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

“And then what?” Persephone asked.

Moya didn’t reply, thank Mari. If she had given any answer, no matter how absurd, Persephone might have given up. She didn’t want to get on the ship and go out into the endless void. The idea of depending on the Dherg to take them there and back was nearly inconceivable. But the most frightening thing of all was relying on Suri to defeat the giant. Arion was right: The young mystic hadn’t been ready when dealing with Rapnagar. Would Arion be able to teach her in time? And if not, would the Fhrey step in? Yes, she opposed the idea of harming the giant, but she’d defend herself and the party if necessary, wouldn’t she? Suddenly, none of Persephone’s plan sounded sensible or safe.

After more negotiation than Persephone had expected, Frost and Flood waved them across the gangway onto the heaving vessel. Everyone, even Arion, paused.

“It’s all right. Dent cleared us,” Frost told them.

“Lipit said Rhunes aren’t welcomed in Caric. That your kind might see our presence as an act of war. Are you sure this won’t be a problem?” Persephone asked.

“It could have been, if there were more of you, maybe. But how could a handful of women and a couple of girls be perceived as a threat?”

“Then why did it take so long to convince that Dent fellow? He seemed quite put out by something. What was it?”

“The cargo,” Flood said.

“Minna or me?” Arion asked neatly, though a bit haltingly, in Rhunic.

“Was a long war,” Flood said.

“And long ago.” Despite the heavy accent that clipped her syllables, Arion’s dismissive tone was clear.

Flood frowned at her. “Losing leaves a bitter taste that lingers long after the sweetness of victory has been forgotten.”

Arion nodded. “Well said.”

“Let’s go.” Frost hurried across the bobbing bridge. Rain, who rarely spoke, followed him across, with Flood close behind.

No one else followed. They all watched Persephone.

She stared across the bridge, missing Reglan more than she had in weeks. If he had been there, he would’ve told her how foolish she was being. He’d tell her the whole idea was too risky, too strange. She’d insist, and he would take her hand, letting her squeeze it until the fear went away. Looking at the ship, her hands felt cold and empty.

Everyone waited for her.

She was only the widow of a man who had led a small clan of woodsmen, shepherds, and huntsmen, but if she didn’t cross that bridge, none of her companions would—not even the Miralyith.

We’ll do it together, she heard her friend Aria say once more.

She took the nearest hand she could find, Brin’s, and held it tight, waiting for the fear to pass. It didn’t, but she crossed the bridge anyway.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The Nightmare




There are many lies spoken during a war, even more before one. That is how they start.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN





The pitcher and glasses that Mawyndul? had smashed in the council chambers had been replaced. They looked identical to the old ones, and he wondered if his father had used the Art the way The Traitor once had and just reassembled the pieces. Sadly, the Art couldn’t reassemble his father’s attitude—his dusty attitude—into something sensible. A week had gone by since Mawyndul?’s outburst in the meeting, and his father hadn’t said a word—no lecture, no shouting, no punishment of any sort. The lack of action didn’t surprise Mawyndul?; his father was weak whether confronting his son or the murderers of Gryndal. The fane was weak, period. Everyone praised Lothian’s performance in the Carfreign during the challenge, but Mawyndul? still recalled how Gryndal had dealt with Rhunes on the frontier—simply a flick of his fingers, and five Rhune died in a burst of blood. That sent a better message. His father just didn’t understand.

As before, Mawyndul? slouched deep in the chair while his father’s advisers sat seated around the big table. They were discussing…well, Mawyndul? had no idea what they were babbling about. He was trying his best to ignore them.

A fly entered the room and landed on the Miralyith banner hanging high on the wall. Mawyndul? trapped it there with the Art, holding the tiny creature frozen to the cloth. He wondered what the fly was thinking. Could it think? Did it have the concept of a god? Did it wonder if it had offended one? If he let it live, the fly might return home and tell his fellow insects of the strange experience. It would likely feel as if it had been singled out for some grand purpose by the divine. What else could it think? It certainly couldn’t begin to fathom that a prince stuck in a council meeting had trapped it for a time simply out of boredom. Things happen for reasons. The fly must conclude this or else abandon all belief that it was the center of the universe. Out of pity—and the kindness born from Mawyndul?’s desire that the fly and its brethren would never discover how truly insignificant they were—he pressed his fingertips together. Across the room and nine feet up the wall, a tiny fly died an honorable, yet inconsequential, death.

“…assassins to kill…”

The word assassins brought Mawyndul? back to the conversation. When he’d last paid attention, Kabbayn had been babbling about a request from the Gwydry for more rain to help the faltering crops and a similar, but counter, request from the Eilywin for clear skies to help them meet the midsummer deadline for building the new temple to Ferrol. The latter was supported by the Umalyn, but the former—as Kabbayn put it—isn’t something you can go without. The debate had raged in monotonous voices. Mawyndul? was almost certain there had been some discussion about revenues, but he never listened when finances were brought up. He was certain that nothing was duller. Assassins, however, weren’t financial issues, unless his father was hiring some to kill Nyphron and The Traitor. Either way, they had his attention.

“…you, my great fane,” Vasek finished.

“How certain are you of this?” his father asked.

“Fairly sure, my fane,” he replied. “I’m still investigating, but my sources are usually reliable.”

The Rhunes are hiring assassins to kill my father?

Mawyndul? thought of the fly’s family sending a killer after him. Both were equally unlikely.

“I can’t believe it. This has to be a mistake, a silly rumor. Fhrey don’t kill Fhrey.”

No, not Rhunes. The threat is coming from within?

“If they feel justified in their belief, they might. There’s a great deal of concern right now about the Miralyith legacy. The other tribes are frightened that the Law of Ferrol might be suspended and the horn denied, or the right to challenge will become pointless, given the obvious outcome.”

Lothian laughed. “Seriously? These people are concerning themselves with the next challenge already? The Uli Vermar isn’t for another three thousand years.”