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

It’s as if she floats, Persephone thought.

The lady in white entered the gate. Drawing back her hood, she revealed a bald head. She walked until reaching the center of the dahl, then stopped—just a few feet from Nyphron and Persephone.

Behind the lady Fhrey, Delwin, Malcolm, Raithe, and a few other men entered, each of them out of breath. Delwin still held his shears and Raithe the prod stick. The bald Fhrey didn’t turn her head or look around; she remained focused on Nyphron.

“You are Nyphron, son of Zephyron, of the Instarya?” the bald woman asked in the Fhrey language.

“Yes,” Nyphron replied. He stood where he was, stiff and still, his hands hanging at his sides.

“I’m Arion of the Miralyith. I have been sent by Fane Lothian to request your return to Estramnadon.”

“Request? In that case, I’ll decline the offer.”

The lady took a step closer. “Your fane insists.”

“I no longer recognize Lothian as my fane. So I see no reason to care if he insists or not.”

Persephone didn’t understand why the lady in white was such a problem. There were seven strong Fhrey warriors, a giant, and the creepy goblin thing, presently hiding behind the woodpile, arrayed against her. And yet the Galantians’ apprehension was palpable.

“Please don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” The lady Fhrey took a breath and another step forward. “I was at the arena and saw what happened to your father. I’d like to spare you any more humiliation and pain.”

“And how do you propose to do that? If I appear before Lothian, do you think he will treat me any different? I won’t go back with you.”

The Galantians gathered around Nyphron with hands on weapons.

Arion granted them a cursory glance. “I have no instructions concerning the rest of you. Don’t involve yourself, or you’ll share Nyphron’s fate.”

“We’re Galantians,” Sebek said. “And Instarya. Sharing fate is what we do.”

“Touch him and you’re going to have to fight all of us,” Tekchin declared.

Arion didn’t appear concerned. If anything, she looked sad. “I’m trying to be kind. We both know what’s going to happen. Wouldn’t you prefer to follow me out of here with dignity? You can explain yourself to the fane. Tell him you were distraught from witnessing the death of your father. He’s not without compassion.”

“No? I thought you said you saw what happened in the arena?” Nyphron replied with a growl in his voice. “Were those acts of compassion? Had the situation been reversed, my father would have made Lothian’s death quick, painless, and honorable. Don’t stand there and tell me to throw myself on a tyrant’s mercy. All of you Miralyith are the same. Since Fenelyus became fane, you’ve lorded over the rest of us, set yourselves up as gods. The war with the Dherg ended centuries ago, but the Instarya are still condemned to serve in the wilderness while you, all of you, bask in the security we provide. Why is that? What are we doing out here? Why only Instarya and a handful of Asendwayr? Why don’t the great Miralyith send a few to serve? Why are there no Eilywin? During the war, when Alon Rhist was fane, other tribes were out here with us, wielding hammers and shovels. They built the Rhist, but not one of them remains. Where are the Nilyndd? Ferrol knows we could use them. And the Umalyn—”

“I came here with Thym of the Umalyn,” she said.

Nyphron rolled his eyes. “Yes, once a year, two or three of the most unfortunate Umalyn priests condescend to visit and find fault. What a great help they are. We have been forced to live and die out here, denied the rights of every other Fhrey to cross the Nidwalden and go home. We aren’t good enough to be a part of Erivan, we are only fit to suffer defending it. Protecting a fane who treats us without respect. No, I won’t willingly return with you, not while I have breath in my body. Lothian is your fane, not mine. I no longer serve him, for he no longer values me.”

Arion sighed. “I’m sorry, but you are Fhrey, and you are coming with me. I just want you to know that I’ll take no pleasure in this.”

The lady Fhrey gestured with her hand, and Nyphron’s wrists came together in front of him as if they’d been bound. Then, she twitched her finger, and he jerked forward. At the same time, Persephone heard an odd sound. Someone was singing. Less a song than a chant, and all the words were in another language.

Arion staggered then, shoved back several steps as if blown by a powerful wind. She nearly stumbled into Malcolm. Nyphron stopped walking forward.

“Now!” Nyphron shouted in Rhunic. “Do it now!”

Persephone heard a loud roar and watched in amazement as Arion caught fire. In an instant, her whole body was engulfed in a pillar of flame that swirled and coursed up twenty feet into the sky. Those close cried out, backing away.

The Galantians drew weapons and ran at the blistering column of fire. One threw a javelin, another a knife. Then everything stopped.

The javelin and knife froze in midair and fell. A moment later seven of the nine Galantians slammed into an invisible wall. Three hit so hard they bounced and collapsed, dazed. The giant staggered and reeled, blood running from his nose. The woodpile was swept aside, revealing the yellow-eyed goblin chanting and dancing until he, too, stopped. With a wave of Arion’s hand, the goblin froze and the fire surrounding her vanished. She was still dressed in pristine white; not so much as a thread of her wondrously white robe had been singed.

“Sit down, all of you!” Arion ordered. The Fhrey, as well as the creature near the woodpile and the giant, were thrown to the dirt. “I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”

The remainder of their weapons flew from their hands and scabbards, clattering into a pile near Arion’s feet. “This is why you’re treated poorly. You dare to attack your fellow Fhrey?” She pointed at the goblin. “You’ve enlisted practitioners of the Dark Art! You’ve become wild and are too dangerous to be allowed back into society. Association with the Rhunes has distorted your ideals of loyalty and honor. What virtue is there in living like an animal? What honor is there in rebellion? You’ve become feral—no, worse—you’ve become rabid! It isn’t for you to decide whom you serve or the wisdom of the fane’s actions. Lothian is fane because Ferrol has decreed it. Your father died because our god knows who will make a better fane. When you disobey Lothian, you’re defying Ferrol’s will. Who do you think you are to—”

Arion crumpled, sprawling face-first on the gravel where she lay awkwardly twisted, her cheek pressed against the little rocks of the path. She didn’t move. Her robes billowed up briefly with a breeze then settled as lightly as dandelion tufts. Everyone stared in shock at the pool of white robes and the bright-red blood that began to stain them.

Behind her, holding a rock in both hands, stood Malcolm.

—

“We really need to talk about this habit of yours,” Raithe told Malcolm as he stared down at the pile of cloth and the frail Fhrey at his feet. “This wasn’t our fight.”

“Shegon wasn’t my fight, either, but you didn’t seem too upset then.” The ex-slave continued to stare at the bleeding Fhrey with a look of sadness so pronounced that Raithe wondered if the man would vomit. As he thought about it, Raithe realized Malcolm had looked the same way after hitting Shegon.

The Galantians rushed forward. Nyphron stopped, looking down at her. “She’s breathing.” Then to Raithe and Malcolm he said, “She’s still alive. You need to finish her.”

“What?” Raithe asked, stunned.

“You’re the God Killer.” Nyphron looked squarely at him. “You have two swords. Use one of them and kill her.”

“She’s defenseless,” Raithe said, hoping Malcolm didn’t say anything. This was not the time to be admitting past transgressions.

“I know.” Nyphron took a tentative step closer, a step wide of her pretty white robes. “Which means it’ll be easy.”

“I don’t kill women or children.”

“That’s not a woman. That’s a Miralyith.”