Age of Myth (23 page)

At her raised voice, Petragar took a step back. Vertumus remained frozen, staring at her; he didn't look to be breathing.

Petragar elbowed his servant.

“As…as you wish, Your Eminence,” Vertumus managed to choke out.

The commander whispered to his assistant, who nodded and then said, “We will, of course, provide you with whatever you need, but…” He bit his lip. “Exactly how many soldiers should we have prepared for the morning?”

“Soldiers?”

“Yes. How many do you think you'll need to subdue Nyphron and his Galantians? Will fifty be enough? Would you prefer more?”

Now was her turn to be puzzled. “Why in Ferrol's name would I need soldiers?”

When I was born, the name Moya had no meaning or significance in the Rhunic, Dherg, or Fhrey languages. It does now. And in all three it means the same thing—brave and beautiful.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

The people of Dahl Rhen had gone without drawing water for as long as they could. Once the Fhrey had settled next to the well, no one was willing to go near it except Raithe, and Persephone refused to make him the village water boy. The women decided to go together, hoping there was safety in numbers, and a herd of women would be less likely to spark a problem than a troop of men. Tense husbands and sons watched from doorways as their wives and mothers gathered all the containers they could carry.

Persephone led the expedition since it had been her idea. All told, they had more than twenty women, each laden with poles and gourds. Tressa was notably absent. No one from the lodge had ventured out, and Persephone wondered what they were drinking in there.

The former chieftain's wife lined everyone up single-file along the outer wall in front of Bergin the Brewer's row of aging clay jugs. She offered words of encouragement, telling them to be calm and quiet. They were to fill their containers and then head back the way they had come. Delwin, Tope, Cobb, Gelston, and Gifford stood alongside Bergin, watching. Each looked about as relaxed as a turtle without a shell.

“You be careful,” Delwin told Sarah. “And if there's trouble, you drop that pole and run back to me as fast as you can. You understand?”

Persephone wondered what Delwin, or any of the men, thought could be done if trouble arose. Raithe was the only one capable of standing up to the Fhrey, and even he didn't stand a chance against so many. Not that there were nine at the well. Each day a few of them left the dahl and went into the forest. No one knew where they went or why, but she took advantage of the daily excursions when planning the “well raid,” timing it for when the fewest Fhrey would be present.

Brin had been one of the first to volunteer to haul water, but her parents had refused.

“If it wasn't for the good of the dahl, do you think
I
would be going?” Sarah asked her. “This is dangerous. We have no idea what they might do.” Sarah was trembling, and Delwin gave his wife a long, tight hug.

Persephone, Moya, and Sarah led the column across the byway on the far side of the lodge. They passed the newly turned black soil of the Killians' garden, where green beans were already sprouting. Then they moved past a pile of green wood Viv and Bruce Baker's boys had stacked. As they neared the lodge and the well, Persephone saw Raithe and Malcolm not far from Sarah's roundhouse, watching the procession.

The Fhrey watched as well.

There were only three in their camp near the well, and Persephone was disappointed that neither Nyphron nor Grygor was among them. She had talked to those two before and wasn't sure if any of the others knew Rhunic. Persephone spoke Fhrey, but she wasn't confident in her ability. Knowing their language was a requirement of all chieftains because the Fhrey held meetings to review treaties and discuss grievances. Reglan had learned it from his father, and she learned the vernacular when Reglan had taught their son. Konniger didn't realize it yet, but he was going to have to learn the language from her.

Thankfully, the goblin wasn't there. The assortment of Galantians who ventured into the Crescent Forest each day was different, but each party always included him.

Aside from their daily outings, the Fhrey stayed mostly in their camp: stitching clothes, sharpening blades, polishing armor, and speaking quietly among themselves. That morning the tall one who carried the spear, a gigantic pole with a fearsome blade, sat rubbing it with a cloth. Next to him was the quiet one, who braided his hair and had a fascination with tying knots in lengths of rope or in the frayed threads of his clothes. The last was the one called Tekchin.

Persephone had heard his name from several of the others, usually when they told him to be quiet. Tekchin was a scary-looking Fhrey with short-cut hair, intense eyes, a scar cut along the side of his face, and a sneer that seemed just as permanent. The scar was easy to see as none of the Fhrey had beards. Persephone had previously thought Fhrey were like women in that respect, but since their arrival, she'd seen them scraping their faces with blades.

As the line of women approached the well, Tekchin stood up and moved to the edge of their path. Sarah faltered at his approach, and Persephone grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly to keep her walking. The Fhrey folded his arms and glared as they neared. So merciless was his gaze that the whole line slowed. Sarah tugged backward, and even Persephone had trouble keeping her feet moving forward.

From behind her, Moya shouted, “What are
you
looking at?”

Moya!

Persephone thought her heart might have stopped at that moment. Her feet certainly would have if they weren't in a procession, and it was hard to stop twenty people moving as one.

“I'm looking at
you,
” the Fhrey growled back in Rhunic, and moved toward her.

The line did halt then, jostling to a standstill. This time it was Sarah who squeezed Persephone's hand, and she did so with enough force that it hurt. Persephone guessed the only reason the women hadn't scattered was that they were too scared to move.

Then Moya did the unthinkable. She stepped out of line and closed the distance between herself and the sneering Galantian. She walked so forcefully that the empty gourds dangling from the pole over her shoulders bounced together making hollow
clunks.

“Well, this ain't a show, you know?” Moya said with the same saucy disdain she'd used when Heath Coswall asked her to dance last Wintertide. “We need water. So why don't you help us out and put your eyes back in your head.”

No one breathed for a moment as the two faced off; then all three Fhrey began laughing. Tekchin nodded and held out his hand. Moya looked confused. She obviously had meant for the Fhrey to help by getting out of their way, but he'd taken her words of assistance literally. When she didn't react, he reached out and lifted the pole off her shoulders. Moya stood still, as if a bee were buzzing around her. Tekchin took her gourds to the well, where he began pulling water.

The women just stared.

“Get over here and give me a hand,”
Tekchin demanded of the others in the Fhrey language.

The one with the spear set his weapon down and began working the rope, tying it around a gourd and lowering it. The Fhrey with the braided hair approached Persephone and took both her and Sarah's sets of jugs. He brought them over to the well, and Tekchin filled each.

“What's your name?” Tekchin asked Moya.

“Who wants to know?”

Don't push it! For all that's sacred, don't push it!
Persephone thought. She was ready to kill Moya yet wanted to kiss her at the same time.

“I'm Tekchin,” he said, exchanging an empty gourd for a full one. “The handsomest and most skilled of the Galantians.”

This brought an immediate and loud moan from the other Fhrey.

“That scar suggests otherwise,” Moya replied. “On both counts.”

More laughter, louder this time.

“Pretty and smart,”
Tekchin said to the others in Fhrey.

Persephone was thankful Moya couldn't understand their language. A comment like that would have been tantamount to putting torch to tinder.

“This?” Tekchin returned to Rhunic and touched his cheek. “Naw, this is a beauty mark given to me by a special friend. He's dead now, of course, but he was a gifted opponent and aiming for my throat. I can assure you it proves my skill. So what's your name, or shall I call you
Doe-Eyes
?”

“Doe-Eyes? Seriously?” Moya rolled her same-said eyes in disbelief. “I would have expected something less sappy from a god. My name is Moya. Call me anything else and you'll receive a second beauty mark.”

Tekchin struggled but failed to resist smiling. Behind him, the rest of the Fhrey laughed once more.

“God, eh?” Tekchin said.

“Don't get too excited. Apparently it's only a rumor.”

“I like you, Moya.”

“Most people do,” she replied. Seeing that her water containers were filled, Moya lifted the pole, laid it across her shoulders, and walked away.

The raid on the well had been a huge success, and Persephone received praise for coming up with the idea, despite Moya being the true hero of the hour. With stores of fresh water once more at hand, meals were made, animals watered, and songs sung. Not everyone was pleased. Konniger and Tressa were reportedly livid. Later that afternoon the new chieftain summoned Persephone to the lodge, a demand she chose to ignore. When Maeve was sent to ask why she had failed to appear, Moya answered for Persephone. “Tell Konniger she's taking a
bath.
”

This unleashed uncontrolled laughter in Roan's roundhouse, drawing a huff of indignation from Maeve before she left. No one knew whether Maeve actually delivered the message because a few minutes later the dahl's horn blew again, three long wails. The singing and laughter stopped.

“Fhrey!” Cobb shouted once again.

The gate stood open, as it did most days from dawn till dusk, and Cobb looked to Persephone for direction. She turned to Nyphron, who along with the rest of the Galantians had returned from their hike in the forest.

No one sought Konniger.

The Galantians said nothing. They merely gathered their weapons, slung shields, and marched out the gate. Not all of them went. The goblin stayed behind.

Persephone climbed the ladder to stand on top of the wall. She leaned out on the logs and looked down as the two groups converged just below. This new troop was remarkably similar to the Galantians. They wore brilliant golden breastplates, studded war skirts, plumed helms, and long blue capes. Despite the uniformity, Nyphron stood out. He was taller than the others, had no helm, and his golden hair blew in the breeze. But it was more than that. The swagger of his walk, and the way he folded his arms and stood waiting for the others to approach, made him greater than the rest—a god among gods.

“What's going to happen?” Cobb asked her. “Are they going to fight?”

“I don't know.”

“Similar in numbers. What if they do? Do we help?”

“I don't know.”

“What if they lose?”

“I don't know, Cobb! Be quiet, will you?”

The ladder creaked, and a moment later Raithe and Malcolm climbed up. They all leaned on the sharpened tips of the log rampart, peering down, waiting for the clash.

A terrible thought crossed Persephone's mind.
What if Nyphron has been waiting for reinforcements before starting a slaughter?

The two groups exchanged hand gestures—nothing threatening, greetings perhaps—and then they came together and began talking in Fhrey. Persephone did her best to understand the exchange.

“What are you doing here?”
the leader of the other group asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,”
Nyphron replied.

“We're looking for the Rhune that murdered Shegon.”

“Not here.”

“You sure?”
the other Fhrey asked.

“We've been here for days. I think we would have noticed.”

The other leader nodded thoughtfully, and there was a long pause.

“Why'd you do it?”

It was Nyphron's turn to nod thoughtfully.
“You're not looking for Shegon's murderer, are you?”

“We are, but Petragar also asked if we could find you.”

“And what will you tell him?”

“I don't know.”
The Fhrey sighed.
“Fleeing just made matters worse.”

“Fleeing?”
Nyphron laughed.
“Sikar, tell me honestly, have you ever known me to flee?”

Although there had been a formation of sorts on their approach, both groups had broken their lines. They didn't exactly mingle, but they weren't prepping for combat, either. Sikar stood in the forefront with Nyphron. Smaller, thinner, with shorter hair and a weaker posture, Sikar appeared no match for the leader of the Galantians.

“So what would you call it? Petragar said you refused orders, broke his jaw, and ran off.”

“First of all”
—Tekchin paused to belch—
“Petragar, the little ass-ica that he is, was unconscious at the time. So he doesn't know Tet.”

Sikar kept his attention on Nyphron.
“Are you saying you didn't defy orders?”

“Oh, we disobeyed,”
Nyphron said, and glanced back at the Galantians with a wry smile.
“That part is true. And we have no intention of returning to the Rhist.”

“You might want to reconsider,”
Sikar said.
“Petragar has sent word to Estramnadon.”

“What a brideeth,”
Nyphron said.
“That's the kind of overreaction I'd expect from someone like him and it's exactly why Lothian shouldn't have turned over the reins of the Rhist to anyone but an Instarya.”

“Nyphron, you refused a direct order from the fane, and you broke the commander's jaw. What did you expect?”

Nyphron shrugged.

Sikar stared at him in disbelief, then looked back at his troops and shook his head, clapping his hands to his sides.
“Nyphron, the fane could order your execution. Why did you do it?”

“I thought you'd met Petragar,”
Nyphron said, and smiled.

Sikar sighed.
“This isn't funny. When I go back, I will have to report finding you.”