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

In contrast with the cold building, Arion was greeted with as much warmth and fanfare as the Rhist’s commander could muster. Escorted by eight pairs of honor guards in front and behind she walked past lines of Fhrey adorned in full, polished armor. They snapped salutes in a precision wave as she passed. A pair of drums rolled and two long horns blared, and from every window the Miralyith purple and gold banners flew in her honor. Arion felt a tad awkward at the fuss. She was the tutor of the prince, not the fane.

The commander received her under the dome, where he sat in a hard chair with mismatched pillows. Petragar rose as she entered. He was dressed in a formal asica adorned with Asendwayr colors but worn in the Miralyith style, lacking knots and crisscrosses. Arion knew his name but little else. She was unlikely to learn much more since his face was wrapped in bandages. He whispered to an assistant standing beside him, who said, “Welcome to Alon Rhist. I am Vertumus, Legate of the Post. May I introduce the most esteemed patriarch of the Asendwayr, former senior counsel to the Aquila, the fane’s personally appointed commander of Avrlyn and Rhulyn, his grand and worthy lordship Petragar of the Rhist.”

The two bowed.

She returned their bows. “I’m Arion,” she said.

Vertumus hesitated, looking out of sorts as if she’d tripped him. The assistant to the commander was a little Fhrey with a receding hairline and enough gray to suggest he was well into his second millennium. He was dressed in formal Asendwayr garb, a green-and-gold tunic with a long cape.

“The commander is extremely honored to have such an esteemed person as yourself visiting Alon Rhist,” Vertumus went on, finding his rhythm once more. “He regrets that due to recent events he cannot speak as clearly as he’d like, and he has asked me to aid him in this matter.” They bowed again.

Arion didn’t bother to return it. She was far too tired and dirty for formalities. All she wanted was a bath and a bed. Even a meal could wait.

“Where is Nyphron now?”

Petragar looked at Vertumus, who replied on his behalf. “We believe he has gone south to hide among the Rhunes.”

Petragar whispered once more, and Vertumus spoke up. “Certainly these unpleasant matters can wait until another day. It’s late, and you’ve traveled a long way. You must be tired.”

“I’d greatly appreciate a bath.” The grit from traveling was horrible. Twice she had ordered Thym to stop at clear mountain pools so that she could clean up. She had used the Art to turn each into a luxurious hot spa, but it had been two days since the last one.

“Of course. I’ll have one prepared immediately. Afterward, we will feast in your honor.” Vertumus looked over Arion’s shoulder, and at the snap of his fingers, a soldier ran off. “Commander Petragar insists that you occupy his quarters while you are here. I’ll have your bags brought up and the bed turned.”

“I don’t know that a feast is necessary, and I only have the one bag,” she said.

The two seemed a bit relieved, relaxing slightly.

They don’t like Miralyith.

“Anyway, I can carry my bag, unless…” She looked out the western windows. “My room isn’t at the top of that tower, is it?”

“Of course not,” Vertumus said. “Elysan, escort Her Eminence to the commander’s chambers.”

Arion was nearly out the door when Vertumus asked, “Will you be staying long?”

She paused and shook her head. “I expect I’ll be leaving in search of Nyphron in the morning.”

“In the morning?” Vertumus’s brows rose. “So soon? But we have no idea where Nyphron and his Galantians are.”

She smiled. Arion rarely dealt with non-Miralyith, and those she did speak to were well aware of their capabilities. Out on the frontier all they had was rumors, and she could imagine the sort of stories told after the spectacle of Zephyron’s death. “Did he leave anything personal behind?”

Vertumus glanced at Petragar, then said, “Well, yes. Most of his things are still in his room.”

“And does he have hair?”

“Nyphron? Hair? Oh, yes, long and blond. But I don’t see—”

“Well, then.” Arion clapped her hands together as a sign of problem-solved. “If he’s left any behind in a brush or on a pillow, I’ll have no trouble finding him.”

“Oh,” Vertumus said. “Then I’ll see that Nyphron’s quarters are scoured for strands. But we, ah…we expected you’d be staying longer than—”

“No reason to delay. Thym tells me he knows nothing of the Rhune villages, so I’ll be continuing without him,” Arion went on, her weariness making her curt. “He’ll be staying here. I assume that’s all right.”

They both nodded, and Vertumus said, “He usually stays here or in one of the other outposts in the summers.”

“Good. Also, I’ll need you to keep and care for the horse I brought with me.”

“You won’t be taking it?”

“No.”

The two looked at each other, puzzled. “But you might be several days on the road. You’ll need supplies and—”

“In an unpleasant rage on the way here, I nearly obliterated the poor beast. I ended up rerouting a river instead. So no, for the good of the animal, my own safety, and the protection of nature itself, I won’t have anything more to do with horses.”

At her raised voice, Petragar took a step back. Vertumus remained frozen, staring at her; he didn’t look to be breathing.

Petragar elbowed his servant.

“As…as you wish, Your Eminence,” Vertumus managed to choke out.

The commander whispered to his assistant, who nodded and then said, “We will, of course, provide you with whatever you need, but…” He bit his lip. “Exactly how many soldiers should we have prepared for the morning?”

“Soldiers?”

“Yes. How many do you think you’ll need to subdue Nyphron and his Galantians? Will fifty be enough? Would you prefer more?”

Now was her turn to be puzzled. “Why in Ferrol’s name would I need soldiers?”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


The Lost One




When I was born, the name Moya had no meaning or significance in the Rhunic, Dherg, or Fhrey languages. It does now. And in all three it means the same thing—brave and beautiful.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The people of Dahl Rhen had gone without drawing water for as long as they could. Once the Fhrey had settled next to the well, no one was willing to go near it except Raithe, and Persephone refused to make him the village water boy. The women decided to go together, hoping there was safety in numbers, and a herd of women would be less likely to spark a problem than a troop of men. Tense husbands and sons watched from doorways as their wives and mothers gathered all the containers they could carry.

Persephone led the expedition since it had been her idea. All told, they had more than twenty women, each laden with poles and gourds. Tressa was notably absent. No one from the lodge had ventured out, and Persephone wondered what they were drinking in there.

The former chieftain’s wife lined everyone up single-file along the outer wall in front of Bergin the Brewer’s row of aging clay jugs. She offered words of encouragement, telling them to be calm and quiet. They were to fill their containers and then head back the way they had come. Delwin, Tope, Cobb, Gelston, and Gifford stood alongside Bergin, watching. Each looked about as relaxed as a turtle without a shell.

“You be careful,” Delwin told Sarah. “And if there’s trouble, you drop that pole and run back to me as fast as you can. You understand?”

Persephone wondered what Delwin, or any of the men, thought could be done if trouble arose. Raithe was the only one capable of standing up to the Fhrey, and even he didn’t stand a chance against so many. Not that there were nine at the well. Each day a few of them left the dahl and went into the forest. No one knew where they went or why, but she took advantage of the daily excursions when planning the “well raid,” timing it for when the fewest Fhrey would be present.

Brin had been one of the first to volunteer to haul water, but her parents had refused.