Age of Myth (8 page)

“I'm pleased to see you in the Garden. I wouldn't have thought you came here. It's good to find that despite turning away from your tribe to join the ranks of the new ruling class, you still revere the faith enough to contemplate the mysteries of the Door.”

As backhanded a compliment as it was, Arion simply nodded. She didn't have the heart to tell her mother she had been cutting through the Garden because it was the shortest route to the palace.

Perhaps Nyree wished to leave her daughter on a positive note or wanted to quit while ahead, but whatever the reason, she stood up. “And I'll leave you to do just that, as I wouldn't wish to deprive you of what is certainly the high point of your day.”

“Will you be here again tomorrow?”

Nyree shook her head. “I'm only here to grant blessings on the new fane, which we did yesterday. We witnessed that ridiculous ceremony and watched as the new fane planted his
exalted backside
on the Forest Throne. Then we saw the whole city go insane in celebration. A bunch of your deranged Miralyith flooded Florella Plaza; did you know that?”

“Those were students, and they were trying to make a sculpture of Fane Lothian out of the waters of the Shinara River. They weren't successful.”

“No, they weren't, because success is only achieved through physical labor, faith in Ferrol, and determination of the spirit. I still pray that one day you'll come to understand those truths.”

She walked away before Arion could say anything more, even goodbye. Arion lingered on the bench, watching her mother go.

I'll never see her again. I wonder if she cares.

Neither Nyree nor Arion was young. Nyree was pushing twenty-five hundred, and Arion had recently turned two thousand. Fhrey rarely lived more than three thousand years. Since the previous fane had ruled for nearly twenty-six hundred years, and it had taken a coronation to bring Nyree into the city, both of them would likely be dead before another opportunity arose. Of course, Arion could visit her mother, but she saw no point in traveling for days to repeat this encounter.

Arion sighed, flopped against the back of the bench, and looked at the Door. She couldn't help it; the thing was right across from her. She walked by the relic every day, but she hadn't really looked at it in more than a century. Like her mother, it hadn't changed.

Most people wondered what was on the other side, and Arion was no different. This unknowable truth was the reason for the benches. Fhrey would come to the Garden to sit and contemplate the transcendent world beyond.

Maybe it was guilt brought on by her mother or perhaps because she hadn't done so in such a long time, but Arion closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and prayed.

“She's wrong.”

Arion was pulled from her meditation when she heard the voice and opened her eyes. Sitting on the next bench over, a fellow in a dingy, brown robe leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at the Door as people usually did, just as she had done.

“Success,” he continued, “is achieved most consistently through cruelty and deception. Determination of the spirit certainly helps, but faith in Ferrol is a currency as valuable as a pair of shoes two sizes too small.”

“It's not polite to eavesdrop,” Arion replied. “That was a private conversation.”

Arion stood to go. She'd already lingered too long and might be late for her first instruction with the prince. The lad was only twenty-five years old and in desperate need of training in the ways of the Art. His previous instructors had been too lenient, leaving the prince with a woeful lack of skill. Before Fenelyus's death she had asked Arion to take over her grandson's education.
He'll rule one day, and I fear he will be a curse if something isn't done,
Arion's mentor had said.

It had come as a surprise when the new fane agreed to honor his mother's wishes. Arion had been convinced that Lothian disliked her and was jealous of his mother's attention toward someone who wasn't related.
You should be more like Arion,
Fenelyus used to say, oblivious to the insult to her son and unconcerned about the possible trouble it might cause Arion once Lothian assumed the throne. So far, the new fane had surprised her.

Arion took a step toward the palace, but the fellow spoke again. Pointing across from them, he said, “That Door can't be opened. Ever try? You could cleave it with an ax, ram it with a tree, or set fire to its wood, and nothing would happen. Even a master of the Art can't breach it. Such a small simple door, but all the power of nature is useless against it. So the question is, how did she do it?”

“How did who do what?” Arion asked.

“Fenelyus. How did she get inside? How did she get past the Door?”

“I don't know that she did.” Arion didn't care for this stranger. A full head of hair indicated he probably wasn't a Miralyith, which made her wonder about his comment,
Even a master of the Art can't breach it.

How does he know what the Art is and isn't capable of?
Arion wondered.

“Oh, she did. Trust me.”

Arion didn't trust him, not in the least. Her discomfort wasn't merely because he was a stranger; his appearance was disturbing. She prided herself on proper grooming, and he was the most unkempt person she had ever seen. His brown robe was frayed, torn, and stained in more than a few places.

He has actual dirt under his fingernails.
She shuddered at the sight and turned away.

“No one saw her go in or come out,” he went on despite Arion's obvious avoidance. “The visit was all very hush-hush, and she denied it—or rather avoided the subject—for the remainder of her life.”

“Then she didn't go inside,” Arion declared. “Fenelyus was an extremely honest person. I knew her well.”

“I know.”

Arion looked back at him then. “You know what?”

“She was the mother you always wished you'd had, instead of the pompous, pious, prejudiced prude who just left. Nyree still considers your decision to leave your birth tribe and join the Miralyith an act of heresy. She can't understand why you turned your back on the priesthood to become one of
them.
”

Arion felt uneasy. She was certain she'd only referred to Nyree as
Mother,
yet this man had used her name. Since her mother lived in seclusion, it was unlikely the two were acquaintances. Even more disturbing, Arion didn't remember seeing this man while talking to her mother. For that matter, she hadn't seen anyone around them during their chat.

Has he been spying on me? And if so, why?

“Who are you?” she demanded.

He smiled. “You don't have time for me to answer that; you have a prince to teach. The only reason you stopped was because you accidentally stumbled on your mother while cutting through the Garden on your way to the palace.”

The uneasy sensation turned to a chill.

If he'd somehow overheard their conversation, he would know about tutoring the prince. It's even possible he could have known about her history with Nyree—a lot of people did. Even if he didn't, he could have guessed as much after listening to them. But thinking more carefully, she was now certain no one had been around them during their conversation.

And how could he know why I'm here?

“Who are you?” she asked again.

“For the sake of expediency, let's limit the answer to a name. You can call me Trilos.”

His cavalier attitude made him even more of an enigma. Although her mother wasn't impressed with Arion's accomplishments, almost everyone else was. Being a ranked member of the ruling tribe demanded respect in and of itself. But the Art made Miralyith practically invincible—as demonstrated during the recent challenge—and most Fhrey avoided any contact with practitioners of the Art if at all possible. Those who
did
summon the courage to speak would do so reverently, carefully avoiding anything that might provoke ire. And Trilos had said more than enough to get on her nerves. Ferrol's Law prevented Fhrey from killing Fhrey, but as she had reminded Aiden, it didn't prevent inflicting pain. Miralyith were called Artists because of the creativity needed to manifest magic, and when that creativity was applied to acts of retribution, the results could be terrifying.

Maybe she had been premature in her assessment of his tribal status. Most Miralyith kept their heads shaved in the belief that knots and snarls impeded the flow of the Art, but even Fenelyus had maintained a luxuriant mane that grew wavy and thick down to the middle of her back, but that was Fenelyus. Being the first to wield the Art, she didn't know the impediments knotted hair created. Once she found out, she was too old to care.

I've done well enough in ignorance, wouldn't you say?
the old fane had told Arion.
And I admit to my vanity. I wouldn't look nearly as beautiful without hair as you do.

Using the Art, Arion performed the mystical equivalent of a harsh stare, examining Trilos. Most often this revealed only a person's demeanor represented in the form of colors, which wasn't terribly useful. One didn't need the Art to detect emotions or moods, but if the subject was an Artist, the scrutiny would provide insights about his or her proficiency. What Arion discovered was nothing—nothing at all. According to the Art, Trilos didn't exist.

“
What
are you?” she asked.

He smiled. “Fenelyus was no more capable of opening the Door than you or even I, so a more interesting question is
how
did she do it?”

You or
even
I?

Arion felt an unfamiliar twinge of fear. Trees had gone from seeds to towering giants since the last time she'd felt afraid. Fear was a childhood monster banished to a distant memory after she'd discovered the Art—at least the life-threatening brand of terror.

But this isn't life threatening, is it?

A person brandishing a blade was an obvious threat. The truly unknown, when it arrived uninvited and used your mother's name, possessed a horror all its own. Arion was Miralyith—the next best thing to a god according to some ardent practitioners—but what sat beside her was beyond her ability to fathom.

“The answer is obvious when you think about it,” Trilos said, and bit into an apple. “I'm sure you would have figured it out if you weren't so preoccupied. The answer is this…Fenelyus didn't open the Door.”

Did he have the apple before?
She couldn't remember.
Maybe it was in his hand all along and I just— Wait, where did he get an apple in early spring?

She watched him chew, the juice of the fruit slipping over his lower lip and running down his chin. When at last he swallowed, he said, “The Door was opened
for
her.”

He smiled as if expecting her to care, or maybe he thought she would be impressed or intrigued. Instead, she focused on the impossibility of the juice dripping from his chin. Arion was an accomplished Artist, probably the fourth most powerful in the world now that Fenelyus had passed, but she couldn't manifest creation. As far as she knew, no one could. Not even something as simple as an apple.

“Now you have to ask yourself, who opened it for her, and why?”

“What do you want with me?”

“Do you know what's inside?”

He wasn't going to answer any questions. She considered walking away and wondered if he would let her.

Let me?
The thought was odd, irrational.

She had no reason to believe he would interfere or cause harm, and Arion was far from helpless. So it was strange that she felt threatened. She remained standing in front of the bench—her curiosity battling trepidation. Curiosity won out, and she replied, “The First Tree.”

Trilos nodded as he chewed. “Your mother would be proud. Yes, the oldest living thing is currently encased in a sarcophagus of stone accessible only by a small white door that can't be opened.”

“Is there a point? I need to leave.”

“History repeats itself. Frequently, in fact, but not by its own doing.” Trilos looked at the Door. “Once does not make a pattern, so the world is about to change again, about to go for a spin. You'll be at the center, I think, able to influence the tilt, much like Fenelyus. You need to be heedful of strangers. Strangers and doors. Then we'll both find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Who opened that Door.”

That spring, we had a new chieftain named Konniger. We also had a new mystic. Her name was Suri. Konniger had a talent for drinking, boasting, and the ax, but Suri could talk to trees.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

For the past twenty years, Persephone had sat in the Second Chair beside her husband at every general meeting of the clan. That morning she entered the lodge as a visitor. It felt strange walking into what had been her home—into a world of memories—as a guest. Her eyes were drawn to the changes. The woodpile had been moved to the east wall and the bear rug brought down from the bedroom upstairs. Konniger's ax hung from a winter pillar. Of all these changes, the one she couldn't help staring at was the addition of Reglan's shield to the pantheon of past chieftains' weapons hanging from the rafters.

The inhabitants of the dahl clustered around the central fire, sitting on the floor. Konniger sat in the First Chair, waiting for the crowd to settle. Although he had suffered no wounds from his duel with Holliman, he still bore the gash on his head from the fight with the bear. The bandages were gone, but the bright-pink marks were slow to fade. From the way Konniger avoided looking Persephone in the eye, she imagined the injuries were trivial compared with the deeper pain of failing to protect his chieftain and friend.

Beside him was his wife, Tressa, wearing Persephone's silver torc and ring. A circlet of spring flowers adorned her elaborately braided hair. Persephone had been terrified her first day on display; Tressa didn't look the least bit frightened. She rubbed the arms of the chair, squirming like an excited child; a great smile hoisted her round cheeks.

Persephone felt sorry for her.
She has no idea what she's in for. She sees it as a grand party, but that won't last.

A few in the crowd looked over at Persephone and smiled awkwardly, unsure how to act. Her presence made the gathering uncomfortable. Everyone saw Konniger's first official meeting as an end to the mourning period, and she was the leftover debris of a once beloved, but now ruined, reign. She purposely sat in the rear to give Konniger and Tressa the chance to establish themselves. Persephone's plan was to remain silent and invisible.

The lodge filled, causing everyone to shift and press tightly together. Some from the outlying villages had come, and the room had never been so packed. Everyone was there, including Adler and Hegner, the two men maimed in the bear hunt. Adler had gained the nickname One-Eye. Hegner, having lost his hand, was now called The Stump. Persephone didn't use either moniker out of respect for those who had received their wounds in defense of her husband. Like Persephone, they had sequestered themselves since Reglan's death but had come out for this. Even Tope, who farmed the high ridge and was late getting his field tilled due to sickness and heavy rain, had pulled his family away from work so that they could all be present. Parents brought their children, who sat cross-legged near the fire pit, the light of the flames dancing on their cheeks. The younger ones smiled; the older ones knew better. This wasn't a story night; there would be no feast or songs.

The new chieftain had called a full meeting to discuss the rumors that had obsessed the dahl's residents for several days. Two troubling stories had arrived, one on the heels of the other. Both had come from the north. The first, clearly impossible, hadn't been believed at all—until they'd heard the second. The second rumor was so unimaginably terrifying that it had to be true.

“Are the gods coming to kill us?” Tope shouted over the murmurs. The farmer, as well as everyone else, was understandably impatient.

Konniger stroked his beard and frowned in irritation at the question, even though he'd called the meeting to discuss exactly that. Perhaps he'd planned some opening statement. This was his first official address as chieftain, and he probably wanted to make it momentous.

Konniger was a handsome man with a thick black beard, long loose hair, and a Rhen-patterned leigh mor pinned over his left shoulder. The cloth was bright and looked to be new. He sat with both hands gripping the arms of the chair, his feet flat and back straight. The model of a chieftain, he appeared strong and fit, firm and solid, a rock for his people to latch onto. Persephone spotted her husband's ring on Konniger's finger and felt the familiar falling sensation in her stomach that made her wonder why she was still there. She was the floating oar after the boat had sunk, the marred, wooden handle of a shattered stone ax.

“It can't be true,” Maeve responded with her indomitable tone of absolute confidence. The Keeper of Ways stood slightly behind and between the two chairs. Hood up, white hair tucked away, face as stern as weathered stone, the old woman—all that remained of the previous leadership—lent legitimacy to the pair. “The gods have always treated us fairly. The rules by which we live peacefully were agreed upon in ancient treaties. So long as we pay our tribute on time and in full, don't cross or dam the western rivers, or otherwise bring harm to the Fhrey realm, we are protected from their wrath. This was promised by their Chieftain Fenelyus.”

“And what does this ancient tweety say will happen when one of us kills a god?” Gifford asked, his twisted lips mangling the word
treaty.
In a different setting, it might have elicited smiles or even a laugh.

Gifford had been born wrong. His back was twisted like ivy on a post, making walking across the dahl an achievement worthy of praise. His head, which always tilted to one side, looked as if a giant had squeezed it, leaving one eye in a permanent squint and his lips squished. His mother had died giving him life, and many had questioned the wisdom of letting Gifford live. His father had been convinced Gifford would be a great man. Everyone knew he spoke out of grief for his wife rather than from sense, but no one had the heart to intercede. Besides, leaving the infant to the mercy of the forest spirits probably wouldn't be necessary; the boy hadn't been expected to last a week. Gifford's father had died seven years ago, and some of the people who'd advocated abandonment had also died over the years. Gifford, however, was still alive, and at the age of twenty was the best potter in the seven clans.

Maeve's face hardened, if such a thing were possible. “It doesn't say anything. Because a man can't kill a god.”

“Trader Justen of Split Road swore it was true,” Brin said, her youthful voice piercing the grumbling din. “Said he'd met Raithe and saw the broken copper.
And
the god's blade, he—”

“Hush, girl,” Sarah whispered to her daughter.

Brin caught the stern look and diminished, settling back on her heels.

“That's right,” Atmore said. “I've known Justen for most of my life. He's never lied to anyone. If he says it's true, then it is. Why else would the gods turn against us? What else could draw such a punishment?”

“A man can't kill a god,” Sackett said. At the sound of his low voice, the room quieted. Sackett rarely said much, so when the new Shield of the chieftain spoke, people listened. People believed.

“What have
you
heard, Konniger?” Adler shouted from the door, his new eye patch granting him a veteran's importance.

Konniger looked over to where a group of strangers stood, ten men wearing solemn faces and the predominantly brown Nadak pattern. “Although I agree with Sackett that a god can't be killed, there is no doubt they have turned on our kind. The gods have destroyed Dureya.”

A confused silence followed.

“What do you mean,
destroyed
?” Farmer Wedon asked.

“These men”—he gestured toward the strangers—“are from Nadak. Five days ago, they saw smoke in the north. They crossed into the highlands of Dureya, but the dahl was gone. Men, women, and children butchered. Their lodge and all the outlying villages are nothing more than burned-out shells, only the wind left to howl.”

The entire hall murmured in disbelief. No words followed, only gasps and curses, which died on stunned lips.

“How many survived?” Tope asked.

“Dureyans?” Konniger took a long breath. “None. Even the livestock were slaughtered.”

“How do we know it was the gods?” Delwin asked. “Maybe it was the Gula-Rhunes.”

The men near the door shook their heads. One with a black leather band wound around his forehead said, “The bodies were in neat rows as if they'd been lined up to die. And their weapons had been left. Nothing was taken, nothing looted. Everything was burned.”

More murmurs.

“So maybe it was the gods, but Dureya was attacked because Raithe, this God Killer, is from there. We haven't done anything to offend the gods. We don't bother them, and they won't bother us, right?” Delwin said in a tone that sounded more like a wish than a declaration. He had an arm around his wife, Sarah, pulling her close. “This has nothing to do with us.”

“But what if it does?” Gifford asked. “What if the gods—maybe they don't see a diff-wence between
Du-e-ya
and
us
?” Gifford using
r
-words in public indicated more than idle concern. “Tell them what you saw this mow-ning, Tope.”

Heads turned to the haggard farmer, who wiped his face with a grain sack he usually used as a hat. “I saw smoke to the northwest, right up the valley road. Looked like it was coming from Nadak.”

An ominous silence froze the room. The men from Nadak stared at Tope. Then the questions came.

“How much smoke?”

“When was this?”

“What color was the smoke?”

Each voice sounded more concerned than the one before.

“Was a lot of smoke, black smoke,” Tope said. “You can still see it if you climb to the top of the Horn Ridge.”

Hearing this, the strangers rushed out. The rest watched them go into a deceptively pleasant spring day.

“That doesn't prove anything,” Delwin said, but he pulled Sarah closer and placed a hand on his daughter's head.

“Sounds like the Fway punished them, too,” Gifford said. “If they come, what we going to do?”

“What do you mean,
do
?” Konniger asked. “What is there to do?”

Several of the faces in the hall looked surprised.

Konniger hadn't exhibited much intelligence over the years, and Persephone figured he didn't understand the question. She pushed up to her knees. “I think they want to know what steps you plan to take to prevent what happened to Dureya, and possibly Nadak, from happening here.”

Her comment drew a sharp look from Tressa, whose lips pulled taut.

“There's nothing to do,” Konniger replied. “It won't happen here.
We've
done nothing wrong.”

“But if a Fhrey has been killed, then—” Delwin started.

“
We
didn't kill him,” Konniger said, cutting him off. “They have no reason to bother us.”

Tressa smirked. “Dureyans have always caused trouble. Serves them right. I call it justice. They brought the wrath of the divine down on themselves. But we have nothing to fear.”

“What about Nadak?” Gifford asked. “What'd they do?”

“We don't know anything about Nadak,” Konniger said, then nodded at his wife and drew himself up straighter.

Not the best way to start,
Persephone thought. She knew firsthand how difficult it could be, making decisions while everyone watched. When people were scared and looking for someone to take that fear away, it was a mistake to leave them idle to speculate and worry.

“But there are still some things we can do, yes?” Persephone asked.

So much for being quiet and invisible. How long did that last, five minutes? But five minutes ago, Dureya and Nadak still existed.

All eyes shifted between the new chieftain and the old chieftain's widow.

Just say yes. Say,
Of course,
and if you can't think of anything, ask me later when no one is looking. But don't leave them lost.

Konniger declared, “There are things beyond the control of men, and the will of the gods is one of them.”

Seriously?

“I agree. We can't control what the gods will do,” Persephone said. “But we aren't helpless, either. We could send a delegation to Alon Rhist explaining how we had nothing to do with the actions of Dureyans. And we could send messengers to the other dahls, like the men of Nadak who came here. We should let others know what's going on. At the very least, we should send someone to Nadak to check out the smoke Tope saw. Maybe they weren't attacked. Perhaps they just had a fire that got out of control. If Nadak has also been destroyed, that's much different than if it was only Dureya. We need to know for sure, as that bit of information significantly changes what we should do.”

“Persephone”—Tressa interceded for her husband, straightening in the chair as she spoke—“we grieve for your loss. But Reglan is dead, and Konniger is the chieftain. I think your voice would best serve the dahl by being silent.”

Persephone would have ignored the verbal slap if Tressa hadn't mentioned Reglan. At least that was what she told herself afterward. Instead, she said, “If you were paying attention, Tressa, you'd know I wasn't speaking to you.”

Konniger patted his wife's hand, probably to defuse the tension in the room. “And if we find out Nadak has been attacked? And if no one at Alon Rhist will talk to us. What then?”

“If this is true, if the gods have declared war and won't negotiate a peace, we need to gather what we can and leave.”

“Leave?” He said the word as if he'd never heard it before. “And go where?”

Having me give you all the answers in front of a crowd is no way to instill confidence.

Persephone had hoped Konniger could find his way if she pointed him in the right direction. Apparently, that was wishful thinking. “At this point, I'd say south is a good direction. I'd aim for Dahl Tirre to give us as much time as possible to—”