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

“You know who he was?”

Persephone drew up her knees and straightened her filthy skirt over them. Her clothes were ruined, stained with blood. The blood was probably one of the reasons why Tressa hadn’t questioned the explanation surrounding Konniger’s death. That, and perhaps the widow already knew the truth. “I don’t think it matters anymore. That’s all over. All in the past.”

“Not all of it,” Suri said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think her daughter survived.”

“Maeve’s daughter? No, that was a story Konniger made up. Maeve’s daughter died in the forest where she was abandoned fourteen years…” Persephone stopped and stared at Suri in sudden revelation. “Fourteen…might be more…”

“Might be less,” Suri finished for her. “Is the father still alive?” she asked without turning. Her stare was still focused on the hole in the wall.

“No. He died a month ago. Konniger killed him and blamed it on The Brown.”

Suri finally looked at her then. The tattoos around her eyes were bound up in thought.

“Twenty years ago I married Reglan,” Persephone said. “Over the years, I bore my husband three sons. One died shortly after being born. Duncan barely made it to the age of three. Mahn grew to be a fine young man, but The Brown took him from me. I never had a daughter, but I always wished for one. My husband was blessed with a daughter, but he never had the chance to meet her. Nobody knew except Reglan, Konniger, and Maeve.”

Tears filled Suri’s eyes and drops spilled down Persephone’s own cheeks.

Minna’s head came up, and she looked at both of them as if they were insane.

—

Raithe sat outside Roan’s roundhouse, one of the few near the center of the dahl that had suffered no damage at all. He was holding the broken hilt of his father’s sword. Compared with Shegon’s blade, it looked like it had been forged by a child.

“There you are.” Malcolm walked toward him. The ex-slave had set down his bulky shield but continued to use the spear like a staff, walking in a most un-warrior-like fashion. He took a seat beside Raithe, his legs stretched out and sandaled feet crossed. Together the two stared at the breadth of the dahl and its people, who, having narrowly avoided a butchering or some magical cataclysm, were already back to their labors: fixing the hole in the wall and tending to gardens, sheep, and pots.

Just another day.

“What are you going to do with that?” Malcolm asked, pointing at the broken sword.

“I don’t know. Seems stupid to carry it.” Raithe drove the fractured blade that had started everything into the dirt beside him. He let go, and the sword handle quivered slightly. “Probably should have left it with my father. No one would have stolen it. Who’d want it?”

Malcolm nodded in solidarity, and Raithe realized that was what he liked most about the man. Malcolm was inclined to understand or at least to agree. Another holdover from years in slavery, perhaps, but Raithe found it a virtue nevertheless.

Across the dahl, Minna lay down beside Suri and Persephone as they talked near the wall.

Everyone should have such a loyal friend.

“What will you do now?” Malcolm asked.

“I don’t know about that, either.”

“Good to see you’re on top of things.”

“Everything’s changed, you know?” He looked at the planted sword. “I’d grown up in my father’s shadow. Fighting to survive, fighting to prove my worth to him. That was the stick I measured myself by. Miserable as he was, my father was all I had left.”

Again Malcolm nodded. “We’re both adrift without a rudder.”

Raithe returned the nod and for the first time realized that both he and Malcolm had been freed that day on the bank of the Bern River. And just like Malcolm, he didn’t have a clue what to do with that independence. Raithe was completely on his own for the first time in his life. He had dreamed of such freedom as if it were a faraway place, a made-up land that didn’t really exist. But landing in Dahl Rhen by accident, he was lost. He had a hundred potential directions, a multitude of choices, and the enormity of the options left him paralyzed. Freedom, he discovered, had built a greater prison than his family or clan had.

In his imaginings, he fantasized about such grand things as a warm home made of wood, a granary with enough wheat to last a whole winter, a loyal woman he could talk to, a well that served up water that didn’t taste of metal, and not one, but two thick blankets. Crazy thoughts, but dreams always were. No one held him back anymore, and if he made a plan, who knew what was possible. And yet he couldn’t deny recent events and how his life had been changed. Maybe there was a plan, just not his.

“If you leave, I’ll go with you,” Malcolm said. “And if you stay, I’ll stay.”

Raithe sat up and leaned in. “Why?”

“The way I see it, each of us is all the other one has at the moment. You don’t have a clan or family, and neither do I. We’re sort of our own clan, the two of us. And you’ve done well by me. I’m still alive after all, and I have this wonderful spear now.” He thumped the butt against the dirt. “Do you think they’ll let me keep it?”

“After that throw? They have to. Quite impressive, by the way. You nearly killed him.”

Malcolm replied with an awkward smile. “Actually, I wasn’t trying to hit him.”

“Seriously?” Raithe said, even more impressed. “You meant to just miss him like that?”

“Yeah, except I was aiming five feet to his right.”

“The spear hit inches to his left.”

Malcolm smiled and nodded again. “Still impressed?”

“More than ever.” Raithe grinned. “You know, once a man uses a weapon in battle, and if he survives, then the weapon bonds to him and becomes his.”

Malcolm looked up at the spear towering over them and smiled. “Then maybe I should name it. People do that, right?”

“Some do.”

“Okay, I’ll call it Narsirabad.”

“Excellent name, very fierce sounding. Is it a Fhrey word?”

Malcolm nodded.

“What does it mean?”

Malcolm smiled. “Pointy.”

Raithe laughed, and Malcolm joined him. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to breathe the morning air and feel the heat of the sun on his face. And it felt good to sit beside Malcolm as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Maybe they didn’t. There wasn’t any point in worrying about tomorrow. No one knew what it held—maybe nothing at all.

“What do you think I should do, Malcolm, my clansman? You probably understood everything they said, right? I only caught phrases here and there, but it sounded like this might not be over.”

“No,” Malcolm said. “Just beginning, I should think.” Cocking his head at Raithe and firming his mouth, he appeared to be giving the question his full thought and attention. He glanced at the sky, drew up his knees, and rubbed his chin. “When faced with certain death, running is sensible, but I think a man can make an unhealthy habit of it. Running can take on an importance of its own and become an excuse to avoid living a normal life.”

“What’s a normal life?”

“I was a slave; how should I know? I just don’t think a person should give up trying to find out.”

Raithe looked over at Persephone again. She was crying, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands. Their eyes met, and she sent him an embarrassed smile.

“We’re going to stay, Malcolm.”

Malcolm followed his stare. “I had a feeling we might. You like her, don’t you?”

“She’s different.”

“Everyone is different.”

“Then let’s say I like the ways in which she’s different. A wise man once told me no man can escape death, but it’s how we run that defines us. And if I have to run, I think I’d like to go where she’s going.”

—