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

“What will you do, my fane?”

“I want this rebellion crushed. And I want those responsible made an example.”

“A wise course, but I fear Petragar might not be up to the task.”

“Petragar isn’t up to the task of strapping on his sandals.”

Gryndal nodded. “In hindsight, I think you might have made a mistake sending Arion. She’s too kindhearted for this sort of thing.”

“She only knew my mother in the later years, after she’d softened. I need someone who isn’t afraid to use the necessary force to ensure obedience.” Lothian stopped and turned. “What about you?”

“Me?” Gryndal worked hard to present the perfect marriage between surprise and flattery.

“Yes.” The fane smiled. “You’d be perfect.”

“Sadly, I’m afraid I’d suffer the same fate as Arion if I can’t retaliate against—”

Lothian waved his hand. “I’ll grant you power to act in my stead. You will have absolute authority to do whatever is necessary to bring the traitors to heel. Order must be restored.”

“Does that include executing those Fhrey who are disobedient?” Gryndal wanted to be clear on this point, and the moment he said the word execute, he saw Lothian hesitate. “I’d hate to die bleeding in the dirt like Arion.”

“She’s dead?”

“She had her head crushed with a large rock and collapsed. I can’t imagine she survived, given the amount of blood I saw. And I just don’t want to be—”

Lothian’s face darkened, his mouth flattening into a level line. At that moment, Gryndal could see the family resemblance with Fenelyus. “You are hereby granted the authority to carry out my will. I furthermore extend to you the right to use deadly force if you feel such is necessary to restore order on the frontier. This right will be in effect until your return.”

One down. One more to go.

“I’ll gladly do your will, my fane, but I’m also tutoring your son, and…” Gryndal shook his head. “No. I don’t suppose that would be advisable.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Just that Mawyndul? has lived such a sheltered life, and if…no…never mind. It would be too dangerous.”

“You’re thinking of taking him with you? That’s a wonderful idea. He has been coddled too much, isolated in our corner of civility. He should see the world and learn of its blemishes, discover firsthand the realities of power. My mother took me with her to the Battles of Mador and Cradock’s Keep. I learned more in those two trips than I had in centuries. No, you’re right, Mawyndul? should go.”

“If I’m taking the prince, it might be wise to bring a contingent of soldiers—just in case.”

“Of course. Draw what you need from my personal guard. Just remember, Gryndal, I want this to be over. I don’t care how you do it, but I want it done.”

“You can count on me, my fane. I’ll bring the thunder.”

—

Gryndal left the fane and headed uphill toward the spiritual heart of Fhrey society. The highest point in the city was a fitting place for the Garden; all great things should be raised higher than lesser entities. He believed that with all his heart. It made perfect sense. Problems arose when that axiom was challenged. When the weak tried to yoke the strong and fools attempted to restrain genius, that was when the world suffered. A natural order dictated right from wrong, just as it caused water to run downhill. Gryndal refrained from assigning that design to a god—even Ferrol, whom he had revered for the first thousand years of his life. He’d also idolized his father and the fane, but that, too, had been when he was a child. As he grew older, the distinctions between himself and others had diminished. His father was nothing special, and he couldn’t respect someone lesser than himself. The same was true of the fane. In her last years, Fenelyus had grown feeble, and Lothian wasn’t half the Miralyith his mother had been. Recently, Gryndal noticed even Ferrol’s stature dwindling.

What can a god do that I can’t?

Approaching the bronze gate to the Garden, Gryndal spotted Imaly. Sadly, she spotted him as well.

“Nice evening for a stroll, isn’t it?” she said with a flirtatious tone meant to lull him into a false sense of camaraderie. Even if Imaly had been young, thin, and beautiful, it wouldn’t have worked. Not that failure had ever been a deterrent for her. The brittle-haired Curator of the Aquila had always been a pain, but lately she seemed to relish nettling him.

“You embarrassed the fane this evening,” he said with his own disarming smile.

“Did I?” She looked down at the hem of her asica, scowling and still playing the innocent female. “The streets should be kept cleaner. My wardrobe is getting ruined.”

She clutched three scrolls, records of the meeting. As Curator, she not only presided over the Aquila but was responsible for keeping and preserving what had transpired. Why records were kept, Gryndal didn’t know, sentimentality perhaps.

“Don’t be coy. You know you did, and he didn’t appreciate it.”

Imaly looked up with an amused smile. “Lothian shouldn’t do foolish things. Then he wouldn’t be embarrassed by awkward questions.”

“And, likewise, foolish people shouldn’t ask awkward questions that will make the fane their enemy.” Gryndal stood straighter and slipped his hands into the sleeves of his asica in the fashion of the Umalyn priests. He felt it gave him a more intimidating, pious, not to mention learned, posture.

“I don’t worry about that. We in the Aquila have you as our champion now, don’t we?” She took a step closer. He wondered if she were merely proving she wasn’t afraid or actually trying to intimidate him, a mistake of epic proportions. “You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to us. We council members are a weak and cowardly bunch, ruled by self-preservation. Under stress, we’re likely to forget our oath of office and blurt out the names of those who applied to challenge. Given the outrage Lothian demonstrated when dealing with the Instarya leader, can there be any doubt about his reaction if he learned a fellow Miralyith and trusted adviser sought the throne?” She looked down at the scrolls. “I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Imagine his surprise.”

She leaned in close, stared into his eyes, and whispered, “It was a misstep petitioning as you did. You should have known we’d refuse.”

“Why is that?” Gryndal answered without moving. This was going to be an intimate conversation of whispers. He was tall, taller than average, but so was she, and the two faced off without blinking.

Imaly shrugged with a wary smile. “The rules were designed to give all tribes a chance to rule. Pitting two fellow tribesmen against each other, especially from a tribe that has ruled for so long, would suggest the Miralyith were circumventing the spirit of the law. We could be accused of favoritism, of admitting the future of Erivan will be one of continued Miralyith dominance.”

“Which it will. Nothing can change that. No other tribe can defeat us as long as we retain the secrets of the Art. So why—”

“Appearances are more important than reality. As distasteful as it is, I can’t deny that your tribe shows every sign of retaining control indefinitely. But unless you intend to rule by subjugation, it’s important the people believe they live in a society where anyone can become fane. Religion and tradition remain allies in a system that’s still perceived to be fair. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind seeing a division in the Miralyith and the trouble it would cause. Plus, watching two Artists battle in the arena would be quite entertaining. But as the Curator of the Aquila, I’m dedicated to protecting the Fhrey, even from themselves.”

She explained all this with a friendly smile as if they were best of friends. Maintaining an affable expression, she added, “Besides, we all know what you’d do if you sat on the Forest Throne, and none of us would ever let that happen.”

“Careful, your overconfidence is showing,” he told her. “I’m not done yet.”