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

“Cobb, get water,” Persephone told the man, who looked happy to have an excuse to leave.

“Gonna need your needle and thread, Roan.” Padera held her hand out to the woman expectantly, while Roan dug into the purse on her belt. As she did, Padera eyed the injured Fhrey. “You sure you want me to fix her, Seph? I’ll do my best if you say so, but”—she turned and looked into Persephone’s eyes—“in my experience, when you find a mountain lion caught in your rabbit snare, it’s best to accept good fortune and spear the thing rather than let it loose. Might be better off putting a pillow over her face.”

The Fhrey lady was so small, her skin so pale against the brilliant explosion of red.

Protect the injured.

“We have to save her,” Persephone insisted.

The old woman nodded. Getting the tools from Roan, she went to work.

It didn’t take long for Padera to sew and bandage the Fhrey. Roan stood beside her, passing threaded needles, wet cloths, and the bandages Suri had prepared. Now that things were beginning to settle, Persephone had time to think, and doubt. She felt sick.

Maybe I’m wrong. What if it’s all just a coincidence? What if the tree meant something else, or if Suri can’t hear trees at all and is simply delusional? Am I killing all of us? Grand Mother of All! I challenged the leader of the Galantians and threatened to throw him out of the dahl! And I defied Konniger…again. If he didn’t have a reason to side against me before, he does now.

Everyone was against the idea. Nyphron, Konniger, even Padera had questioned the wisdom of healing the Fhrey woman. Although merely a poor farmer’s widow, who likely hadn’t traveled more than ten miles from the dahl, the old woman knew everything. Maybe not everything, but certainly everything worth knowing. Padera understood how best to lay out a garden and knew what to do when a little girl like Persephone ate a handful of poisonous berries. In all her long years, there wasn’t anything the old woman hadn’t seen. If the world operated logically, Padera would have been made chieftain years ago. So if the old woman felt it was best to let the Fhrey—

“Heal the injured,” Suri said, and punctuated the words by ripping another sheet.

“What?” Persephone asked.

Suri tore the sheet again. “Magda’s instruction. You said it wrong outside. It wasn’t protect the injured. She said to heal the injured.”

“Did I say it wrong?” Persephone couldn’t remember. Does it even matter?

Persephone stared at the Fhrey woman, so slight and fragile. She didn’t look like a monster. If Magda was to be believed, this woman’s fate was tied to that of Persephone’s people. Her path was clear. Heal the injured.

Persephone turned to Padera. “This woman must live. Will she?”

The old woman nodded. “Whether to praise or curse, she’ll live. Question is, will we survive her waking?”





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


The Boulder




We once thought that Alon Rhist comprised the entire Fhrey world. We’d never heard of the Nidwalden River and what lay beyond. If we had, we wouldn’t have believed. At that time, we couldn’t. How can a fish understand the aerie of an eagle?

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The forum of the Aquila was packed, every council member in attendance. The frescoes of Gylindora Fane and Caratacus stared down from the ancient dome of the Airenthenon as the great room filled to capacity with spectators. The counselors were uniformly dressed in their finest asicas; even Gryndal had suspended his love of shiny yellow and wore the purple-and-white counselor robes. Under the dome, only the fane wore gold.

The Airenthenon was one of the oldest buildings in Estramnadon, held aloft by a ring of giant columns. Its age was painfully obvious to Gryndal as he sat on one of the torturously hard stone benches on which all except the fane were forced to perch. Efforts to introduce any change or a bit of luxury into the Aquila’s council chambers had always been struck down. Serving on the Erivan high council was believed to be a sacred privilege, not a reward. Gryndal planned to erase the building along with its miserable benches. No sense leaving old symbols lying about. He’d replace it with a park.

“I wish to offer my congratulations on this, your first day in the Aquila as fane.” Curator Imaly was on her feet, addressing Lothian. Apparently, she found the stone benches just as unpleasant.

The fane sat on pillowed cushions, but his smile faded all the same. Imaly had that effect on people.

“I do hope you’ll be making the plight of the Instarya one of your top priorities,” she went on. “How go your plans in that regard?”

This was the first official meeting of the Aquila, the high council of Erivan, since Lothian’s victory. Its intended purpose was to be an uneventful opportunity for handshakes and back-slapping, a social gathering with no agenda, debates, or demands. Yet that didn’t stop Imaly from straying from the program. She’d always been an irritant, but since her election to Curator she’d graduated to a genuine problem, one of the many Gryndal had marked for disappearance after he replaced Lothian.

“Well enough,” the fane replied from his chair in the center of the chamber.

“Well enough?” Imaly asked, standing obnoxiously straight and appearing five times more regal than Lothian.

“Proper planning takes time and consideration. Nothing happens overnight. If that’s what you’re thinking, you will be disappointed.”

“Actually, that’s not at all what I’m thinking.”

Gryndal didn’t know how she did it, but at that point Imaly managed to stand even straighter. Being a direct descendant of the Fhrey’s first ruler, Gylindora Fane, Imaly possessed an unerring stately demeanor, which, thankfully, wasn’t complemented by beauty. The Curator was large for a female, endowed with brutish shoulders, thick fingers, gathering jowls, and a square jaw. Her voice was equally harsh but also loud, clear, and commanding—the exact opposite of the fane’s. Although she was nothing to look at and certainly had no future in any choir, she possessed one of the shrewdest minds in the council, making Gryndal pay attention whenever she spoke.

“I was thinking,” Imaly said, “that you have no plans at all, nor will you be setting the matter as a priority at any time in the near future. Like those who have come before you, you’re content to maintain the status quo.”

“This is the first day of the new council, Imaly. I’m here to learn names, not set policy.”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Forgive me. Would you like to begin by learning the name of the Instarya senior council? I know I would.” She went through the drama of looking around. “Where is the Instarya senior council? Oh, that’s right, we don’t have one. Their seat was replaced by the Miralyith some two thousand years ago, wasn’t it? Makes it easier to ignore them that way.”

Lothian glanced at Gryndal, who said nothing and wouldn’t speak up. Imaly knew that, too. Everyone in the Aquila knew it. The council had Gryndal on a chain—for now. Plans were in motion to break those links. In the meantime, he was making lists.

“As I said,” Lothian resumed, raising his voice and adding a hint of displeasure, “today I’m not here to set policy.”