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

The throne room was precisely that—a room for the throne. The chamber needed to be massive because the Forest Throne consisted of six extremely old and intertwined trees of different varieties—each representing one of the six original tribes of the Fhrey. A mass of roots formed the room’s floor, and the ceiling was an impenetrable canopy of branches and leaves. The fane’s “chair” predated everything except the Door. The Forest Throne was the second oldest thing in Erivan and perhaps the world. The room, the whole palace, had come later.

“Your Majesty, a bird has arrived with confirmation from Alon Rhist on the matter of Nyphron and his Galantians,” Gryndal said. He and Mawyndul? stood at the foot of the Forest Throne, where Fane Lothian sat listening. “They have indeed refused to obey your edict and assaulted Petragar before escaping to the wilderness of Rhulyn.”

“How is Petragar? Did they kill him?” the fane asked.

The Fhrey’s supreme ruler—and divinely chosen voice of the god Ferrol—sat with one leg over the tendril arm of the magnificent throne, absently strumming a seven-string vellor. The Great Chamber wasn’t designed for music, and the soft notes were lost to the expanse, making weak, wistful sounds. Fane Lothian wore a green robe and the familiar gold-cast circlet of leaves, the same one that had graced Fenelyus’s head for as long as Arion had lived. Seeing it on his bald head, she conceded Fenelyus’s argument that hair had its beauty.

“No,” Gryndal reported. “Petragar is alive but seriously injured.”

“So where are they now?”

“Unknown. I don’t expect they’ll return to Alon Rhist. Not on their own, that is. They’ll have to be brought to justice.”

Lothian sighed. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“Excuse me, my fane, but I’m a bit lost,” Arion said. “Exactly what are we talking about?”

“Nyphron, son of Zephyron, was the commander at the Alon Rhist frontier outpost.”

“Son of Zephyron? The Instarya who challenged you for the throne?”

Lothian nodded. “I doubted his son would give me his unwavering loyalty, so I replaced him with Petragar. Nyphron took the change worse than I expected.”

“Indeed, after beating the new commander bloody, he deserted,” Gryndal added.

“That’s horrible,” Arion said. “I had no idea conditions out there had become so atrocious.”

“Few do,” Gryndal told her. “And we need to keep it that way. All these centuries stationed on the borderlands, all these years living among savages, has bred dissent among the Instarya. They have grown wild and insubordinate, and the Galantians are the worst example of this. They’re more Rhune than Fhrey now.”

Arion frowned as she noticed how Mawyndul? stood with hands grasped behind his back in the same stance as Gryndal.

“Uncivilized barbarians.” Gryndal’s usual voice could make Good morning sound like a death sentence, but he spoke now with even greater brutality.

Arion thought Gryndal saw himself as the epitome of culture. Dark eye makeup, half a dozen facial piercings, and an obsession with wearing only gold were all attempts to demonstrate his refinement. As fastidious as he was about his appearance, the Art was his true addiction. Fenelyus had warned about the temptation to overindulge. Power has a way of seducing by saying what you want to hear. Remember, it’s easier to believe an outlandish lie confirming what you suspect than the most obvious truth that denies it, the old fane had said.

“Such insubordination is dangerous to leave unchecked, my fane. I advocate execution,” Gryndal said.

Lothian considered this, then shook his head. “I don’t agree. They only beat Petragar. They didn’t kill him. If they had crossed that line—”

“They haven’t crossed it…yet. Are you willing to take such a risk?”

“I may be the fane, but I still need justification. Ferrol’s Law grants me the power, but I must be judicious in its use.”

Gryndal looked irritated, more so than usual. Seeing any expression beneath all the rings and chains was difficult. Arion suspected that he walked carefully through the thickets of the Garden so he didn’t catch the hoops or chains on any branches.

Maybe that’s the point. His way of displaying he’s above such mundane concerns.

Given the length of his fingernails, he certainly couldn’t juggle her rocks or—she smiled—open doors.

“Ferrol’s Law was created for ordinary Fhrey, not the Miralyith,” Gryndal said. “The Art has elevated us, and we cannot be bound by the law of a god when we have become gods ourselves.”

Arion saw Mawyndul? nodding, a look of wonder and admiration in his eyes. He would be the next fane, and it was her responsibility to make sure he was a good ruler.

She stepped forward. “How wonderful! I wasn’t aware we had achieved divinity. When exactly did that happen?”

Her tone caught them all by surprise.

“And now that we have,” she continued, “please tell me when we’ll be having tea with brother Ferrol? My mother would love his recipe for vegetable soup. As for myself, I’d like some advice on how to create my own race of people, for that ability has eluded me.”

Gryndal’s chains rattled as he turned to glare, his look so venomous that she prepared to weave a shield. He wasn’t beyond abusing his power. There were those who accused Gryndal of excessive violence during tournaments and told stories of him using the Art in romantic encounters. One ex-lover claimed their tryst had resulted in her death and resurrection, which proved that not all the rumors were true. Still, Arion once had seen Gryndal torture another Fhrey, a simple Gwydry farmer. As far as she could tell, he’d done so for the thrill, seeing how far he could go without killing the man. Not unlike holding one’s own hand close enough to a flame to almost burn.

“Gryndal didn’t mean it that way,” Lothian said. A flip of his hand revealed how oblivious the fane was to the cataclysmic eruption pending only three feet away. “But he makes a valid point. Miralyith are a breed above everyone else. It’s foolish and outdated to think otherwise. We might not be gods, but compared with the other tribes we might as well be.”

“Then we should seek to be benevolent gods, yes?” Arion said. “Treat other tribes the way we would like Ferrol to treat us?”

“Exactly,” Lothian said. “We have a responsibility to our own, and the Instarya are monsters of our making. They want to return. Did you know that?”

“You can’t allow it,” Gryndal said, reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Arion. “They can’t hope to assimilate into Fhrey society any more than a Rhune could. They would be a terrible disruption.”

Arion noticed how the First Minister used the term Fhrey as if it no longer applied to himself.

“Come now, Gryndal. It’s not quite as bleak as all that,” the fane said. “Rhunes are vile, filthy beings living in makeshift dwellings of dirt and rocks. They wallow in their own waste.”

“You’ve seen them?” Mawyndul? asked excitedly. “You’ve crossed the Nidwalden River?”

“Yes, once. Many centuries ago.”

“You left Erivan?” Arion asked. “Why would you do that?”

“My mother required it. During the Dherg War, she wanted me along to see it for myself.”

“And you saw a Rhune?” Mawyndul? asked again.

The fane chuckled. “Not a Rhune, many Rhunes. They multiply at a ridiculous rate. A single female can give birth to a brood. Some mothers have as many as twelve or fourteen offspring.”

“Fourteen?” Arion said, shocked.

“Yes…well, not at one time, at least I don’t think,” Lothian explained. “But they have been known to bear a single litter of two or three, possibly more.”

“There must be thousands,” Arion said.

“Tens of thousands,” Lothian corrected. “We actually don’t know how many.”

“Are they dangerous?” Mawyndul? asked.

“No more than any other animal,” Lothian said. “In fact, a bear or big cat is far worse. The Rhunes are terrified of us. They would scatter if we came near.”

“You are correct, my fane,” Gryndal said. “I shouldn’t have grouped the Instarya so easily with the Rhunes, but it doesn’t change the fact that centuries among the barbarians have made the Instarya unfit for Fhrey society. Similarly, I don’t think the Instarya at Alon Rhist are capable of dealing with Nyphron and his Galantians.”