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

“I don’t even know what Miralyith means.”

“It means she’s too powerful and dangerous to live.”

Sebek looked at Malcolm. “You do it. Kill her. You don’t attack a Miralyith without finishing the job. Leaving her injured is suicide for you, us, and pretty much everyone.”

“Don’t lay this at our feet. If you want her dead, go ahead and kill her yourselves,” Raithe said. “We can’t stop you.”

“We can’t. Fhrey can’t kill another—” Nyphron looked irritated. “Where’s Grygor?”

“No! Don’t hurt her!” Persephone cried, rushing forward. She held her skirt above her ankles and muscled her way into the ring surrounding the fallen Fhrey.

“Grygor, get over here,” Nyphron called, and the giant lumbered toward them, pausing to pick up his sword. “I need you to kill this bitch.”

“Don’t let them hurt her!” she shouted at Raithe.

Raithe wondered when, and how, he had become the arbiter of all things. He hadn’t even been the one to use the rock. “Why?”

“Protect the injured,” she said, looking deep into his eyes as if this was a magic spell she was casting. “Protect the injured, remember?”

He didn’t. Not at first but then it hit him, and he understood what had lit a fire under her. “You are kidding.”

Persephone stood before the giant, holding up a palm to stop him. Then she faced the Galantian leader. “If you want to stay with us—and since you can’t go back to Alon Rhist, this might be the only place you are welcome—I forbid you to harm her.”

“You, you, what?” Nyphron asked. The Fhrey blinked repeatedly, as if trying to get a clear view of her. For the first time, Nyphron appeared genuinely and unequivocally dumbfounded.

“Persephone!” an enraged Konniger shouted from the doorway of the lodge, a fortress of wood he’d retreated to. “Stay out of it. This isn’t our affair.”

“It is! This lady cannot be harmed. Raithe, help me,” Persephone pleaded. “Don’t let Nyphron kill her.”

“Nyphron can’t kill her,” Malcolm said, his voice a refuge of calm assurance. “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey.”

“That’s why you have to do it,” Nyphron told Raithe. “Or let Grygor.”

Raithe had no intention of killing anyone. He had nothing against the lady, and she was pretty, which made the idea even more distasteful. It was always more difficult to snap a rabbit’s neck than crush a spider. He found himself agreeing with Konniger. This was none of their business. Around them, the inhabitants of the dahl inched closer, closing a hesitant circle. Children were pushed back or held close as parents watched with worried eyes.

Persephone pressed on, ignoring everyone. She bent down and touched the face of the Fhrey. “Delwin, Cobb, Wedon, take her into the lodge. Gently. Carry her upstairs and put her in the bed in the loft.”

“Are you insane?” Nyphron asked. “You don’t understand. She’s Miralyith. If she wakes up…” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “She’ll—she’ll erase Rhulyn from existence, and all of you along with it.”

“I don’t care.” Persephone tilted the delicate, bald head and grimaced at the blood leaking into the dirt. “It’s what the tree said to do.”

“The what? Did you say the tree?” Nyphron asked.

“She’s right.” Malcolm was nodding.

Nyphron focused on the ex-slave even as Delwin and Cobb crept in, moving like cats terrified of the Galantians and not terribly thrilled with the Miralyith.

“Go on, pick her up—gently,” Persephone instructed. “Be very careful. She’s bleeding badly. We need to stop it or she’ll die.”

“Good, let her die!” Nyphron declared.

His outburst caused the men lifting the Miralyith to flinch, but Nyphron wasn’t looking at them; he hadn’t taken his eyes off Malcolm. “You’ll be the first one she’ll come after, you know? You and your rock.”

The path to the lodge was blocked by the giant. “What do you say, boss?” Grygor asked. The giant was still holding his sword. Not that he would need a blade to kill the delicate Miralyith.

“I mean what I said,” Persephone told Nyphron sternly. “Leave her be, or you won’t be welcome here anymore.”

Nyphron broke eye contact with Malcolm. “Never mind. Forget it. You heard the woman. We don’t want to jeopardize our welcome.”

“You sure?” Grygor asked.

Nyphron shot the giant a look.

“Just asking.”

“Stryker! You lousy goblin,” Nyphron shouted at the creature still near the fallen woodpile. “Get over here. We need to talk.”

The giant turned sideways, letting the men carry the Miralyith past him toward the lodge.

“Dammit, I said no!” Konniger shouted. “You aren’t bringing her in my house.”

As the lady Fhrey was borne up the steps, Hegner and Devon joined Konniger’s side, spears at the ready. The three stood, blocking the entrance, a wall of muscle and stone-tipped sticks.

Raithe caught Persephone by the arm. “Does it have to be in there?”

“It’s the best place, the most comfortable, and it will be quiet and safe.”

Raithe nodded, then looked at the chieftain. “Move out of the way.”

“This is no concern of yours, Dureyan,” Konniger growled.

“Your maimed friend and I have unfinished business. I’ll be happy to include you in the fun if you like.” He drew Shegon’s sword. “So we can settle everything now, or you can get out of the way.”

Konniger didn’t move, but he also didn’t attack. The man appeared just as trapped in his position as he was in that doorway. Instead, he repeated himself, speaking louder. “This is no concern of yours!”

“Well, it certainly is my concern,” Nyphron said as he and the other Galantians came up. This included the goblin, who had escaped the woodpile and was wiping blood from its hooked nose. “If we aren’t going to kill her”—Nyphron shook his head in disgust—“then she’s going to have the best bed possible. Maybe that will make a difference when she wakes up. I doubt it, but we can hope.”

Konniger was still frozen. Only his eyes moved as they darted between Raithe and Nyphron.

“Grygor, give him some help, he looks stuck,” Nyphron said.

The giant took a step forward, traversing half the lodge’s steps in one stride. That was all it took to make Konniger move. “C’mon.” The chieftain grabbed Tressa’s wrist, abandoning both the porch and the lodge while Hegner and Devon followed close behind.

“You just better hope she dies,” Nyphron told them. “You’re putting a dragon to bed in there, and when she wakes up—Ferrol help us.”

Tekchin sighed. “I wouldn’t count on it. Ferrol will be on her side.”

—

By the time they laid Arion on Persephone’s old bed, the bald Fhrey had a purple bruise covering the back of her head and a bump roughly the size and shape of a small apple.

“Open the window and light the lamp,” Persephone ordered. “Wedon, run get Padera and Roan. Oh, and Suri the mystic, too.”

Cobb opened the window without saying a word, and Delwin lit the lamp without question. People were used to following Persephone’s orders. They’d been doing it for twenty years, and when gods fought within the dahl’s walls—for surely this bald Fhrey was a god—doing what felt normal was the next best thing to feeling safe. Persephone didn’t pause to question if she should be taking control. Things needed to be done, and the stakes were too high to leave matters to a novice chieftain.

“He bashed her good,” Padera said with a whistle when she arrived. The old woman tilted the Miralyith’s head to one side. A small cut near the crown bled more than Persephone would have thought possible. Bright splashes of red were on the floor, and the sheets and pillow were starting to soak. “Need bandages.”

“Suri, there’s a sheet in that chest,” Persephone told the mystic. “At least there used to be. Go ahead and tear it into pieces.”

“Strips,” Padera corrected. “Long strips. Need water, too.” The old woman peered at the wound with her squinting eyes. Persephone grabbed the lamp and held it up.