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

A strangely silent crowd came out of their homes and lined the docks as Persephone’s party climbed on board the Calder Noll. They gathered in the streets and squares weeping and wailing. A few whispered to one another in their own language, and for once Persephone was happy she couldn’t understand.

The captain said nothing to them, neither did the crew. Persephone took charge and directed everyone to the cargo space toward the front of the ship. Standing there as the lines were cast off and the little ship was rowed away from the docks, Persephone looked back at Neith. The full face of the sun shone on what was left of the mountain. The great gate was gone, the towers missing. The majesty that was Neith had vanished, and the road up the slope led only to a battered memory and a broken dream.

On this trip, the crew of the Calder Noll avoided them much as the first ship’s crew had. Arion was wrapped in blankets, her face pale, but she was still breathing. Persephone took that as a good sign. She thought that if the Miralyith were going to die, she would have done so by now.

They all gathered around the prone Fhrey, blocking the harsh sea winds and taking turns cradling her head as the deck pitched.

“Don’t suppose you managed to bring the tablets?” Brin asked Moya.

She shook her head. “They stopped treating us well the moment you left. I thought we were off to our deaths when a group of Dherg came and led us down to the dock.

This brought nods from Frost and Flood as well.

“You’re alive,” Persephone told Brin. “And going home. That’s enough; be grateful.”

“I know, and I am. It’s just…well…I didn’t get a chance to decipher hardly any of them. I was going to study them last night, but I…I…”

“She fell asleep,” Roan said.

Brin cocked her head at Roan. “Didn’t you?”

“No, I never sleep when there is something to work on, and last night I had a lot to do.” Roan smiled. “It’s okay, really it is.”

Brin nodded. “I know. I just wish I had time to study them.”

“No, I mean it’s okay. I fixed it.”

“Fixed what?”

Roan opened her bag and drew out a thin, rolled tube. Brin inched toward her as Roan untied a string and unrolled what had been inside. “The little men call this vellum; it’s made from sheepskin. It’s the same thing they use to make maps and diagrams. Very thin and light. It’s great at holding something they call ink. Of course, I didn’t have any of that.”

On the interior of the vellum were markings. Markings that looked exactly like the ones on the tablet.

Brin stared in amazement. “How did you do that?”

“I laid the vellum on the tablets and rubbed the charcoal from the furnace over them. It made this image.”

Brin reached out.

“Careful,” Roan said. “It will smear.”

“You’re a genius,” Brin said, and eagerly took a seat beside Roan.

Watching the two studying the scroll, Persephone felt her lips rise into a smile that lingered until she noticed Suri. The mystic still held on to the weapon, a faraway look in her eyes.

“It’s a beautiful sword,” Persephone said. “Roan, do you think you could make others now that you’ve seen how it’s done?”

Roan nodded.

“And is this one strong?”

Again, Roan nodded. “I think I’ll be able to make the next one even better. If I could—”

“But is this one strong? Is it as good as bronze?”

“Stronger.”

“You sure?”

Roan nodded again.

“That’s good enough for me.” Persephone squinted at the markings on the sword’s blade. They were different from those she remembered on the shafts.

“What does it say?” she asked Suri. “What was her real name?”

The mystic didn’t reply.

Brin glanced at Suri cautiously. “It’s…it’s hard to pronounce.”

Persephone nodded her understanding as Suri watched them. Her eyes were red, cheeks flushed and blotchy.

They rode the waves that rose and fell, and Persephone was glad Arion wouldn’t suffer the sickness that had plagued her on the first trip. Hours passed in silence. When Suri finally spoke for the first time since leaving Belgreig, she said, “Her real name was Gilarabrywn.”

Persephone offered her a little smile. “I like Minna better.”

“So do I,” Brin said.

“Me, too,” Suri agreed. She looked down at the sword and raised it over her head.

“Don’t!” Persephone shouted. “What are you doing?”

“I feel like it should be put to rest, too,” Suri said.

“If you’re just going to throw it away, could I use it first?”

“For what?”

“To change the world.”

Suri looked down at the blade, puzzled.

“It’s a magic sword, Suri. Minna made it so.”

“You know it doesn’t have any real power.” Suri held the sword out to Persephone.

“Trust me, Suri,” Persephone said, feeling the weight of the weapon in her hands, “this sword will change everything.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


The Keenig




Some things you never see coming. I remember this whenever I think of Udgar.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The other chieftains were trying to be kind, but their actions only helped to remind Raithe that he had only hours to live. He’d spent the night in the lodge on Lipit’s bed. The evening meal found him feasting on a succulent pig—a prized animal Harkon had brought for a celebration feast. Krugen offered his best wine, but Raithe didn’t drink. His father had taught him to keep a clear head before a fight. Drinking came after.

Lipit also offered him women. Raithe turned them down as well. Herkimer had said women drained men of their vitality. Of course, Raithe knew a lot of his father’s “sage advice” was crap, like how best to raise a family, and how a sword and a reputation meant more than anything. But there was another reason even more substantial. He wasn’t interested. It wouldn’t mean anything, and that night, of all nights, he needed it to mean something.

Raithe had no doubts that Udgar would kill him.

One of the pillars of combat was confidence. To win, a fighter had to believe he would. Raithe knew—absolutely knew—he wouldn’t. While he was a good fighter by Dureyan standards, Udgar was great by Gula reckoning, and even his father had admitted that the Gula-Rhunes were better in battle. Desperation did that to a people, hardened them, and the only people on the face of Elan who had it tougher than the Dureyan were the Gula. For centuries, the Fhrey had ordered attacks against them, and warfare was an integral part of their way of life. They had to become battle masters just to exist.

“You’re going to kill him, right?” Tesh asked, as he opened the windows to let the morning light in. The boy had slept on a mat at the foot of the bed, stunned by the luxury of the room.

“Sure,” Raithe replied. “I’m the God Killer, right? A Gula-Rhune has to be easier than a Fhrey.”

“Then you’ll be keenig.”

“That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

“Your word will be law over all the clans, over thousands and thousands of people.”