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

Mawyndul? chuckled at the thought of a cow telling him to juggle.

Gryndal nodded. “You see what I mean? It makes no sense. The Miralyith simply cannot be compared to lesser forms of life. We command the four winds to do our bidding. Does a Rhune do that?” He paused a moment and then, fixing Mawyndul? with one of his hard stares to indicate he was about to provide the point of a lesson, added, “Does an Instarya, Asendwayr, or Umalyn do that? Come with me, my prince.” Gryndal urged his horse off the road toward the scorched rubble. Turning, he said, “You guards wait here.”

Mawyndul?’s father had sent twenty Fhrey from his personal staff to provide protection. None were Miralyith, which meant his father had sent cows to guard a god. That thought made Mawyndul? smile as he looked at Hyvin. The captain of the guard smiled back, mistaking Mawyndul?’s expression as approval, appreciation, or perhaps even friendship. In truth, he was imagining Hyvin as a cow with drooping udders.

Mawyndul? followed Gryndal, the two trotting until they were amid the burnt ruins, which smelled unpleasantly of smoke.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Gryndal asked in a serious tone.

Mawyndul? nodded despite his uncertainty. He thought Gryndal was saying that Miralyith were better than everyone else, something he already knew. But he also suspected he was missing a larger point that his new tutor was making. Mawyndul? often felt that way. What he couldn’t determine was whether he was ignorant or if people pretended they were smarter just to make him feel stupid. Arion often made him feel inadequate. Juggling rocks and playing with strings were things she claimed had benefits he couldn’t yet understand.

Was this her way of pointing out I’m dumb?

But it could be that these things had no greater point, and she was just making a fool out of the fane’s son. Arion probably had gone home each night and laughed with friends, telling them what idiocies she’d forced the prince to do. When Gryndal had explained that Arion might be dead, Mawyndul? hadn’t felt the least bit sad.

“See, I knew you would understand what I’m talking about,” Gryndal said. “You’re smarter than your father. You can see what he can’t. The fane is hopelessly mired in a fraudulent past. He can’t possibly envision a future different from what he’s used to because he lacks imagination. Do you know the single most important attribute for greatness in the Art?”

Mawyndul? shook his head even though he remembered Arion saying it was control. Something told him Gryndal was looking for a different answer.

“Imagination,” Gryndal said. “The ability to think creatively. We call it the Art for that exact reason. Imagination is power. And I can see great power in you, Mawyndul?. Great power. You won’t be limited by traditions and foolish laws invented thousands of years ago by Fhrey who couldn’t conceive of the power we wield today. Do you think Gylindora Fane would have agreed to the restrictions she placed on herself and all subsequent Fhrey if she had the power we do? She was a product of her time, and back then the laws were necessary. Intertribal warfare was rampant and threatened to destroy us as a people. But can you honestly imagine any other tribe, or even all the tribes combined, successfully mounting an attack against the Miralyith?”

Mawyndul? shook his head. After seeing what his father had done to the leader of the Instarya and having seen Mount Mador with his own eyes, he knew the power of his clan was indisputable.

“That’s why the laws must change or, more precisely, why others must learn that such rules no longer—and never actually did—apply to the Miralyith. Gods have no such boundaries. You see that, don’t you?”

Mawyndul? nodded again.

Gryndal smiled, and then a sad look stole over the tutor’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

Gryndal shook his head. “It’s just so tragic.”

“What is?”

“That your father rules instead of you,” he said, and then gave a wistful sigh. “If you were fane…”

“I will be fane one day.”

Gryndal looked at him with a sympathetic smile. “Your father isn’t that old. He’s just over twenty-one hundred. He could rule another thousand years. In the meantime, you might have an accident. You could die on this very trip. Such a sad ending when we need your wisdom so badly.”

“Together we might change his mind,” Mawyndul? said. “Show him Ferrol has ordained the Miralyith as superior to all other Fhrey.”

“I’ve tried, believe me. My efforts were counterproductive. I convinced him to make an example of Zephyron, but afterward he regretted what happened in the arena, and if anything it has moderated his feelings toward ordinary Fhrey. The fane…well…it’s like trying to persuade a rock to fly. He simply doesn’t know how,” Gryndal said.

Mawyndul? laughed, and Gryndal laughed with him.

They rode in silence through the blackened ruins. Even after days on the trail, Mawyndul? still wasn’t comfortable in the saddle. He didn’t know why they had to ride—the soldiers didn’t. They walked behind them in double rows. Gryndal had insisted on the horses, but they were merely trading sore feet for a sore seat. Sitting on the animal scared him. There wasn’t anything to hold on to except some flimsy hair on the thing’s neck. Nothing would keep him on its back if the animal bolted. Three times the horse had stumbled or jerked unexpectedly. Each time he’d nearly screamed. The only good thing about being on the horse was the added height. He could see farther and was well above the soldiers, which he liked. Most of them were taller than he was, but they had to look up at him when he was mounted.

“Your father simply doesn’t have the imagination that you do. It’s so unfortunate. You’re already more capable of ruling than he is, yet you’re impotent and treated like a child.”

Mawyndul? was nodding. He honestly couldn’t agree more. Those same thoughts had come to him on many occasions. “You really think so?”

“Of course. The thing is, it’s not hurting us.” Gryndal wagged a finger between them. “It’s hurting everyone else. Our people could be so much more if we only freed ourselves from the restrictions of the past.” Gryndal sidled closer and in a whispered voice added, “I know it’s wrong for me to say this, but sometimes I honestly wish some tragedy would befall your father. Not anything fatal, of course, just something rendering him unable to rule so that you could take over. I know that sounds terrible, but I fear your father isn’t suited to guide us into the future. His rule will lead to disaster. Trust me, Mawyndul?, your father’s reign will threaten our whole way of life.” Then he leaned closer still. “It’s even possible that someone might take it upon themselves to kill the fane to prevent that.”

“Kill? A Fhrey? That would break Ferrol’s Law. They would no longer be Fhrey.”

Gryndal pursed his lips as if to say something, then stopped himself, looking unsure. Mawyndul? had never seen that expression on his new tutor.

“What?”

Gryndal shook his head, his lips pinched together.

“Are you saying this isn’t true?”

“I’m saying…It’s possible, I think, to gain Ferrol’s forgiveness.”

Mawyndul? stared at him, confused.

“If, after killing the fane, the murderer were to blow the Horn of Gylindora—you see, only a single drop of Fhrey blood flowing in their veins is required—and if this ostracized person were to win the challenge…well, how can the fane of the Fhrey not be a Fhrey?”

“Are you saying—”

“I’m only pointing out one of my many concerns. Your father is my friend, and I fear his own adherence to tradition might cause someone to act rashly.”

Something caught Gryndal’s eye.

“What is it?” Mawyndul? asked.

“Fresh stones.” Gryndal walked his horse over.

At the center of the flat-topped hill, Mawyndul? saw what Gryndal had: new dirt dropped into a burned-out cavity of a building’s foundation. Fresh stones had been set upon scorched ones.