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

The ex-slave, who was on the ground fiddling with a stick and a rope, looked up, shocked.

“What? No,” Persephone said. “This is getting out of hand now.”

“We can’t leave her here, alone.”

“Moya,” Persephone said sternly. Moya was well meaning, but she sometimes treated Roan like a child. “Roan will be fine. She’s not alone. She’ll have Padera, Gifford, and—”

Roan let out a small sound, not unlike a whimper.

“What?” Persephone asked. “What is it, Roan?”

“I took one of the little spears from one of the Fhrey,” Roan said in a voice just a breath above a whisper. “I just wanted to look at it, study it, feel how it was balanced. I didn’t realize that—” She started to cry.

“Roan?”

Moya answered for her. “Gifford found out, and he took it back. Told them that he was the one who borrowed it. He was beaten bloody.”

Persephone’s hand leapt to her face, and she started to leave, going in the direction where Gifford usually slept.

“He’s not there,” Padera said, catching her by the wrist.

“Where is he? How is he? Will he be okay?”

The old lady pushed slowly to her feet, groaning with the effort, and waved at Persephone as if the question wasn’t worthy of an answer. “Gifford is like a turtle. He don’t run so fast, but there’s no breaking that hard shell. Got him resting up at West Puddle in that throne room Habet built for you. Gifford is lying in the lap of luxury, he is.”

Persephone looked from Moya to Roan, then to Malcolm. “Isn’t anyone with him?”

“He don’t need much at the moment,” Padera said. “Other than rest. Which is why I don’t want you going up there and bothering him.”

Persephone nodded and turned back to look at Roan, who sat on the ground, rocking back and forth.

Moya sat down next to Roan. “I can’t help worrying about what might have happened if Gifford hadn’t been there. If she had returned the javelin instead.”

“They wouldn’t hurt a woman, would they?” Persephone asked.

Moya looked back, with too many questions in her eyes. “I want to think not, but look at what they did to a cripple. Maybe to them we’re only a bit above animals—almost-people. And you don’t have to treat almost-people the same way as real people, do you?”

Persephone looked at Roan, who was already back to work, tying her rope to the end of the long stick that lay across her lap. Is that how Iver had viewed Roan? As an almost-person? How else could he have been so cruel? She imagined Roan being beaten by the Fhrey—once more beaten for being an almost-person.

“Pack light, Roan. We’re not going to be gone long.”

—

The village of Vernes was built in tiers that descended the stony hillside from the dahl to the docks in a way that reminded Persephone of the dessert Padera had made for Reglan’s fiftieth birthday. Instead of wild berries and nuts, the decorations on these layers were shops and homes. Most were built of mud bricks, and several were a surprising two stories tall. The tight tiers made for narrow streets and even narrower alleys, which had the party trudging along in single file. Frost, Flood, and Rain were out front like hounds.

They left at dawn, partly because Persephone feared that the council would break up if they couldn’t agree on a leader, so time was of the essence. Also, she worried about losing her courage if given a chance to think about the decision for too long. But mostly, the hour of departure was determined by the schedule of a Dherg trade ship. Frost and Flood had managed to arrange passage for them on the vessel, which would sail once its supplies were loaded. That had turned out to take most of the night.

All told, there were ten of them, counting Minna and the three Dherg. Persephone continued addressing them as dwarfs, having given up any hope of pronouncing the longer version. They didn’t mind it nearly as much as being called Dherg, and her term had the benefit of beginning with the same sound. She slipped and saved herself on numerous occasions by saying, “Dher—warfs.” She could see them wince at each slip, but she also thought they appreciated that she was trying. The others avoided the problem by not talking at all.

Frost led the way with Flood right behind, shouting course corrections and insults in equal measure. At that hour, the streets were deserted, and they made good time as they slipped through tight lanes and down steep, narrow stairs.

Passing a series of large buildings stained white with salt, they came upon a wooden pier and just beyond it, a row of three ships. Persephone had only ridden in boats like those used to fish on Dreary Lake, the kind two men could carry over their heads. The ships in Vernes were longer than three roundhouses, and their fronts were fashioned to look like the faces of beasts. In the center was a tall pole, and across it’s middle another pole, half as long, was wrapped in cloth.

Doubt crept in. Persephone had been so fixated on getting swords that she never considered the perils of where the path might lead, or what she’d need to suffer to travel it. She looked out at the endless horizon, which appeared more infinite now.

What’s out there?

She couldn’t even separate sky from water.

What if we come upon the place where Eraphus swims? What if we get lost in the dark and miss Belgreig? Could we sail off the edge of the world like Brin warned about?

Rhunes never went across the sea—not anymore. She was taking them into the unknown, and she wasn’t anything like Gath. She wasn’t even Reglan.

They stopped on the dock while Frost and Flood spoke to another Dherg, who sported a short beard and a silver ring in his nose that matched the ones in his ears. He wore an unpleasant sneer on his lips. They spoke in the Dherg language, and none of it sounded friendly or polite.

Looking back out at the endless water, Persephone thought she should have asked Raithe after all—or Malcolm, the Killians, Tope Highland and his sons, and…and…well, everyone, really. She obviously hadn’t thought this through.

She took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong?” Brin asked.

“Nothing,” Persephone assured her, even if she couldn’t convince herself.

Moya gave her an I-told-you-so look, or maybe she, too, was scared. Persephone preferred to think she was angry. If Moya was frightened, they were truly in trouble.

They stood alongside one of the ships, which bustled with activity. Every person on board was a Dherg, but unlike Frost, Flood, and Rain, they didn’t wear metal. Most were shirtless or wore only simple vests or sleeveless tunics. A wooden bridge connected the ship to the dock, and it knocked and rattled with the swells.

“It’s not too late,” Moya whispered. “We can go back.”