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

“No, of course not. Why would you? There’s certainly no rush. The Dherg menace was vanquished, what, a thousand years ago? What difference will another thousand years make? Still, I have to wonder…Why are the Instarya still out there? And why only them? Is it so the rest of us will forget they even exist? Or is the warrior tribe no longer wanted? After all, if they returned, where would we put them? With no more wars or battles to fight, would they be content to lay down their swords and pick up hammers or lutes? Do you expect them to enter the priesthood? Awkward, uncomfortable issues are often pushed to the back of the line, dropped in some dirty basket and shelved indefinitely. Given enough time, such things begin to stink.”

She raised a finger to her chin, thoughtfully. “Which brings me to my next question. What of Zephyron’s son? I have reports from Alon Rhist that Nyphron and a handful of followers are in open revolt. Is this what you mean by well enough?”

“It is going well enough to suit your fane,” Lothian said, leaning forward in his chair. “Or are you suggesting that isn’t well enough for you?”

Imaly hesitated.

The pause was so long that even Gryndal sat up to watch. Imaly was too smart not to back down. The fane had raised the stakes beyond her means, and she was just making a good show to save face. She continued to wait, impressing Gryndal with her fortitude. Someone coughed. Sandals scraped on the stone and parchments shuffled.

“Of course not,” Imaly replied at length. “As I said, I merely wished to offer my congratulations.” She made a modest bow and sat down.

If not for the Law of Ferrol, Gryndal would have reduced Imaly to a black spot ages ago, yet he couldn’t deny that at least on this day she’d unwittingly helped him. The fane would be seething over this embarrassment when Gryndal broke the news of Arion’s capture.

—

The other counselors kept their distance as Fane Lothian and First Minister Gryndal descended the broad steps of the Airenthenon to Florella Plaza. Imaly had shaken the beehive, and no one wanted to get stung. Gryndal alone played the role of beekeeper.

“I thought you handled yourself well in there,” Gryndal said. “Imaly can be—”

“You’d best have good news from the frontier,” Lothian told him, lifting the hem of his asica as he descended the steps.

“I’m afraid not,” Gryndal replied. He made no effort to cushion the news with his tone. Imaly had set the spark to kindling; now he would gently blow on the embers. “Things have worsened.”

“Worsened? How could they be worse? The council already fears Alon Rhist is on the verge of revolution.”

“Arion has been taken captive.”

“What? By whom?” Lothian stopped on the bottom step to glare at him. Several of the council members slowed their retreat, looking over their shoulders.

“Nyphron and his Rhunes.”

“His Rhunes? What do you mean his Rhunes?”

Lothian had a wonderful tic that twitched the right side of his upper lip whenever he was irritated. As puppets went, Gryndal couldn’t have asked for a more accommodating one. But Gryndal wasn’t interested in a puppet.

“It would appear Nyphron is in open revolt and has set himself up as a protector of the barbarians. He and his Galantians have taken refuge in a Rhune dahl. When Arion arrived to extradite Nyphron, she was captured.”

“Captured?” The fane stared at him incredulously. “How can they capture her? She’s Miralyith!”

Gryndal suppressed a smile that threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth. His efforts resulted in a grimace, which Lothian appeared to interpret as disgust for the crime. “But, she’s not the fane.”

The march of withdrawing counselors came to a complete stop as everyone within hearing paused to listen. Gryndal began walking again, urging the fane away from the steps and farther into the plaza. He wasn’t concerned about them overhearing. Listening to the conversation might even be good, but eventually he’d lead the fane to the heart of the matter, and he’d rather be alone for that.

Lothian followed as expected. He always did.

“Arion was at a disadvantage, because Nyphron has forsaken the laws of his ancestors and embraced the wickedness of the barbarians.”

As part of the ceremonial opening of the first council meeting under the new fane, the plaza was filled with celebrating craftspeople and entertainers. A thin crowd ebbed and flowed around artisan stands while dancers followed musicians; storytellers gathered flocks with promises of thrills and adventure.

All of them so easily amused by silly things, like children, Gryndal thought. No, not children. He’d thought of other Fhrey that way when he’d graduated from the Estramnadon Academy of the Art, but they’d dropped lower in his estimation since then. Now it was his fellow Miralyith who were the children, Lothian being a prime example. The rest were industrious little beavers that were busily building their dams and scurrying in the sun.

“What did they do to her?” the fane asked.

“Bludgeoned her in the head with a rock.”

Lothian halted again, his eyes wide in astonishment. “No! Are you serious?”

“I saw it myself this morning,” Gryndal explained. “A Rhune crept up when she wasn’t looking. Got in behind her shield.”

“Saw it?” Lothian stared at him, baffled. “That’s clairvoyance. You can do that?”

Gryndal began walking again, forcing the fane into a trot to catch up. “I certainly didn’t just return from a trip west.”

“Your abilities never fail to amaze me, Gryndal. I’m grateful you’re on my side.”

Gryndal allowed himself a smile this time. Lothian was blind in more ways than simply magical sight.

“So what happened? Is she all right? Will she live?”

“My observation of her progress revealed that Arion entered a Rhune village and spoke to Nyphron. The conversation didn’t look to have gone well, since she had used the Art to subdue him and his Galantians. Then, a Rhune bashed her over the head with a rock. I saw a great deal of blood where she lay in the dirt.”

“Blood? Lay in the dirt?” Lothian’s face hardened. “She is the teacher of my son. Handpicked and beloved by my mother!”

Gryndal struggled to keep from smiling—Lothian had never liked Arion. The fane had expressed jealousy on several occasions before his ascension. He worried that Fenelyus cared more for Arion than for her own son. And the tutor’s self-righteous, reproving attitude was too much like his mother’s. At times like these, Gryndal wished for a peer, for someone he could talk to and share such luscious moments. If only Imaly weren’t the enemy. Perhaps he would tell Trilos, though he might not fully comprehend the sublime humor and beauty of the moment. Trilos cared only about the Door.

Noticing that Lothian was slowing down, both physically and mentally as emotions drained him, Gryndal blew across the hot coals. “If Fane Fenelyus were alive…”

“Oh! My mother would have incinerated the entire frontier. How dare they touch her beloved Arion! Everyone remembers my mother as this sage, peaceful leader, but—do you remember how she was in the war?”

“Better than you, I suspect. You were only what…?” Gryndal made a twirling motion with a finger, trying to recall the exact age. Several passersby cringed at the action and quickly moved away.

“I was young, but I remember,” the fane said. “I recall there was once a plain where a mountain now stands. She could be so cruel. She did it on purpose, you know.”

“It was war.”

“There is war, and then there’s what she did to the Dherg. She could have burned them or rained down hailstones, but no, neither would have been ample punishment. They have such an affinity for the land, and she knew it would crush their spirits as well as their bodies to have rock and stone rise against them. Everyone speaks of her empathy and how she allowed the Dherg to live. But I was there at the battle when she met the Dherg army on the Plains of Mador. She had only recently received the Art, and none of us knew what she was capable of. The vile moles with their iron blades and armor had crushed every force we’d sent against them. I’m not proud to say I was scared. My mother might have been, too, since the Dherg had killed the last two fanes before her. In the end, I was more frightened of her than I had been of them. More than a hundred thousand were crushed and buried beneath a snowcapped monument to her power and ruthlessness.”

“And you are your mother’s son.” They finished their walk across the plaza and arrived at the palace, where the gate was promptly opened.

They were inside the grounds now, away from uninvited ears, and it was time to add fuel to the fire.