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

She laughed. “You won’t live to see the Uli Vermar. You’re older than Lothian.”

“But that doesn’t mean a challenge won’t occur sooner. Alon Rhist was older than Ghika.”

“Yes, but Ghika was killed in the war.”

“As was Alon, and after only five years.” He feigned an innocent look.

Imaly narrowed her eyes. “We’re at peace, Gryndal. What’s more, there’s no nation capable of threatening us, so the…” Imaly paused, staring at him. “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey, Gryndal. Only the fane has such power. Remember that.”

“Are you sure?” He inched in closer still until he could feel his breath bounce back, and he whispered, “There’s nothing that prevents it.”

“The Law of Ferrol will eject you from Fhrey society and the afterlife will be closed to you. Would you sacrifice eternity for the chance to be fane for just a few years?”

“I have a theory about that.” He put his cheek to hers and spoke into her ear. “The Umalyn tell me the only requirement for blowing the Horn of Gylindora is that the challenger must be of Fhrey blood. Nothing else. Ferrol wasn’t a stickler for piety or virtues. You could be a murderer, but as long as a single drop of Fhrey blood runs in your veins, the horn will sound for you. Then, if successful in the challenge, well, how could the fane of the Fhrey be excluded from the society he rules? And how could Ferrol’s chosen be denied absolution?”

Gryndal grinned as Imaly pulled back, her friendly smile gone at last. He enjoyed rocking her; he so rarely managed it. Now that Jerydd was permanently seated as the kel of Avempartha and Fenelyus was gone, Imaly was his only worthy adversary, and she wasn’t even a Miralyith. As a descendant of Gylindora Fane, leader of the Nilyndd tribe, and Curator of the Aquila, Imaly remained the only obstacle, other than Lothian, who stood in his way.

“That’s a lot to risk on a theory,” she said, her tone losing the playful lilt. “And a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest I was going to kill Lothian. You’re right; that would be too much to risk on a theory. But someone else might. Should that happen, if Lothian were to die prematurely, I’ll seek to blow the challenge horn again. And…” He let his smile fade. “I highly suggest you don’t stand in my way a second time.”

—

Gryndal waited until Imaly had disappeared around the Fountain of Alon before he passed through the bronze gate and entered the Garden. A few others strolled the pathways, but this was a place of reflection and meditation so it remained quiet—a world apart. Gryndal had spent days in there, practicing concentration and widening his inner eye. He learned to connect to the world with deeper, more powerful chords. He also spent a good deal of his time staring at the Door.

The entrance was so unassuming, so austere. It could have been a door to any ordinary house, but instead it provided the only entrance to The First Tree. No artistry adorned the threshold, no hinges or lock, not a sign or a clue. Plain and rectangular, the wooden Door didn’t sport a knob—just a rather crude latch. In all the centuries of daily pilgrimages, Gryndal had never been able to determine a way to open it. He’d knocked once as a boy; it was a rite of passage. The Umalyn frowned on the tradition, considered it disrespectful to their god, but even they tried to find a way in.

Trilos, the only person more obsessed with the Door than the priests, was once again on the stone bench, staring at the Door. Leaning forward with elbows on knees, his long hair hid his face, a good thing. Trilos wasn’t the most handsome Fhrey.

“I’m going to be leaving in the morning,” Gryndal said.

“I know,” Trilos replied without looking over.

Long ago Gryndal had given up wondering how Trilos knew things, just as he’d learned to look past the unkempt appearance and utterly cavalier attitude. Most Fhrey trembled at Gryndal’s passing, and other Miralyith bowed out of respect. Even Imaly and Lothian became nervous with nothing more than a long stare from Gryndal. But Trilos remained oblivious.

Gryndal often inquired into Trilos’s past and his nature, but the unkempt Fhrey maintained his annoying habit of ignoring questions he didn’t want to answer. Trilos appeared to know more about the Art than anyone—even more than Gryndal’s old instructor, Jerydd, who had been taught by Fenelyus herself. To Gryndal’s great amazement, Trilos made claims about teaching Fenelyus. If true, there could be only one explanation. Trilos had to be the avatar of the Art, the singular manifestation of power, self-created and self-aware, that had taken corporeal form to educate the Fhrey. If that wasn’t the case, it didn’t matter; Trilos was always worth speaking to.

Who or what else could Trilos be?

“Any advice before I leave?” Gryndal asked.

“No.”

“No? You’ve been giving me advice for years.”

“Not this time.”

Gryndal sat beside the rumpled pile of cloth and mangy hair, who was his imaginary friend with a Door obsession. “Why?”

“Those are the rules.”

“Rules? There are rules? Since when are there rules? Whose rules? Rules for what?”

“My game, my rules,” Trilos said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not.”

“You aren’t making any sense,” Gryndal replied.

“Neither does that Door,” Trilos said. “Impossible to open, and yet it was.”

Gryndal sighed. “So you’ve said, many times. I just don’t believe you.”

“Because if you can’t do it, no one else could have?” Trilos laughed. “I must admit I love your arrogance. I picked well. Still, I’m positive Fenelyus went inside.”

“How’d she open it, then? Oh, right, she didn’t, did she? You insist she had help, even though Fenelyus was the most powerful person in her day.”

“What makes you think she was the most powerful?” Trilos asked.

“Everyone knows that.”

Trilos looked at him oddly. “What an absurd statement. Are you drunk?”

“What’s absurd about it? Ever hear of common knowledge?”

Trilos grinned.

Gryndal disliked Trilos’s smile. There was something disturbing in that expression on that face.

“What exactly do you suppose is common about me? And why would you rely on random, unverified conclusions of ordinary people who presume absurd notions like The sun will rise each day merely because in their existence it always has? By that same logic, they should live forever. And I can assure you they won’t. You disappoint me, Gryndal.”

“Fine. So who opened the Door?”

“Was hoping you’d find that answer for me,” Trilos stated.

“I told you. I’m leaving to go to Rhulyn in the morning. I can’t—”

“That’s exactly what I need you to do. You’re going to put down the Instarya rebellion. I need you to crush the revolt.”

“You’re in luck then.”

“Luck is only a word. If you act according to your nature, which you can’t avoid, that will trigger it.”

“Trigger what?”

Trilos shifted to face him better. “Do you know what started the Belgric War?”

“Greed on the part of King Mideon.”

“Yes, but more precisely, Mideon was convinced that inside”—Trilos pointed at the Door—“was The First Tree, and that eating its fruit would bestow eternal life. Because Fane Ghika refused to grant the Dherg king access—something she couldn’t do because she couldn’t open the Door any more than you or I—the Children of Drome attacked the Children of Ferrol. That was partially my fault. You see, I was the one who told Mideon about the tree.”

Gryndal narrowed his eyes. “No offense intended, Trilos, but while you’re not a beauty, you don’t look anywhere near that old.”

“Appearances are usually deceiving.”

“And you expect me to believe that you started the Belgric War with a lie? A war that—”

“What makes you think it was a lie?”

Gryndal glanced at the Door. “Because no one knows what’s really in there. Or are you going to claim common knowledge?”

Trilos scowled.