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

Arion left Thym and Naraspur in Alon Rhist and traveled south alone. For her, loneliness wasn’t a problem. She reminded herself of this twice. The second time she added the adage about how Miralyith were trained to live inside their heads and being with people was the real hardship. The third time she considered how, being alone, she could stop and rest when she liked, walk when she wanted, sleep where she wished. By the fourth time, she wondered why she had to keep reminding herself that she was better off alone. Then she faced the obvious realization that she wasn’t just alone with her thoughts. She wasn’t isolated in her home, away in the Garden, sitting in a quiet room of the palace, or studying at the art academy. Arion was completely alone. There wasn’t another Fhrey for miles and no Miralyith at all on this side of the Nidwalden. Those thoughts were sobering.

Before being appointed as the prince’s tutor, Arion had taught at the Estramnadon Academy of the Art. One of the hardest things to teach, after students learned the basics, was that Miralyith weren’t invincible. Everyone in Erivan treated them with respect, deference, and even fear. Such behavior made it all too easy to believe, as Gryndal did, that they were above others. Such thoughts led to a number of serious and sometimes fatal accidents. Arion knew of one student trying to fly who had nearly died from jumping off the roof of the Airenthenon. Another student, grieving over a lover’s death, had entered the afterlife to save him and never returned.

Being a Miralyith wasn’t the same as being all-powerful. The fall from Naraspur had been a reminder of just how vulnerable she was. If Arion had landed on her neck or slammed her head on a rock, she’d be just as dead as anyone else. A more immediate concern was that she couldn’t create or summon food and water. She had to carry supplies on her back and hope more would be found before her provisions ran out. And while she wasn’t worried about being attacked when awake, she would need to sleep. While unconscious, she couldn’t maintain even the simplest weave. As she often told her students, a Miralyith was like a diamond—harder than anything, but if hit in just the right place, it shattered like glass. And there she was, alone in an unfamiliar wild wilderness, a diamond in the rough.

At least she had her string.

String patterns were taught at the art academy to boost concentration, creativity, and dexterity, as well as to familiarize students with the idea of weaving patterns out of interconnected threads. The Art was all about recognizing and making delicate patterns, and string games were as much an illustration as a tool. Such games were used only briefly, early in a Miralyith’s training. Most gave up their strings as soon as they touched their first deep chord and discovered the addiction of the real thing. Arion still used her string more than two thousand years after learning the technique. Teaching students had reintroduced her to the simple joys of the game, a series of repeating chords representing the circle of life that could be bent, twisted, and looped to create new patterns, new paths.

A particularly elaborate web was forming between her fingers when she noticed a crude wooden fort on a hill, rising ahead of her. She’d passed two others—charred ruins on blackened mounds. This one looked to be the first inhabited encampment. Arion had used Nyphron’s hair to track him. A simple location weave accompanied by burning a strand produced smoke that drifted in the target’s direction. The color gave an indication of distance. Judging by the last reading, Nyphron and, probably, the rest of the Galantians were inside. She might have cast another location check, but the weave she had going was beautiful, and she was having fun with the string. The warrior Fhrey she had met at Alon Rhist didn’t impress her as being overly intelligent, which was reason enough to assume the son of Zephyron was hiding in the most obvious place.

She heard a horn when she was still a quarter mile away, three blasts in quick succession. With a sigh, she unwrapped her fingers and let the string once more return to a simple loop. She slipped it around her neck and began a weave of another sort.

Nyphron and his band of warriors were known to be excellent combatants. One named Eres was deadly with a thrown spear. Another, called Medak, could throw a knife with accuracy for several dozen yards. Neither of these could harm her at such a distance, but Arion was a cautious sort. The weave she made was a simple thing, which required little concentration, the magical equivalent to putting a hand out in front of her. It probably wasn’t necessary; Fhrey didn’t kill Fhrey. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t hurt one another, and Nyphron had battered Petragar easily enough.

She hoped Nyphron wouldn’t make a fuss. She had no desire to harm or embarrass him, especially given the way Lothian had treated Nyphron’s father. In her eyes, the fane had shown poor judgment in making such a spectacle. No one could challenge again until Lothian’s death or the start of the Uli Vermar, which wouldn’t occur for three thousand years. But, of course, the memory would linger. In the future, only another Miralyith would ever challenge, which was the real point of the show.

Arion had weak ties to her parents, but she recognized the Instarya might feel differently. Thym had suggested as much. Nyphron must hate Lothian, which would account for his recent rebellion. He’d likely feel the same way about the fane’s emissaries as well. She would try to be as gentle as possible. He only had a party of six Fhrey, and Vertumus had assured her the Rhunes wouldn’t interfere. More docile than inebriated sheep is how he had described them as she left Alon Rhist. And, of course, their belief that the Fhrey were gods would work in her favor. Despite this, she felt uncomfortable; far too many people were thinking of themselves as gods these days.

—

When the horn blew, Persephone came out of the roundhouse with everyone else.

The sky was blue, the sun bright, and the breeze warm. A perfect spring day for shearing. Delwin and Gelston, who spent all year with the flock, directed the operation and did most of the actual clipping. A number of others had gone to help round up and wrangle the sheep. Raithe had been one. He’d asked Persephone for work, and there was plenty of need. On that day, he’d gotten up before dawn, split wood for the boiling, and went with the other men to fetch the flock.

Wedon, a farmer and occasional leather worker, was the gate’s guard that morning. He shouted down from the wall through cupped hands, “Fhrey!”

“Again?” Moya said, coming out of Roan’s roundhouse to stand beside Persephone, hands on hips. Staring out the open gate, she shook her head.

Wedon was looking down at Persephone, who once again looked to the Galantians. All nine were there, forming up beside the well and donning their weapons. Nyphron was speaking to the goblin in another language that she couldn’t understand; it sounded like he was mostly coughing and spitting. He spoke quickly, earnestly, and wore an expression more serious than she’d yet seen. The little creature nodded and ran off behind the woodpile.

Konniger came out of the lodge along with The Stump and stood on the top of the steps.

“Should we seal the gate or leave it open?” Persephone asked Nyphron.

“How many are coming?”

“Wedon?” Persephone asked.

“Just one.”

Nyphron ran a hand through his hair and looked at his fellows. The expressions on their faces made Persephone nervous. The last time they were all smiles and laughter. This time no one joked; no one laughed; no one smiled.

“Should we seal the gate?” she asked again.

“That depends on how much you like your gate,” Nyphron replied.

Wedon looked to Konniger, who remained on the steps, now flanked by Tressa and Maeve. Konniger, in turn, stared at Persephone, who finally replied with a shrug, “Leave it open, I guess.”

“Why do we even have these walls?” Moya asked.

Roan appeared on the other side of Persephone, shifting to one side to allow Gifford a better view. The potter still wore his leather apron, which was soaked and smeared with clay. No one said anything. No one moved, and at nearly midday Dahl Rhen came to a stop. The only sounds were distant birdsong and flapping banners on the lodge.

Out of that silence, a figure appeared, framed in the open gate. Dressed in flowing robes of white, which billowed in the breeze as if made of gossamer, she appeared ghostly. Tall, thin, and more delicate than one of Gifford’s best vases, she didn’t seem of the same world as everyone else. Too elegant, too perfect with eyes of bright blue and pale, thin lips.

She made no sound.