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

“The Fhwey twaining the women too?” Gifford asked.

It stunned Roan how Moya could stand in front of so many people—in front of the gods—without fear.

They aren’t gods. Roan had to constantly remind herself of that fact, just as she had to convince herself that Iver was dead. She’d seen him laid in the ground and even dropped in a handful of dirt. During the burial, she’d thought his pale, bluish cheeks had twitched when the dirt hit. She’d nearly screamed; not because she thought he had come back to life, but because she was terrified of the punishment for throwing dirt in his face.

“Eres,” Tekchin said, “let her throw one of your javelins.”

The Fhrey with the little spears glared back in alarm.

Tekchin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “They’re weapons, not sacred artifacts, for Ferrol’s sake. Let her try one.”

Eres scowled for a moment then reluctantly waved Moya over. He held out one of the spears.

“You throw it from the shoulder and follow through,” Eres explained. “Try and hit that deadwood over there.”

“The stump or Tekchin?” Moya asked with a mischievous grin, and everyone laughed again, but louder this time.

Moya was a marvel. Roan watched astounded, as if the woman stood in the center of a roaring fire. Roan couldn’t imagine being stared at by so many, much less a ring of Galantians. They were all grinning, and Moya grinned right back. She was closer to being one of them than Roan was to being like Moya.

Moya took the javelin and threw, but the little spear made it only halfway to the deadfall.

Eres took what looked like a stick with a cup on its end. “This is an atlatl, a thrower. See?” He took another javelin and inserted the butt end in its cup. Then he flicked the javelin, making it move faster and travel farther. The weapon hit the stump with a loud thwack.

Moya looked at him as if he were insane.

“She’d do better with this,” Anwir said. He demonstrated his technique for whipping a stone with a sling. Swinging the long straps in a circle over his head, he let one fly. When Moya tried, she managed to shoot the pebble much farther than the javelin, but in completely the wrong direction. A distant crack was followed by someone cursing, and Moya cringed.

“Maybe you should just stick to the sword,” Tekchin said.

Roan looked at the javelins and the sling and thought about Habet starting the fire. There’s always a better way.

“I could heave a stone betta than that,” Gifford told Roan.

“So can she,” Roan replied. This caught the attention of both Gifford and Rain.

“What do you mean?” Gifford asked.

“Moya can knock a squirrel off the branch of an elm tree when pitching a rock, and with either hand. I don’t know why she’s faking, pretending that she can’t throw well.”

He focused on Roan. “Have you done that? Faked being bad at something.”

Roan looked up. “I don’t need to pretend. I am bad…at everything.”

Gifford laughed. “Woan, you made a joke. That’s wondiful.”

She looked at him, puzzled.

Gifford stopped laughing. His expression changed; he grew sad. Roan hated when that happened. Too often she made Gifford look that way. She made a lot of people sad, but none more often, or as deeply, as him. He looked like he might cry, and she didn’t know why. She hated not knowing things and began thinking, looking for answers. Has to be a reason. Everything has a reason. Then she realized what it was. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, really, it’s my fault. And it was so beautiful, too.”

“What you talking about, Woan?”

“The amphora you made…the one with the woman on it who you said was me…it got smashed in the giant attack. I should’ve taken it to the storage pit when we ran. I’m sorry it’s gone. That’s why you’re sad, isn’t it? I knew you shouldn’t have given it to me. So beautiful, and it’s my fault it’s gone.”

Gifford put a hand to his mouth as he sucked in both his lips. He leaned forward and she saw his arms come up as if he might try to hug her again.

She cringed.

He stopped.

Then he did cry. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “No, Woan,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking about the amphora. And I don’t mind that it was smashed. And I would…I would give you a million mo’, each one betta than the last if I thought they could help.”

He moved away from her, away from everyone, sniffling as he went. She let him go. He wanted to be alone. He didn’t like people seeing him cry. She understood that; she understood that very well.

—

Suri lay deep in the field, the tall grass swaying overhead. Bees buzzed from one flower to the next. She was close enough to hear that everyone had started eating, but far enough away so that no one would stumble on her. She felt Minna’s head pop up and realized someone had. It wasn’t hard to guess who.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Arion said in Rhunic.

“I’ve been avoiding you,” Suri said truthfully, and not just because Arion had been traveling near the goats, which were frightened by Minna. Very stupid animals. Who couldn’t love Minna?

“Not your fault,” Arion assured in tender tones.

“You’re right,” Suri replied. “It was yours.”

When she had moved close enough, the Fhrey’s shadow blocked out the afternoon sun, but Suri still didn’t look at her. She closed her eyes instead.

“You are right. It was,” the Fhrey said.

“Did you want me to kill him?” Suri asked.

“No!” Arion was so shocked she switched into Fhrey. “But…I suppose I should have realized you might not be entirely committed to releasing him. The Art is powered by the forces of nature, and they aren’t tools like a hammer or ax…more like fire or wind. In that way, it can have a will of its own. It can sometimes assist in unintended ways, like a too-helpful friend. What you want and what you think you want need to be aligned, or the results can be…well, you know.”

“I didn’t want to kill him,” Suri said. She felt she needed to say it out loud, and not just so Arion could hear.

“I believe you. I was foolish to expect such a complex weave so early in your training.”

“I don’t want to be trained. I like being who I am.”

“But you could be so much more. You are like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.”