Age of Myth (21 page)

“Konniger, you've known me since you were a boy and protected me and my family for a decade. You
know
me. You can't possibly believe I'd kill or arrange for others to kill Adler and Sackett. You're jumping to conclusions. I know you're in a difficult position, and it's Hegner's word against mine. But look at the sources. I'm a respected chieftain's widow who helped lead this clan through the Great Famine and the Long Winter, whereas Hegner's claim to fame was when he stole Wedon's prized calf. Who deserves your trust?”

“I didn't steal no calf!” Hegner shouted.

“You've also said you didn't take a jug of Bergin's beer, but you were caught with it.”

“Yeah, well, okay. I took the beer, but I didn't steal no calf.”

“There,” Persephone said. “This is who you are listening to? Do you really think I've been having secret meetings in the forest? You know damn well I haven't set foot in the forest in all the years you've guarded me and my family. And except that one time, I haven't left Sarah's house since Reglan's death. I was gone for one day…just one. As for the Fhrey, they aren't my personal anything. But if they were, why would I come here and try to convince you to step up and go see them? The only reason I've talked to Nyphron at all is because no one else was.”

“So what
did
you tell this
Nyphron
?” Konniger asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“I told him he had permission to speak on behalf of Dahl Rhen if more Fhrey arrive.”

This brought a wide smile to Tressa's face and made Konniger's head nod along with the rest. They all seemed pleased, with the exception of Hegner, who slunk back into the shadows.

“You didn't think you should ask your chieftain before making alliances?” Krier asked. Until then he had leaned against a winter post, but at that moment he took a step toward her.

Krier was an ugly man who'd first come to Persephone's attention for beating Gifford. The bully often taunted and threw rotten vegetables at the potter. The matter had come before Reglan, and Krier defended himself by saying the cripple had attacked him with his crutch, but witnesses said Gifford had simply fallen on Krier after tripping.
Gifford is cursed by the gods. Having him around invites bad luck,
Krier often said. Although no one was ever accused, someone had tried to set fire to Gifford's house, and it was no secret whom most suspected.

Tope, who was no friend of Krier, straightened up and spit in his direction.

“You have a problem, Tope?” Krier asked.

“Yeah,” Tope replied. “You're too far away.”

Persephone put a hand on the farmer's sleeve, trying to calm him. Then said to Konniger, “Would you have said differently? Would you have refused their help and tried to keep them out of Dahl Rhen?”

“That's not the point,” Tressa nearly shouted, and slammed her hand down on the arm of the chair. “You had no right! Reglan is
dead,
dead and buried. You aren't in charge anymore!”

“Enough!” Konniger raised his hands. “I'm the chieftain of this clan, and I need time to figure this out. One thing I do know, the Galantians represent a threat. Maybe they are in league with Persephone, or maybe their kind will attack us because we are providing shelter. Either way, we would be safer if they weren't here. So this is my decree…” He looked directly at her. “Persephone, you'll go out there and tell the Fhrey you had no authority to speak on behalf of Clan Rhen. Then, you'll inform them we don't want their help and tell them to leave. As for this matter between you and Hegner, I'll decide that later when I can address it properly.”

Persephone looked at Delwin and Tope. The two stood rigid, their eyes shifting nervously.

“You have a problem with that?” Konniger asked.

Persephone nodded. “Yes, yes, I do. I did what I thought was best to save this dahl. It was not my intention to challenge your authority but rather to encourage you to exercise it. You're the great chieftain—so act like it. If you want the Fhrey to leave, you go out there and tell them yourself, and I'll go back to living off the kindness of friends. Maybe I'll start knitting a shawl. I think I'll need one come winter…if you haven't killed us all before then, that is.”

Persephone turned and walked away so abruptly that Delwin and Tope were momentarily left behind.

As she left, she heard Tressa say, “See, what did I tell you?”

Suri had a wolf named Minna. They were the best of friends and roamed the forest together. She had tattoos, was always filthy, afraid of nothing, and could do magic. From the first time I met her, I wanted to be Suri…I still do.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

The bones were excellent…for a chicken.

Suri would have preferred a crow or, better yet, a raven. Gods frequently chose them to be messengers and spirits often inhabited their bodies. Not that Suri would dare kill one to get at its bones. The divine rarely appreciated the murder of a faithful servant. And of course there was always the risk of actually wringing the neck of a spirit in bird form, and that was just a bad day for everyone involved. The chicken bones would work even if the connection through the veil was hazy and intermittent. At least she wouldn't fear offending anyone. No god, goddess, or spirit would ever inhabit or employ a chicken.

Suri planned to call on Mari. She didn't know exactly what she was looking for, but Mari, the goddess of wisdom, was the patron of Persephone's home, and so Suri figured Mari would be the best overall choice. Suri was outside the palisade on the western side of the dahl, the highest point she could find. Minna lay quietly on the hill a few feet away, giving her space. The wolf was considerate that way. The mystic built her little fire and waited for the sun to descend. It was best to begin a reading at dusk, when the doors between the worlds were open the widest. They wouldn't remain open long. While waiting, she divided the bones into groups. Those taken from the right side of the chicken referred to the “us,” the ones on whose behalf she performed the reading. Bones from the left represented the “others,” those in opposition.

As the sun dipped behind the distant trees, Suri dropped the two sets of bones into the flames. She waited as the black line of forest trees swallowed up the giant orange ball. She didn't count or use any physical measurements. Suri was an instinctive augur. She performed her rituals by feel. Tura had taught Suri everything the old mystic had known, but she admitted no one could teach interpretation. You were either born with the talent or not.

Suri had the gift.

Tura had spotted it right away. The old mystic told Suri how she had called songbirds as a toddler. After placing the child in a clearing of daisies, violets, and bluebells, Tura would hide in the nearby forest eaves. Before long, Suri would be surrounded by a flock of birds—a multicolored gathering of unrelated songsters: goldfinches, red-winged blackbirds, blue jays, magpies, yellow- and black-throated warblers, bay wrens, robins, mockingbirds, and song sparrows. Suri would sit among them, delighting in their symphony. Gathering birds wasn't her only talent; she also talked to fire spirits, knew when it would rain, and could predict the arrival of the first hard frost. Suri had the gift, but Tura gave her the tools to use it.

As the sky shifted hue from orange to purple, Suri felt the moment and doused the fire. Fire spirits hated water. All the children of the fire god, Outha, did. This one was no different, and it hissed at her.

“Sorry,” she told it, and wished she knew its name. She wasn't even certain all spirits had names. The most important ones did. Wogan, the spirit of the Crescent Forest, for example, and Fribble-bibble the spirit of the High Stream, whose name she loved saying. The little fire spirits were like the rock and breeze spirits, too many to keep track of. She wondered if Elan bothered to name them all.

Gathering the bones, Suri laid them on a woven mat and began looking for the fire-born cracks and tiny holes. The way Tura had explained it, searching for truth in bones was a lot like guessing a person's intent from the tone of his or her voice. In this case, it would be the voice of Mari, and the language was that of the divine. As such, much was left to interpretation. Still, Suri had a knack for divination that wasn't restricted to just reading bones.

Tura had marveled at Suri's ability to find her way in the forest. Initially, the older mystic attributed this skill to an excellent memory, but tossed that idea aside when Suri demonstrated the ability to find places she hadn't been to before. After more than fifty years in the Crescent, Tura had discovered two of the underground rooms—the ones Malcolm had called Dherg rols. Suri found the other three in a week.

But communing with fire spirits is where Suri excelled the most. By the age of eight, her game of talking to fires and making the flames dance and change color had grown into something more. While watching Tura struggle to light kindling by spinning a stick with a bow, Suri ignited her own pile of wood with a few words.

“How did you do that?” Tura had asked.

Suri shrugged. “I asked a fire spirit to come, and it did. Isn't that right?”

Tura nodded, but Suri had seen the confusion in the old woman's face along with apprehension and maybe even a little fear. Tura began talking about malkins after that and mentioned how Suri might have come from the land of crimbals.

Suri stared at the bones, reading them as best she could in the fading light. That was always a problem with sunset readings. Such things needed the light of day to decipher, and it faded so fast. As the sun set and the night took hold of the world, Suri read a number of things. They weren't the answers she was looking for, nothing about the men and why they had attacked, but what she saw was even more important.

Suri finished studying the patterns on the right leg. The holes were close together and near the top, indicating the forecast would be impending rather than concerning some distant future. Looking at the cracks, she saw there were two lines, which suggested two separate tales.

First and foremost, the chicken was flooded with bad omens in the same overwhelming manner that Suri had seen just before coming to Persephone. Little had changed on that score. Looking deeper, searching for specifics, she saw that all the bones agreed that the full moon would be the time of reckoning—the pivotal moment. The bones didn't say how because the bones didn't know, most likely because she was reading a chicken. They only showed a convergence of powers that, depending on the outcome, would change the world. Three of the bones told of a terrible danger to both the “us” and the “them.” One of the bones fascinated Suri because it suggested that a great secret was hidden in the forest and guarded by a bear. That bone also said this secret would play a significant role in the conflict to come. But it was the last bone that shocked her more than any other. The largest and clearest, only its tip had been marred by the fire. This bone declared that a monster was coming to Dahl Rhen to kill them all.

Suri cursed the fading light as she stared at the cracks and smudges. She would have guessed the
monster
referred to the Fhrey, but no. The marks indicated a single creature rather than a host of enemies. And the markings were so clear that Suri knew the monster's name
.
More came after that but was lost to charring. It didn't matter; Suri had all the hints she needed.

“Grin,” she said aloud.

A moment later, a bear roared in the distance, startling a flock of dark birds. They flew away toward the setting sun—toward the west.

Minna's head came up, her eyes peering at the forest.

She whispered to Minna, “That's not good.”

So many of our words originally came from either the Dherg or the Fhrey. The Fhrey word for “primitive” being
Rhune,
it became their word for humans.
Rhulyn
then means “Land of Rhune.”
Avrlyn
means “Land of Green.” And
dahl
was the Fhrey word for “wall.” The suffix
-ydd
, in Fhrey, translates to “new.” Which is why on the map I have named this region Rhenydd.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Because of its name, Arion expected the frontier of Avrlyn to be green, but for the last several days all she'd seen was brown. Brown rocks, brown grass, brown mud; even the trees were dingy. She'd also been disappointed by the lack of fields. Arion had seen paintings of open valleys—large expanses of flat land or rolling hills—that granted visions of massive skies and wondrous sunsets. Instead, since crossing the Nidwalden, she had walked through an endless tunnel of forests, and the vast woodlands known as the Harwood weren't anything like the ancient groves of Erivan. They didn't invite guests to wander in dappled shade. Instead, dense thickets shunned the light and barred passage with thorny brambles. Forests here were wild, hostile things, and she imagined secrets cloaked in moss, leaf, and needle.

She followed Thym, who rode on a cream-colored horse. Gryndal had offered to supply her with a guide, but she had declined. It wasn't due to any concern about him harming or spying on her. She simply didn't want to spend several days of isolation with one of Gryndal's toadies. Still, she recognized the need for a guide.

To her surprise, Arion learned that no living Miralyith, aside from the fane, had set foot outside of Erivan. That forced her to pick a guide from one of the other tribes, which widened the choices, but not by much. Few Fhrey besides the Instarya had ever crossed the Nidwalden River, and none of them could be found in Estramnadon. Eventually, she narrowed the choices to six. They included an Eilywin architect who had once been employed by the Instarya to do some repair work on the northernmost fortress of Ervanon after it had suffered an attack from a band of giants. She'd asked three times about the giant attack to be certain she'd heard correctly. She had. There was also a trio of Nilyndd builders, the same ones the Eilywin had brought with her to do the actual repairs. Another possibility was an Asendwayr hunter, who had served for several hundred years at each of the four Avrlyn frontier outposts, but he was ill when Arion visited. And then there was Thym, an Umalyn who was charged by the tribe of Ferrol's faithful to spend the warm months ministering to the outer reaches.

Arion chose Thym because she felt comfortable with one of Ferrol's faithful, having grown up among that tribe. After two thousand years, Arion recognized almost everyone living in Estramnadon, and Thym was no different. Still, he had been just a face and a name. And although she'd probably met him before, she couldn't recall any conversations. Thym was in the process of preparing for his yearly trip west when she explained about the fane sending her to Alon Rhist, and she asked if he would act as her escort to the frontier. He replied with a stiff smile and a dutiful nod, then introduced her to the horse she would ride.

Arion had never ridden a horse; few sane Fhrey had. The skittish animals were known to bolt or throw their riders. Ferrol had blessed the Fhrey with three thousand years of life, and given that falls often resulted in permanent injury or death, the idea of getting on the back of even the most docile animal was reason for concern.

“Can't we walk?” she had asked when meeting the horse for the first time.

“It's nearly a hundred miles over rough terrain to Alon Rhist,” Thym replied. “And forgive me, Your Eminence, but you don't look like you do much hiking.”

She conceded, accepting the logic that there was little point in obtaining a Green Field Guide's services if she didn't take his advice. And that's how Arion came to be precariously perched on the back of an extremely tall white horse named Naraspur when she and her guide reached the edge of the Harwood. The long tunnel of trees ended, and Arion beheld a wondrous sight. Leaving the forest, she discovered they were at a great height, on a ridge that afforded a breathtaking view. Having lived her entire life under Erivan's canopy, Arion was amazed.

So this is the sky!

The entirety of it was so broad and deep, it appeared endless. There were inexplicable white wisps floating above them, and a brilliant light. Previously, she'd experienced the sun only filtered through layers of leaves and needles. Looking straight out, Arion saw her first horizon. She could see for forever. Hills rose and fell in blue ridges. Even more impressive was the monstrous mountain that towered over them. Cone-shaped, it appeared to challenge the vast blue of the sky for dominance, its peak a brilliant white. From it flowed a river, which snaked below them, glistening silver. But not even the mountain could rival the awe-inspiring sight of the sky.

Thym waited patiently, his horse's tail swishing. The Umalyn were a patient lot, but he also must have known the effect of that bend in the road. She imagined that everyone he traveled with paused in that exact spot.

“It's beautiful,” she said.

“From here on, you'll need to travel with your hood up to guard against the sun. Cover your skin except during early morning or late afternoon. Otherwise you'll burn.”

“Burn?”

Thym nodded. “If you limit your exposure, your skin will gradually darken. Then you won't have to worry. A lot of sun too quickly will burn you.” He patted the top of his head with the flat of his palm. The priest had a full head of curly brown hair, so full and buoyant that he might have been wearing a furry hat. “My hair protects me, but you won't fare so well, so do as I say and keep your hood up.” Thym urged his horse onward.

Arion did as he said, but sneaked tentative peeks skyward from under the lip of her garment. She wondered if Thym was lying to make a fool of her. That marvelous sense of freedom that had come with such a wide view was lost within the confines of the hood, but she followed Thym's advice. Her guide hadn't spoken much, and she didn't think he'd break his silence if the danger wasn't real.

“How far are we?”

“Still a few days out, but you'll be able to see it once we reach the top of that next ridge.”

“Really?” she said skeptically. “I'll be able to see the distance of more than one day's ride?”

He laughed and caught himself with a hand over his mouth. “Forgive me, that wasn't very respectful, Your Eminence.”

“I told you to call me Arion.”

“Of course, Your Eminence, but do understand that not all Miralyith are as nonchalant as you. Should I fall into the habit of familiarity, I might find it a habit hard to break. If I slipped up with someone else, someone less inclined to dispense with the honors of your tribe's station…well…I don't even want to consider what could happen.”

She sighed. “Fine. But I'm curious, why did you laugh?”

He looked down, embarrassed. “Please forgive me. That was rude.”

“But why did you do it?”

Thym's eyes came up, and a bit of his smile lingered. He pointed to the rows of hills. “You already see more than a day's ride. Those distant peaks are the Fendal and Adendal Durat, mountain ranges that cross the west side of Avrlyn and are easily a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty miles away.” He pointed at the mountain looming over them. “Just to reach the peak of Mount Mador would take you days.”

Arion gazed out amazed. “But it looks so close.”

“Distances are deceiving, especially when climbing is involved.”

The two followed a constricting path that twisted back on itself, descending the ridge into a shallow valley.

“And all of this is uninhabited?” she asked.

“Of course not.” Thym had moved ahead as the path narrowed, and she couldn't see his face any longer. “These hills are filled with all manner of creatures.”

“Rhunes?”

“No.” Thym shook his head. “Down there, over that river is the High Spear Valley; that's the farthest north we allow the Rhunes to travel. Most live in Rhulyn, that big area beyond. Over there”—he pointed to mountains in the far north—“are where the Grenmorians live, and there are all manner of goblins, of course. They live everywhere: hills, swamps, forests, even the sea. There are other things as well. These lands run deep, and no one has explored it all.”

“What about the Dherg?”

Thym shook his hairy head. “The Dherg live underground in the far south. Extremely rare to see one of them.”

Arion peered southwest, where he had indicated Rhulyn was. “How many Rhunes are there?”

“No one knows. When they were nomadic, their numbers were small. Parents could only carry so many children, you see. Once they entered Rhulyn, they must have finally eluded the goblins that had been driving them, and they started settlements. They spread out in villages, and that's when their population exploded. We deny them the land across the Bern River to keep them from encroaching farther into the west.”

“I heard a single mother can have fourteen offspring. Is that true?”

“I imagine more than that, but I'm no expert on the Rhunes. All I know is what I've gleaned from listening to the Instarya's stories. They do have such wonderful tales. Life out here isn't like life in Estramnadon.” He looked at the valley below. “This isn't a tame world. The Instarya patrol it, watch the roads, and ferret out the threats. They live lives of high adventure, and they're riveting to listen to.”

“Or maybe they're just good at making up stories.”

Thym looked back. “Of course. But it's different for you, isn't it? All of this.” He waved at their surroundings. “You're not concerned at all, are you?”

“Should I be?”

“I always am.”

“You're a member of the Umalyn, a Priest of Ferrol. Have you no faith in our god?”

“I have every faith in Ferrol,” Thym said. “I trust Ferrol will do as Ferrol chooses. I spend my life working to increase the odds that He
won't
rain misery upon us as a people. That is enough to ask. I don't expect Ferrol to notice me personally, much less protect me from a rampaging giant, a life-threatening storm, or a horde of goblins.”

“You don't look terribly frightened.”

Thym looked back. “Well, not this trip, of course. You're with me.”

“And why does that matter?”

“You're Miralyith,” Thym said, and turned around, leaving his back to her. Whether he meant her to hear or not, she caught the words said under his breath. “You're the scariest thing out here.”

They reached the bottom of the valley, where a small stream ran through a chasm between scarred hills. There were few trees, and the rocky land was covered in a felt of grass.
Green fields.
It was as if they were in the middle of a massive bowl. All around, hills rose, and to the south one huge tooth speared that wondrous sky—Mount Mador. She knew the tale of how Fenelyus had created the mountain during the war with the Dherg, even though Fenelyus didn't speak much about that time. The old fane avoided mentioning anything about the war, talking about it only in vague terms. To everyone else, the Great War had been her finest hour, but Fenelyus treated it as a shameful thing. “Mistakes of my youth,” she often called it. Mount Mador didn't look like a mistake. The towering behemoth was astounding. The fact that Fenelyus had ordered the land to rise to such a height was beyond impressive.

I could never manage anything like that.

The sheer power and force of will required was more than Arion could imagine. She felt privileged just to see the mountain, to be inspired by it. Gryndal had been right: This trip was good for her.

Reaching a stream, Arion was forced to urge her mare to follow Thym across. So far, the trip had been along a fairly clear trail. Crossing looked to be dangerous, and neither Arion nor Naraspur liked the idea. The horse shifted from side to side, voicing her apprehension with unmistakable body language. Arion lay forward, clutching the horse's neck with both arms as at last Naraspur moved forward. They made their way through the stream, which turned out to be shallower and easier than expected. Arion sat up and chided herself for being so concerned. Like most Fhrey, and certainly those who populated Estramnadon, she had lived a life of isolation, one that lacked adventure. She was starting to regret that.

“What are the Instarya like?” she asked as the trail widened enough for her to come alongside Thym.

He looked skeptical. “You haven't met anyone from the warrior tribe?”

“Of course not. I grew up in the temple and then sequestered myself in the towers of the Miralyith. Oh, by the way, what's that big light in the sky again?”

He rolled his eyes.

“That was a joke,” she told him with an encouraging smile.

He squinted his eyes, a hint of suspicion added to his face.

“You know what a joke is, right?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. I just haven't heard a Miralyith make one.”

“Given how well that one went over, I'm not surprised.”

He studied her a moment longer, then shrugged more to himself than to her. “The Instarya are…” He paused, searching the horizon. “You have to understand that they've been out here, left to guard the frontier, since the Dherg War. Lothian will be the fourth fane they've served under. After the conflict ended, they weren't allowed to return home. Generations have been born and died, some without setting foot on our side of the Nidwalden. So over the centuries they've adapted.”

“Adapted?”

“Life out here is different. Luxuries are few, the weather is awful, there's no culture to speak of, and everything is potentially dangerous. Even some plants are poisonous. The Instarya have developed a more robust outlook, a set of values that might appear crude to you at first. They're more akin to the ancients in that they hold honor and courage sacred. To them these are not just ideas, not mere concepts or metaphors. The Instarya are a proud people and…”