Age of Myth (29 page)

Arion didn't have any plans for destruction. She was still trying to piece together what had happened and wondering if the two swords Nyphron's friend was keeping warm with his palms would come out anytime soon. The only positive thing was that she didn't have an opportunity to dwell on the throbbing of her head, which hurt so badly that her eyes watered.

“You might also consider that there is an alternative to slaughtering everyone,”
Nyphron said.
“You could let us go. The Galantians and I will live out our days in the wilds. You won't hear from us again. We'll disappear. If you have to, you could tell the fane you found and killed us. Problem solved, ego served, page turned. I think you owe me that much for letting you wake up.”

“I'll consider it.”
She wiped the tears from her eyes. The pain in her head was reasserting itself with a fury.

“Since each breath you take is a gift we gave you when your head was dangling from your neck like a dead goose, I hope you'll be considerate enough to at least inform me of any decision you make before ripping the sky apart.”

“I'll see what I can do,”
she managed to say as the pain forced her teeth to clench. She held his stare as long as she could, the pain hammering hard with each second. Arion was relieved when he broke first.

“Anything can I get you?”
Persephone asked. She grimaced nervously.
“Is—there—anything—I—can—get—for—you?”

“I want to sleep. I just need to rest, and I'll be better.”

She hoped that was true.

The room was dark the next time Arion woke. Outside the window, stars shone. Inside the room, a single lamp—a hollowed-out block of chalk stuffed with animal fat—revealed the same girl she had awakened to before. This time the girl lay on the floor. Her head was propped against the side of the wolf, which lay sprawled across the wooden floor. Once more, Suri played with a loop of string.

Arion wasn't in any immediate pain for a change and just lay still, watching as the girl wove a surprisingly complex pattern. Arion had no idea Rhunes played the same game she taught her students, and seeing it was like watching a dog walk on its hind legs. Arion knew the design. After centuries, she'd likely formed every possible combination. The one between Suri's fingers was what Arion referred to as the Spider's Box, and the girl was doing a lovely job. Her fingers worked with unexpected facility—whirling, twisting, and drawing out the string with nimble grace and uncompromising confidence. Arion realized this Rhune girl, who used a wolf as a pillow, was doing a much better job of weaving than Mawyndulë ever had.

“The bottom thread,”
Arion said when Suri hesitated.

She expected the Rhune girl to jump at the sound of her voice, but she didn't even look over.

“No,”
she replied, focusing on the labyrinthine structure.
“Done that one. Was thinking if I…”
Suri reached in with both thumbs, hooked the primary strands, and then rolled her wrists. Inverted, the whole architecture of the pattern had turned inside out.

Arion smiled.
“Very clever.”

Suri sighed
. “Dumb. Now stuck.”

“No, no, you're not.”
Arion propped herself up.
“Come closer.”

Suri sat up, leaning toward the bed. Arion studied the weave. Reaching out, she hooked her fingers inside the pattern and pulled the entire arrangement free of Suri's hands and onto her own fingers. Arion looped two more strings, folded the whole thing inside itself again, and held it out to the girl.

Suri studied the weave, tongue slipping along her upper lip. Then a smile appeared, and she inserted her fingers into the center and pulled. The pattern extended and slipped back onto her hands. With a bend of two fingers the construction changed once more.

In that instant, they both laughed in delight.

“Me never done that one before,”
Suri said.

“Nor I. But then neither of us has four hands.”

After she let the string slip off all but two fingers, Suri saw the pattern vanish, and the string was just a loop again.

“And it's not ‘Me never done that one before'; it's ‘I have never done that one before.' ”

Suri looked skeptical.
“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

Suri lay back down on the wolf.
“Feeling better?”

Arion nodded and realized her headache was still there, just quietly curled up in the back of her head for the time being. She wasn't as dizzy, either. Her stomach had calmed, and she even felt a bit hungry. Buoyed by her general well-being, she closed her eyes and hummed to create a resonance, but she was still blocked. The Art didn't respond. The lack of sensation was distressing, as if half her body were paralyzed.

What if it doesn't come back?

Although she had lived without the Art in her youth, Arion couldn't imagine how. Losing it would be worse than losing her arms and legs. She'd be an invalid. The very idea terrified her. Fear welled up, threatening to drown her.

I shouldn't think about that—not now, not here.

“Can you juggle?”
Arion blurted, throwing out the question as an anchor to keep herself from slipping off a cliff.

The girl looked at her, puzzled.

Arion saw her belt pouch on a table.
“In that bag,”
she told Suri,
“are three stones. Can you throw them up and keep all of them in the air at once?”

Suri smiled. She took the stones from the bag and, getting to her knees, tossed them up one at a time with a natural ease. The ceiling was low, but the girl didn't hit the beams. Catching and tossing the stones, she soon had them moving in a tight circle.

“You've done this before.”

“Tura taught me…ah…she taught I?”

“No,”
Arion said.
“In that case,
me
is correct.”

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

Suri once more looked skeptical. Arion smiled. Not because the girl had second-guessed her native language skills but because Suri wasn't watching the stones. They continued to fly one after another, her hands catching and tossing with a mind of their own. The display was impressive. Not that it was a remarkable example of juggling skill, but this was a Rhune, and a young Rhune at that. Arion had been taught they were barely above animals, distinct from Fhrey or Dherg in their lack of intelligence. Rhunes couldn't think the way people did. They acted mainly on instinct. Any resemblance they had to higher beings was simply an imitation or purely a coincidence. But that didn't appear to be the case. Persephone and the girl both spoke Fhrey, and the girl could juggle better than the prince. She even formed complex string patterns for enjoyment. How could that be possible if they couldn't think?
“Who is Tura?”
Arion asked as Suri caught the stones and reached for the bag.

“Was mine friend. She raised I.”

“No, you should have said, ‘Was my friend, and she raised me.' ”

Suri scowled, then shrugged.

“Did you have a fight?”

“Fight?”

“You said Tura was your friend.”

“Died.”

The casual way she said it shocked Arion.
“What killed her?”

Suri looked puzzled.
“Nothing. Just died. She old.”

Arion peered into Suri's dark-brown eyes. Seeing her own reflection, she wondered if Ferrol was trying to tell her something.

“Why is it you're always the one watching me?”
Arion asked.

“Me not,”
Suri said.
“Perse—”

“I am not.”

The Rhune girl sighed and rolled her eyes.
“Persephone watches, too, and old woman. Others have work. We, more time. I should be…”
She trailed off, watching Arion for a correction. When it didn't come, she went on,
“Solving riddle of bone, but I”
—another brief hesitation
—“can think here, too.”

“What's the riddle of the bone?”

“Asked gods tell future. Them answer through chicken bones.”
Suri drew out what looked like a blackened stick.
“This one very strong. Warned of a terrible monster. Great power coming. Killing all us. I believe it be Grin, a great brown beast that lives in forest. Not bear after all. She demon, but me don't know which. Not knowing, can't stop. Working out puzzle of which. Problem is, only have until full moon.”

The surprise of discovering such a Fhrey-like Rhune was instantly squelched by the girl's superstitious bone-foretelling rituals and belief in monsters and demons. Perhaps the girl wasn't an animal, but she was primitive nonetheless. Arion found this disappointing. For a moment she had been excited to think the differences between Rhunes and Fhrey might have been narrower than suspected. The string weaving and juggling almost suggested that Rhunes had the capacity to learn the Art. The look of shock and revulsion on Gryndal's face if she could prove that would be worth a crack on the head. Yet despite everything, Suri was still a Rhune, still a world apart.

“Awake?”
Persephone said as she nervously entered.

Suri got to her feet and stretched.
“See,”
Suri told Arion, and pointed at Persephone.
“I time is over.”

“My shift is over,”
Arion corrected.

“Sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

Suri shook her head with a scowl, then spoke to the wolf. It, too, got up and stretched. The two headed toward the door together, and then Suri paused and looked back.
“Not worry. It come back.”

“What will?”
Arion asked.

Suri only smiled, then disappeared beyond the doorway.

Whenever people ask about Persephone, I tell them how she could not card wool. I think it is important for people to know she was human.

—
T
HE
B
OOK OF
B
RIN

Pings and plops made explosive rings in puddles as Persephone sat on the damp mat, looking out at the rain. A leaf had fallen. With no trees nearby, it must have been blown by the storm's wind. It teetered on the edge of one of the stones that lined the walkway above a puddle of muddy water.

The damp air felt cold again. Spring had taken a step back, retreating as if unsure of itself. Brin had given her a thick wool blanket from her parents' house, the one with poorly stitched flowers outlined in yellow thread. Warm, though, and Persephone wrapped it to her neck.

“So she's awake, and we're still alive,” Moya said. The hero of the well raid was back to spinning, trying to finish a skein before she ran out of light.

“She's still in a lot of pain,” Persephone said. “And seems a little confused. Who knows what will happen when she heals.”

“Suri with her again?” Brin asked. Brin sat on the floor, carding wool. Persephone knew the girl had always enjoyed visiting Roan, but since Raithe had arrived, she all but slept there. Sarah didn't appear to mind as long as she completed her chores. Brin brought them with her, four big bags. The recent shearing provided mountains of wool and plenty of work, and Brin was quick to ask others for help.

“Padera is with her now,” Persephone replied, and resumed her own attempt at carding wool.

Persephone had little experience carding, combing, spinning, or weaving wool, although she'd seen each performed countless times. Watching and doing were radically different things. Persephone had managed only the one roving so far. What was supposed to result in a long, uniformly thick strand of clean fibers remained a short, dirty wad. She would have switched to combing, but Brin assured her that carding was easier. The girl had enlisted all of them, even Malcolm and Raithe. No one could turn down Brin's bright smile, and there was
a lot
of wool.

“Padera?” Moya asked. “She's probably just sleeping up there.”

“She took some knitting, I think.”

“She's definitely sleeping, then.”

Brin leaned toward the door, looking out at the rain. “Where is Suri?”

The girl was nearly as fascinated by the mystic and her wolf as she was by Raithe—nearly. Nothing could distract Brin from the Dureyan for long, and she delighted in teaching him to card. Not surprisingly, Raithe got most of her attention, and his rovings were good, whereas Persephone's and Malcolm's suffered from neglect.

“Outside,” Moya said, pumping the foot pedal of the spinning wheel and making it hum. “Her and the wolf.”

“In the rain?” Brin asked.

“She doesn't like being inside,” Persephone said.

This caught Roan's attention. She was the only one not actively employed in the wool chores. Instead, she was on her knees near the cluttered rear of the house, sewing a patch of cloth to the side of her tunic. “Suri or the wolf?” Roan asked with a worried tone.

“Both, I suspect. But it has nothing to do with you, Roan. Suri is uncomfortable inside any place. She doesn't even like being inside the walls of the dahl.”

Roan responded with her hallmark almost-smile, a trait as typical of her as Gifford's walk or lisp. Life had battered them both. Gifford was a cripple on the outside, Roan on the inside, and Persephone wondered if that was the price of divine gifts.

All these people—all these amazing people.

She was haunted by visions of their bleeding bodies lying in the dirt as the dahl blazed. Persephone saw their future as she saw the leaf outside, teetering on the edge in a growing wind.

So much in jeopardy—so much at stake—and yet what can a leaf do to influence the wind?

“So why is she still here?” Moya asked.

“Suri?” Persephone looked up from her carding. “Still trying to work out why I was attacked, I think. Has something to do with bones, she told me.”

“Any clues?”

Persephone shrugged. “If she has any, she's not told me. Maybe she wants to get all the facts straight first.”

“Speaking of puzzles…” Brin said to Raithe as she knelt before him in the creation of another perfect roving. “What's the answer to the riddle?”

“Riddle?” he asked.

“The one you posed to the Crescent Forest.” Brin sat up straighter, closed her eyes, and recited,
“Four brothers visit this wood. The first is greeted with great joy; the second is beloved; the third always brings sad tidings; and the last is feared. They visit each year, but never together. What are their names?”

“You remember all that word for word?” Moya asked, amazed.

“Excellent, Brin,” Persephone said. “Just like a true Keeper.”

Brin smiled. “I only heard it once, but I keep trying to solve it. Not that I'm wiser than the Crescent. I mean, you asked the forest, and it didn't know the answer, right? So how could—”

“Spring, summer, autumn, winter,” Roan said from the back of the room.

They all turned and stared.

Noticing the silence, Roan looked up. “That's right, isn't it? The names of the four brothers?”

“Yes,” Malcolm said with a little smile. “Yes, it is.”

“Seems sort of obvious once you hear the answer,” Moya said.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes at Roan. “Pardon me for asking, but I'm curious. Why are you sewing a patch on your tunic? There's no hole, is there? Not even a wear mark.”

“It's not a patch,” she replied. “It's a pocket.”

“A what?”

“A
pock-et.
That's what I call it. You know, like a poke—a little sack? But this is a tiny one. So it's a pock
et.
See?” Roan picked up a bit of string from her worktable and slipped it in. Then she let go, leaving it there as if she'd performed a magic trick. “Because it's open on top, I can put stuff in and take it out with one hand, and it's always with me.”

“That's brilliant,” Malcolm said.

“As long as you don't stand on your head,” Moya brought up.

“I don't think Roan will be—” Persephone began, and stopped when Moya gave her a surprised look.

“This is Roan we're talking about, Seph. Two weeks ago, I stopped her just seconds before she stuck a needle in her eye.”

Persephone looked at Roan, aghast. “Whatever for?”

“She wanted to find out how deep the socket was,” Moya answered for her.

“Oh, blessed Mari! Roan, don't ever do that,” Persephone said.

“Okay.” Roan nodded without the slightest indication that she understood why. She then looked back at Malcolm. “I was thinking of putting a pocket on both sides.” She placed her hand on the other hip, marking the spot. “Next time Padera asks for needle and thread I won't have to fumble with a pouch's drawstrings.”

“You're a marvel, Roan,” Moya told her. “A little batty, but amazing all the same.”

“She's not batty,” Persephone said. “She's a genius.”

Roan shook her head self-consciously and once more displayed the disbelieving look that broke Persephone's heart.

What sort of monster was Iver?

Persephone had liked the man. Strange how it was possible to see someone for years yet still not know him.

“What do you think Konniger will do now?” Moya asked. Her spinning wheel made a little breeze in the house.

“Sarah told me he and Tressa are staying with the Coswalls,” Persephone said. “I didn't mean to drive them out. They could've stayed.”

“No one will go near the lodge now, not even the Galantians, not while
she's
in there. Well…except for you three. 'Course Suri's a mystic, so nothing she does surprises anyone, and Padera would spit in a bear's eye. What's she got to lose, right? The woman's lived the equal of ten normal lives. Probably tired of it all.”

“And me?” Persephone asked. “What are people saying about me?”

Persephone knew there was talk. There was always talk. Life in a dahl was filled with endless days of mundane repetitive tasks, and gossip was the only entertainment. After Hegner's accusations, the death of Sackett and Adler, and the arrival of Raithe, the Fhrey, and a Miralyith, there was a lot to talk about. All of it in whispers whenever she was around, so Persephone knew much of it was about her.

Moya slowed down, letting the wool play out. “Don't know how reliable it is, but Autumn told me Konniger is spreading a story about you trying to take over. That's why you drove him out of the lodge. One more step in your master plan.”

“My
master plan
? All I'm trying to do is save the Miralyith's life, and this dahl in the bargain. I put her in there because it's warm and dry.”

“I'm not the one complaining,” Moya said. “And I know everything Hegner and Konniger are spewing is complete rubbish, but…what if it wasn't?”

“Moya, you can't possibly think—”

Moya shook her head and held up her hands. “No, I don't mean it that way.” She looked around at the others, most of whom saw the seriousness in her eyes and stopped what they were doing. “What I mean is maybe you
should
become chieftain.”

“Clan chieftains are men,” Raithe said.

“No,” Moya replied. “They just always have been.”

“Well, yeah, and that's because any member of the clan can challenge a chieftain to combat for control of the clan,” Raithe replied. “At least that's how they do it—did it—in Dureya. Not too many women are keen with a spear or ax. And a chieftain needs to be capable of leading men into battle, which means you want the strongest and toughest.”

“People in Rhen don't go to battle every week,” Moya pointed out. “Never been a battle in my lifetime.”

“Still, it helps to have a man in charge to keep order.”

Moya's face hardened. “Seems Persephone is the one keeping the order around here, not Konniger. When it comes to keeping order, I'd rather have someone using the head above their shoulders than the one below the waist.”

This brought a round of smiles and a few glances at Brin, who looked puzzled.

“But how well would she fare in a one-on-one fight with him?” Raithe asked.

“The ability to kill someone shouldn't be how we choose our chieftain,” Moya said.

“What
should be
and what
is
are usually very different. Doesn't change the fact that armed battle is how these things are decided.”

“She could have a champion fight for her,” Brin said.

Both Moya and Raithe looked at the girl.

“According to the Ways, anyone can have a champion stand in for them so long as that person agrees to fight and has no desire to be chieftain themselves.”

“Is that true?” Moya asked.

Brin nodded. “I thought everyone knew that.”

“Not everyone studies the Ways like you, Brin.” Moya turned to Persephone. “There you go. Have Raithe fight Konniger and take the First Chair.”

“I wouldn't ask someone to risk their life for me.”

“He fights gods! You're only asking him to kill Konniger. I don't think there's much of a risk.”

“The Fhrey aren't gods, and I don't care if it was Cobb being challenged. I wouldn't ask such a thing of anyone, especially someone I hardly know,” Persephone said while avoiding looking at Raithe. The man had feelings for her, and she was calling him a stranger. “You just don't want to be forced to marry Hegner.”

“Of course. Would you? Would anyone? But that's not the point. Fact is, you'd be a great chieftain. We all know it—those of us capable of thought, anyway. Everyone looks to you in an emergency, and not a single person hesitated when you said to take the Fhrey into the lodge. I was just a kid, but I remember the famine and how
you
saved us. My mother hated you, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks for that, Moya.” Persephone frowned. “Always glad to add another name onto the long list of people who've hated me.”

“Let me finish.” Moya rolled her eyes. “She cursed your name every night because you convinced Reglan to ration the grain.” She turned to Brin, who had stopped carding to listen. Brin loved stories. “The Long Winter was over, summer was here, crops were looking great, but everyone was hungry because Persephone demanded the granary remain locked.”

“A lot of people hated me for that,” Persephone said softly, remembering what, at that time, had been the worst year of her life. She had survived back then by thinking life couldn't get any worse. Maybe that was why everything was so upside down on the dahl since Suri's prediction of death—the gods felt the need to prove her wrong.

“My mother said the only reason Reglan appeased you was because you nearly died in childbirth a few weeks earlier,” Moya continued. “He was worried about you, and my mother said you used your loss to get your way. She thought you forced the ration because you wanted the rest of us to suffer along with you.”

“Your mother said
that
?”

Moya nodded. “And you wondered why I didn't cry at her funeral. Well, it was stuff like that.”

“What happened?” Brin asked. “I never heard this story.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Persephone said, looking out at the rain.

“You were young then, Brin. This was what? Ten years ago?” Moya asked.

“Eleven,” Persephone said. “But let's not talk about it.”

“Oh, no, you have to finish it,” Brin pleaded. “I might be the next Keeper, and this could be important. You know, for the future. In case something like that happens again. Please?”