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

Roan also stood among the dead. She didn’t cry, either, but she looked sick.

Raithe wasn’t good at public speaking. He didn’t care for talking in general, but it had to be done. He took a deep breath and straightened. “Persephone has asked me to tell everyone that Clan Tirre has welcomed us,” he said loudly, and everyone nearby turned to face him. Those farther away moved closer to hear. “We can make a camp outside the north wall.” He looked down at the bodies. “But we’ll have to do something about the carts so we can bring them down safely.”

Roan’s jaw tightened, and her eyes squeezed shut as if he’d hit her. When she opened them again, she mouthed, I’m sorry. Not even a whisper gave the words sound. She did this over and over, her hands clenching and unclenching, her arms frozen at her sides.

Raithe didn’t know what to say, and stood with his eyes downturned.

Malcolm stepped forward. “We mourn those who left us this day, but their sacrifice gave us, and possibly all of the clans, a chance at survival. Dahl Tirre had been planning to close its doors, but Mari’s ride showed them the wisdom of unification. These people didn’t die in vain. Their deaths, and Roan’s carts, saved Clan Rhen. Let us honor them all.” He bowed his head reverently, whispering a quiet, unheard prayer.

“How can we fix the carts?” Raithe asked Roan softly. “Make them so they don’t”—he hesitated—“harm anyone else.”

“She didn’t kill those people,” Gifford said. The crippled potter stood beside her then took a step forward, putting himself between Raithe and Roan.

Raithe had often seen the two sitting together during mealtime and speculated they were sharing more than each other’s company. But in five days, he hadn’t seen them so much as hold hands.

“I know that,” Raithe said. “And Persephone knows that, too. But it’s important that—”

“No one can know what will happen with something so new,” Gifford went on, not hearing him. “When you toss a pebble in a lake, you can’t know all the places that will be affected by the wipples. If it wasn’t fo’ Woan, all the food and supplies would be left behind.”

Raithe didn’t try to interrupt. Gifford wasn’t talking to him; he was looking at Roan.

“It’s widiculous to think it was Woan’s fault. If I make a cup and someone swallows so fast that they choke to death, am I to blame? It’s the same thing. It’s the same exact thing. So don’t blame Woan.”

Gifford stopped and Raithe looked back at her. “Can you fix the carts so they don’t roll so fast?”

She nodded.

“Good.”

Raithe gave another glance at the boy who’d lost his parents. Something about him was familiar. Nothing obvious stood out, and Raithe wasn’t going to intrude on the kid’s grief, but he felt he ought to know. Raithe had spent a lifetime feeling that way, as if some important truth was just out of reach.

He stared hard at the kid.

Nothing.

With a shrug, he turned away.





CHAPTER NINE


Under the Rose Bridge




I have always found it fascinating that the Fhrey are divided into seven tribes, just as the Rhulyn are divided into seven clans. But Rhulyn clans are based on bloodlines and regions, and the Fhrey tribes are distinguished by class, occupation, and power. At the bottom is the Gwydry, the working class, at the top, the Miralyith.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





Mawyndul? was certain that if he’d been at Avempartha—or better yet, if his father had let him lead the attack—Nyphron of the Instarya, Arion the Traitor, and all the Rhunes of that despicable village would be dead. Instead, his father foolishly counted on Jerydd.

Jerydd the Stupid, as Mawyndul? had recently dubbed him, was the kel of Avempartha. Mawyndul? had met him once, the oldest Fhrey the prince had ever seen, so old that he no longer needed to shave his head; all his hair had fallen out years ago. In its place were brown spots, making him as speckled as the owl he kept as a pet. Like an old couple, the two had been together for so long they had begun to look alike—a pair of ancient, mottling incompetents. Neither one knew how to fly.

Upon their first meeting, Mawyndul? had mistakenly liked Jerydd. He met the kel when Mawyndul? and Gryndal had spent the night at the tower on their ill-fated trip to Rhulyn. The old Fhrey and his bird had seemed friendly, even wise. Mawyndul? knew better now. The imbecile had sent giants to do the work of Miralyith, trusting the power of the ancient tower to do what was best dealt with in person. Plus, he and his cronies had used too weak a hand. Lightning and hail? Mawyndul? shook his head at the absurdity. Better to have sent fire and wind. They should have burned the entire forest: every building, blade of grass, and tree. All of Rhulyn should have been reduced to smoldering ash. Mawyndul? wouldn’t have stopped there. He would have rent the ground with quakes, breaking their roads and leveling hills. What did Miralyith need giants for? Conviction was what was required, but that virtue had died with Gryndal.

Mawyndul? realized all this as he sat in the council room of the Talwara. He wasn’t allowed at the big table where the new First Minister, the Master of Secrets, the fane, and the commanders of the Shahdi—the Erivan home guard—had gathered. Instead, he was relegated to a little desk beside the pitcher of water and glasses. He wasn’t there to contribute, only to listen. Attending was part of his ongoing education, his chance to learn how a fane ruled. But observing from his exiled corner, Mawyndul? saw only what not to do.

“Petragar reports resistance in obtaining the cooperation of the Instarya stationed in Alon Rhist,” Kabbayn said.

The new First Minister was a pathetic excuse for Gryndal’s successor. He’s not even Miralyith! Although apparently he didn’t mind impersonating one, dressed as he was in an elaborate asica. Why his father had picked such a feckless fraud was beyond Mawyndul?’s comprehension.

“Cooperation?” Lothian appeared both surprised and amused. “How is that an issue? They will do as I command. I have decreed that Petragar is their leader, and they are to abide his authority.”

“Of course, of course,” Kabbayn said, retreating, “but they won’t have their heart in serving him.”

“What need have I for their hearts?” Lothian asked.

Kabbayn opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and he closed it again.

“What else?” Lothian asked.

“I’ve obtained news that the Rhunes are gathering, my fane.” Vasek folded back the sleeves of his gray robe but left the hood up. Where the sleeves were pulled back, Mawyndul? spotted the burn marks on his wrists. The skin was puckered and shriveled, redder then the rest. Seeing even that small glimpse made Mawyndul? grimace. “It seems they’re going to appoint a keenig.”

“Keenig?”

“Their version of a fane, I believe. A single leader who’ll unite all the clans under one banner. It’s possible they’re making plans for war.”

“War?” The fane chuckled. “With whom? With us, you mean?”