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

Gifford was always doing things he shouldn’t. Always pushing people and breaking rules. There were times she felt he used his ailments to manipulate others, knowing no one would stand up to him because it would make them look like the bully. This time he’d gone too far. This time he’d pushed someone who wasn’t afraid of what others thought.

Before the potter could say anything, Eres sprang. He took the weapon in one hand and Gifford in the other. For one terrifying instant, Moya thought he might thrust the javelin through Gifford’s twisted little body. Instead, he held him by the throat while he gently laid his javelin aside.

“I’m sow-wee,” Gifford had said. “I just wanted to look at it.”

When the beating began, Moya was relieved Eres had used his fists. Fleshy sounds filled her ears as he pummeled Gifford, who cried out only once before losing the air to make any sound. Crumbled into a ball, he endured Eres’s kicks, hugging himself and gasping for breath as tears rolled down his cheeks.

The other Galantians watched with passing interest. Moya had stared in horror. For the first time, she found she didn’t have the courage to speak or even move. She silently watched Gifford take the beating. I should have helped him. If I had asked Eres to stop, he would’ve, wouldn’t he? Why didn’t I?

Sitting under the wool with Padera watching her, Moya started to cry. “He’s a cripple, for Mari’s sake! They didn’t have to…” Moya bit off the rest and crushed her lips together.

“People never have to be mean,” the old woman said.

“Gifford should have known better. The Fhrey treat their weapons like children. They name them, for Mari’s sake! I’ve seen how protective they can be, and Eres is the worst of the lot. Gifford shouldn’t have taken it; he shouldn’t have even touched it.”

“Gifford didn’t take the little spear.”

Moya looked over at Padera and shook her head. “Well, I guess you don’t know everything, do you, old woman? Gifford came right out and said he did. And it’s a javelin not a spear.”

Padera looked at her once more. Strange how that one eye could make Moya feel so small.

“He lied.”

Moya laughed. “So you can tell what’s in people’s hearts now? Know their innermost secrets from all the way out here?”

Padera didn’t reply and went back to her carding. The old woman was so self-assured she didn’t even feel the need to argue.

“Gifford took the javelin. He had it. I saw him bring it back. How could he have—” The answer came to her then, and the revelation felt like running into a wall. Moya felt her stomach rise and catch in her throat. “Oh, Grand Mother. It was Roan. She took it.”

Padera nodded and Moya felt sick.

Roan likely just wanted to see how it was made. Probably took better care of it than Eres would have. Roan couldn’t have asked permission. Roan wouldn’t dare speak to a Fhrey, and when she got into her thinking mode, she sometimes blocked out everything else.

Gifford must have seen her with it. He knew what would happen when he brought it back.

I might have stopped it. I should have at least tried.

Gifford was her friend, but she hadn’t helped. She stood by and watched him take a beating because he refused to let anyone hurt his friend. He was willing to stand up against the Galantians for someone he cared about, but she couldn’t say the same. Who’s the real cripple?

Then the worst thought of all entered Moya’s head. Gifford wouldn’t even be upset with her for standing by and doing nothing—he would have expected it.

Moya’s stomach twisted into a knot. She hated herself so much it physically hurt. Her pain must have been painted on her face because Padera added, “You shouldn’t feel so bad. It’s not like you or I were beaten. Gifford is used to pain.”





CHAPTER TWELVE


The Council of Tirre




The famous Council of Tirre that everyone speaks so highly of was not a grand thing. The chieftains were not eloquent, or geniuses, or selfless heroes. And they did not sit at a table of gold. The gathering that changed the course of human history was nothing more than a circle of chairs filled mainly with stupid, vain men.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The day was sunny and warm, so the chieftains’ meeting was held in the open courtyard of the dahl. Unlike Rhen, Tirre’s inhabitants didn’t live near the lodge. Long ago, fishermen, craftsmen, and traders saved themselves the daily walk by moving down the hill to the village of Vernes. Only the chieftain, his family, and his staff remained in the roundhouse, which was much larger than the one Persephone had lived in. Uncluttered by other structures, the yard of beaten grass and dirt patches remained open, breezy, and both majestic and dismal. Seven chairs were set in a circle in front of the lodge. Lipit’s people brought jugs of mead from his storage pits. Refusing drink would have insulted her host. Still, she wanted to keep her wits, so Persephone intended to have just a sip. She nearly changed her mind after discovering the mead was not only good but cold.

All seven Rhulyn chieftains were there, and Persephone knew each one except Alward, the new leader of Clan Nadak. The sickly thin man with oily hair wore a ragged version of the brown-and-yellow pattern of his people. Lipit had positioned Persephone to his right—as she had been the one to call the meeting—and Raithe on her other side, probably because they had arrived together. She was surprised to see him and hoped his attendance indicated a change of heart. Maybe she had managed to talk some sense into his thick Dureyan head.

Outside the circle, behind each of the chairs, others stood. These were the elders, the Shields, and the Keepers of Ways. Tegan of Warric had eight advisers behind him. Harkon of Melen had six, including a man who looked as old as Padera. Persephone had Brin and Nyphron. The girl had come with a thin slate of gray stone in her arms; Persephone had no idea what for. She was equally confused by Nyphron’s presence. She hadn’t asked him to attend, but given he was going to aid them in a war against his own people, she thought it fair for him to be there. His presence drew stares from the other chieftains.

Only Malcolm and a young boy she didn’t recognize stood behind Raithe.

“Well, let’s get to it,” Tegan of Warric bellowed. “Who’s going to be the keenig? You, Lipit? Is that why you brought us here?” he added with bombastic poison.

Their host straightened up and scowled. Lipit had dressed for the affair, wearing earrings of silver and bracelets of gold. “Are you saying I’m unfit?”

“Since you’re asking, you must agree.”

“And who do you think would be a better choice?” Lipit asked. “You, perhaps?”

“Of course. Why else would I come all this way? I am here to accept the crown of the united clans.”

Harkon of Melen laughed, slapping his bare thigh with a loud smack. “And the rest of us came all this way to make certain that wouldn’t happen.”

This ignited a round of laughter. Persephone only smiled.