Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

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The itch was worse, almost maddening, and while harming the flora or fauna of the Garden was greatly frowned upon, Imaly resorted to breaking a slender twig. She snapped an offshoot free, sat down on one of the benches, and plunged the stick down inside the plaster cast that encased her leg. For several insane seconds she struggled desperately, and then in one glorious moment, she reached the itch. In that instant, she could have died happy. In ecstasy, she melted on the bench and wallowed there limp and lazy, the branch still sticking out of her cast.

“Hello.”

She opened her eyes. Before her stood a person she’d never seen before. He was so unkempt and disheveled that for a moment she couldn’t be certain if he was Fhrey. Though who else could he be, standing in the middle of the Garden in the very heart of Erivan.

“Hello,” she replied.

“May I join you?”

She nodded, pulled herself together, straightened up, and scooted over to give him room to sit.

“You don’t come here often,” he said. “I come every day, and I’ve never seen you.”

“No, not often. I’m very busy, you see, and—”

“Of course, being Curator is a very demanding position. You’re Imaly, yes?”

The question was disconcerting. She wasn’t as prominent as some, even those in lesser positions, and yet it wasn’t unusual for a stranger to know who she was. Still, there was something unsettling about him knowing her, while she was clueless about who he was—or what he wanted.

“Yes, that’s right, and you are?” she asked.

“Trilos,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. That’s an excellent position to hold. Influential, yet in the shadows.”

“And what is it that you do? What’s your occupation?”

He smiled at her. “Mostly I sit here, look at the Door, and ponder mysteries.”

“You’re Umalyn, then? A priest of Ferrol?”

“No, I can’t say that I am.”

She was about to ask which tribe he was from when he spoke first. “Things worked out quite well, wouldn’t you say?”

“Things?”

“I was concerned Erivan might slip into old habits. I was certain the Miralyith were going to start eating their own for a while.”

Not Miralyith at least.

“But that doesn’t look like it will happen. Not now, not after the prince told his father the whole thing was orchestrated by Nyphron. It appears the fane will take his rage out on the rebel, his Galantians, and the Rhunes who support and harbor him. I’ve heard he’s set plans in motion to build an army. The first time that’s happened since the Dherg War. I don’t think he trusts the Instarya to handle such matters. I do have a question, though. One that I’m surprised hasn’t crossed Lothian’s mind.”

“And that is?”

“How did he do it?”

“How did who do what?”

“Nyphron. By all accounts, he is hundreds of leagues away, just him and a handful of Galantians, living in rough, remote, places with the natives. How did he manage to cause a Miralyith insurrection?”

“Many of those killed—those who called themselves the Gray Cloaks—were, as I’ve heard the tale, friends of Nyphron. Apparently he planned this whole thing out in advance, setting it up when he and his father were allowed back for the Uli Vermar.”

Trilos nodded with a smile. “Yes, yes, I’ve heard that, too. And Mawyndul? learned all about it during his visits to the meetings under the bridge.”

“I do believe that’s what he said, yes.”

“Odd, don’t you think? How is it that the son of the leader of the Instarya, who hadn’t set foot in Estramnadon for centuries, had so many friends here, and in the Miralyith tribe, no less? You would think, given his father was killed by one, they wouldn’t exactly travel in the same social circles. But what do I know?”

What indeed, Imaly thought.

“Oh, well, circumstances can make odd bedfellows. Isn’t there a saying like that? Still, we should be grateful, I suppose. Everything worked out in the end, unexpected, but very convenient, very tidy.”

“Who are you? And what is this really about?”

Trilos gave her a surprised, innocent look, one she didn’t believe in the slightest, even though it was excellently played.

“I told you. I’m Trilos, and as I said, I’m pleased to meet you, Imaly. Anyway, where was I…oh, yes, as I was saying, I don’t think the war will be.”

“Will be what?” she asked, confused.

“Tidy,” he said. “Wars never are. Wars are chaotic and full of surprises, most of them unpleasant.”

“I suspect it won’t be much of a war, more of a hunt, really. And I don’t expect it will last long,” she said. “The Miralyith have ways to locate who they are looking for, and they can be very efficient in getting what they want. Now, who are you? Who are you really? I know almost everyone in Estramnadon, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

Trilos stood up. “No…no, you haven’t. A pity, I think. But I’m so glad we were able to bump into each other this fine day. And I do believe that from now on I’ll be watching you.”





CHAPTER THIRTY


The Nature of Dwarfs




I have already mentioned my disgust for the vile creature that is Gronbach. If given the opportunity, he will lie, cheat, and deceive to get what he wants. He is everything that is evil in the world condensed into a despicable little fraction of a person.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





They never found any trace of the raow. While no one had actually seen it happen, the consensus was that the dragon had eaten it. Persephone liked to believe it was so and that the dragon had started with the raow’s face.

From that point on, the dragon followed the party. Large as it was, it had no trouble doing so. The stairs of Neith, while built by a diminutive race, were wide and the ceilings high. The passages were big enough to accommodate giants, a pretension the dwarfs likely regretted after the appearance of Balgargarath. The raow attack put newfound energy into the group, and they pushed on without pause, climbing flight after flight until they reached the remains of their first camp. Their shields, blankets, and food bags were still there. Starved, they paused to eat and rest, but little was said. Moya found energy to practice once more with the bow and the arrows they had salvaged. With a dragon escort, Persephone didn’t think Moya was concerned for their safety. The woman had simply taken a liking to the device, and she reveled in her own ability to use it.

Once done, Persephone called for them to push on. Nobody wanted to tempt fate by sleeping there again. When they reached the top of the final stairway, Suri and the dragon hung back. Persephone stopped the group, returning to find out why. The others followed.

“What’s wrong?” Persephone asked.

“I don’t know,” Suri replied, looking at the dragon, who sat on her haunches. “She won’t go any farther.” She addressed the beast. “Come. That’s a good girl, come on.”

The dragon put her head down.

Suri stared, confused.

“She can’t go any farther,” Roan said.