. Bold, confident, powerful. Despite Malcolm’s assurances, Raithe believed that what stood before him was indeed a god. He waited, but Sebek didn’t advance. He merely stood with one foot on Shegon’s sword.

Nyphron was bent over, panting for breath and wiping blood and sweat from his eyes. Raithe, also struggling for air, took a step back, and drew his father’s hunting knife. It wasn’t much, but it was slightly better than Herkimer’s broken blade.

Of course, how fitting that I’ll die holding the same knife. The gods are nothing if not poetic.

Nyphron waved a dismissive hand at them both. “We’re done.”

What does “we’re done” mean? Is this where they kill me?

Raithe didn’t mind the break; he needed a rest. The chance to clear his eyes and take in much-needed air was welcome. Waiting for what would come next, Raithe glanced behind him to see what had distracted Nyphron. Persephone and Malcolm stood together, watching wide-eyed from the open gate. Persephone had hands over her mouth. Malcolm appeared just as apprehensive but managed to offer Raithe an approving smile.

“How did you learn to fight like that?” Nyphron asked.

“My father taught me.”

“Your father?” He glanced over at Sebek. “Did you see?”

Sebek nodded. “Hard not to.”

“My father fought in the High Spear campaigns,” Raithe explained. “He was taught by your people.”

“He wasn’t taught by my people,” Nyphron said. “He was taught by my father. Those are his techniques.”

Raithe didn’t know what to say. He decided nothing was the best course and focused on breathing. Whatever came next, he would need air.

“Why did you do it?” Nyphron asked, and then spit a bit of blood. “Why did you kill Shegon? Was it for sport? To see if you could? To test your mettle?”

Raithe shook his head. “I thought you heard the stories. He killed my father.”

“That was true?” Nyphron looked surprised.

“Killed him right in front of me.”

Nyphron stared hard at Raithe, and for another long moment no one moved or spoke. Then the Fhrey nodded as if understanding something. “Thing is, Shegon was a brideeth eyn mer.”

“I’ve heard that about him,” Raithe said.

“If it wasn’t forbidden, I’d have killed him centuries ago.” Nyphron ran an absent hand through his long hair and looked at the sword beneath Sebek’s boot. “Give it back to him. He’s earned it.”

“We going again, then?” Raithe asked.

“No.” Nyphron held up his free hand as he sheathed his sword. “I found out what I wanted to know.”

“Which was?”

“That it’s possible.”

“What is?”

“For a Rhune to kill a Fhrey.”

“Glad to have helped.”

“Can we come in now?” Nyphron asked.

“Sorry.” Raithe shook his head.

“Not very courteous of you.”

“Neither is slaughtering thousands of people and burning down Dureya and Nadak.”

Nyphron nodded. “You make a good point. But would it make a difference if I told you we”—he gestured toward his group—“had nothing to do with that? In fact, we’re outlaws…rebels…because we refused to take part in that reprehensible affair. We went against the edicts of our ruler and declined to butcher defenseless Rhunes. We’re in flight, like you, and from the same pursuers. If you have been offered shelter, couldn’t we receive the same?”

Raithe was stunned. He had imagined the conversation going differently. “It’s ah…it’s not my decision to make.” He turned to look at Persephone again. She blinked then nodded.

“It would appear the lady approves,” Raithe said. “Welcome to Dahl Rhen.”

“Wonderful.” Nyphron smiled. “Where is Maccus?”

“Maccus?”

“He’s the leader here, right?”

This time Persephone spoke from the shelter of the open gate. “Chieftain Maccus…was…that is…he is…dead. He’s been dead for, ah, seventy years, I think. He was my husband’s great-great-grandfather.”

“Oh,” Nyphron said. “Well, do you still make that marvelous wine? The pale red one, with a hint of nuts? I’ve boasted about it all the way here.”

“There was a vineyard once, up on the slope of the Horn Ridge,” Persephone said. “But it was lost to drought decades ago.”

Nyphron scowled. “Doesn’t anything in this place last?”

“Hardship,” Persephone replied. “We always have an abundance of that.”

The god looked directly at her. Their eyes met and he smiled. With a nod, he replied, “Well…at least you have that.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


The Tutor




There were seven clans of the Rhulyn-Rhunes and three for the Gula-Rhunes. Each clan had a chieftain. When it was necessary to unite, a single leader was named and we called him the keenig, which eventually became the word king. The Fhrey had tribes instead of clans and no chieftains. Instead, they had a single ruler who was called the fane.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The three stones clattered to the marble floor. One rolled toward Arion, who picked it up and handed the smooth egg-sized rock back to Mawyndul?. The fane’s son acted as if the little stone weighed a ton—every movement dramatizing extreme effort. Even his breathing appeared labored, each exhalation a long sigh. He stood before her, frowning, head bowed and shoulders slumped so that the sleeves of his asica slipped down and covered his hands.

“I can’t do it,” he told her.

“Try again,” Arion insisted.

“I don’t want to.”

The two were in the palace’s entrance hall, which Arion had chosen for its high ceiling. She’d chased away the servants to give them privacy, and it was there, before the grand staircase and among the lavish frescoes, tapestries, polished stone, and vases filled with flowering plants, that the two faced off in a battle of wills.

“I don’t care. Do it anyway.” Arion folded her arms in a gesture that should have ended the debate, but this was no typical student of the Art. Mawyndul? was the prince, the twenty-five-year-old son of Fane Lothian, and every one of those years had been spent isolated in the Talwara Palace. Surrounded by servants and those eager to curry favor, the prince had developed an inflated sense of himself.

He glared back defiantly, his anger unmistakable.

Most people wouldn’t risk antagonizing the son of the only Fhrey endowed by the god Ferrol with the power to kill or order the death of another of their kind. But being too lenient wouldn’t help Mawyndul? or the future of their people. After spending time with him, Arion was sure Fane Fenelyus wanted her grandson schooled in more than just the Art. And she was going to do exactly that.