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

“I’m not done…and you can’t be, either. This doesn’t end with the appointing of a keenig. We’re chieftains, leaders of our people.”

“I—have—no—people! You said so yourself. It’s just me, and I have no interest in being the keenig. Look, you’ve lived your whole life in Dahl Rhen, protected from the Gula–Rhulyn wars. You have no idea what lies ahead. And you know what? Neither do I, but I understand better than you about what’s coming. If we fight, we’ll die. If we leave, then we have a chance to live. And if we live, then we might be able to do some good. Maybe we can build something that will withstand the Fhrey if for no other reason than they don’t know we exist.”

Persephone threw up her hands. “You’re right. I know nothing about war. But let me tell you what I believe. I think running from responsibility breeds self-loathing and despair. I think people can, and do, rise to the occasion, and even a single person can make an incredible difference. What they need are leaders who believe in them, a belief that gives birth to hope. With hope, people can do remarkable things, amazing things. Between hope and despair, I’ll take hope every time.”

“Hope without cause is insanity.”

“I have cause. I believe in us. I believe we can win if we’re brave, if we’re committed. I believe people can do anything if they try hard enough.”

“Then you believe in fantasies.”

“I would call them dreams. Maybe that is all they are, but aren’t those ideals worth believing in?” She took a deep breath. “If you want to leave, then go. But I’m staying here. You say you don’t have any people? Well, open your eyes. We’re all in this together. We’re all the same people. It’s not about Dureya or Nadak or Rhen. We’re fighting for the lives of all of us. Maybe you should think less about yourself and more about others.”

She grabbed the hem of her skirt and headed back up the beach.

—

Raithe marched back toward his spot under the wool with a singular purpose: I’m leaving.

Coming to Tirre was a huge waste of my time. She’ll never leave. She doesn’t give a damn about me! She would rather die in a futile war than make a new start and be happy.

He didn’t need Persephone. He could go alone if he had to. Other people had always been a problem. His brothers had beaten him. His father had dragged Raithe across the river and gotten himself killed. His clan’s reputation had labeled him a villain since the day he was born. The only thing others had ever given him was grief.

I’ll be better off without her. Why did I stay so long?

The rain was falling again by the time he rounded the corner and reached the tiny niche where he and Malcolm stored their possessions. Malcolm’s spear leaned up against the stone wall next to Bergin’s brewing equipment and his daughter’s bed. Not being Dureyan, Malcolm didn’t feel the need to carry his weapon everywhere he went.

Overhead, the rain drummed on the cloth as Raithe knelt and grabbed the big bag Padera had given him. Roan had shown the old woman how to incorporate a clever drawstring, which kept the mouth closed. He jerked the bag open and started stuffing things in: a half-dozen flints, three knives, the hand ax he’d made in Dureya, a little hammer, a gift from Roan that replaced the smooth stone he used to use. Needle and thread that he got from Moya went in, along with the blanket Sarah had woven. Last, he dropped in the bowl Gifford had made. Standing, he slung the sheep’s bladder waterskin over his shoulder, another gift from Roan.

How did I get so much stuff?

Before coming to Dahl Rhen, he’d had only a handful of things. Now he’d accumulated so much that he needed a bag. What he didn’t need was excess weight. Reaching up, he pulled the copper sword off his back and tossed it to the ground. It might be worth something to the Dherg, but not to him. Not anymore.

“Going somewhere?” Malcolm asked.

“Leaving,” Raithe replied without turning. He held the bag with one hand while searching with his other for whatever else he might have missed.

“Sounds urgent. Something happen?”

“Yeah, I woke up. I remembered I’m Dureyan, and the world hates me.” Raithe scooped up a stick with a wad of woolen thread wound around it and stuffed it into the bag.

“Who hates you?”

Raithe turned and saw that Malcolm wasn’t alone. He stood beneath the edge of the awning, his arm on the shoulder of a barefoot boy who clutched a stone knife in his right hand and a wood carving in his left. While both of them were wet, the kid was soaked. His hair and tattered shirt lay plastered to his pale slick skin, and his ribs were clearly outlined above his rope belt. The boy’s eyes were dark and shadowed as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Is it a secret?” Malcolm reached for a blanket to dry himself, and when finished he offered it to his young companion. The lad ignored him and just stood there, waiting and letting water drip down his face. Raithe recognized the kid. He was the same boy whose parents had been killed by the runaway wagon.

Raithe frowned. “Huh? No. I was referring to Persephone.”

“I’m guessing she’s not going with you, then.”

“And you’d be right.” Raithe reached into the bag and adjusted the contents so the sharp edges wouldn’t jab as he carried it. “Turns out she’d rather stay here and die than be with me. But I guess that’s to be expected, right? I mean, I’m still Dureyan.” Raithe looked over and pointed at the boy. “Remember that, kid. You might think your life is terrible right now, but it could be worse. You could be Dureyan.”

The boy stood a little straighter. “I am Dureyan.”

Raithe stopped packing. “But your parents, they didn’t look…their clothes—”

“Weren’t my parents.” The boy wiped the rain from his face with the inside of his elbow.

That was what Raithe had seen the day the wagon got loose, the strange sense of familiarity he’d noticed. Clan Dureya had a way of moving, a way of speaking. “Who were they?”

He shrugged. “Just some farmers from one of the Rhen villages. The man was called Lon and the woman Rita. They gave me food and let me sleep in their house.”

“So where are your parents?”

“Dead.” That one word, and the casual way the boy dropped it, brushed aside all doubt.

“You are Dureyan.”

The boy looked back at him with a hard gaze. “So?”

No truer word was ever spoken. The kid was from his clan. At least two of them had survived. “I’m from Clempton village, on the west side.”

“East side,” the kid said. “No name, was just three families. The Fhrey killed everyone.”

“Rumor has it they’re not done yet.” Raithe looked to Malcolm. “I’m heading out. You coming?”

“Do you really think Persephone refused to go with you because you’re Dureyan?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Sure, why not? Why should she be any different?”