Age of Legend, page 14
part #4 of Legends of the First Empire Series
The two exchanged smiles, Brin shrugged, and Persephone took a breath. Then the keenig’s eyes grew serious. “Suri, I sent a message to the fane during the Battle of Grandford, asking for peace.”
“Arion’s message?” Suri grinned at the news.
“Yes, exactly.”
“And?”
“And we didn’t hear a reply for a year. When it finally arrived, the fane said he was interested. That was five years ago, not long after the Battle of the High Plains, which had been a great victory for us. Then it was Nyphron’s turn to be indifferent, and I’m sorry to say I didn’t push. Fortunes reversed in the First Battle of the Harwood, a crushing defeat, and since then, we’ve had five years of warring and death on both sides. Nyphron can’t get his army across the Nidwalden, and even though we lose many brave men in the forest raids, our forces remain strong. The Fhrey are powerless against our numbers, and we are powerless against their river, and so the war goes on and on.” Persephone paused and took a deep breath. “Any talk of peace has been silent over these many years—until now.” She gestured for Brin to speak.
“The method we use to talk to the fane isn’t very sophisticated. Birds are used to carry messages, which must be small and light. Also, the Fhrey writing consists of a finite set of symbols that represent individual words. It’s meant to report simple events or make requests. Complex conversations would require many pigeons that are trained to fly to Estramnadon, and those are in short supply. With such a system, it’s impossible to negotiate a peace.” The Keeper revealed a little strip of parchment. “This is what has just arrived from the fane.” She unrolled the note and read,
“Want stop fight.
Meet Avempartha.
Send one.
No send traitor Fhrey.
No send Rhune leader.
Send Rhune Miralyith.”
“Like I said, we only have a few symbols to work with,” Brin apologized. “It might not make much sense.”
She appeared frustrated by her inability to explain, but she shouldn’t have worried. Suri understood quite well. The process wasn’t unlike reading a god’s message from chicken bones.
“The way we’ve interpreted it,” Brin went on, “is that they refuse to discuss anything with Nyphron or the other Instarya, whom they most likely see as outlaws. They also don’t trust Persephone, probably because they think she incited the war by taking Alon Rhist. Plus, she’s human, something they’re not exactly comfortable with. But we’re guessing they see you as somewhere in between—a Rhune they can relate to.”
“They want you to travel to Avempartha,” Persephone said, “and you have to go there alone. In some ways, that’s good. I suspect a delegation would take a long time to reach a consensus. If it’s just one-on-one, we’ll have a better chance.”
Persephone stepped forward and placed her hands on the mystic’s shoulders. “Suri, you’ve done so much. You saved my life in the Crescent Forest, and our entire party in Neith. Alon Rhist would have been overrun without you. And none of that compares to the horror you’ve had to endure when making . . . when sacrificing . . .” She paused and swallowed hard. “You’ve done far more than anyone, and I have no right to ask—”
“I’ll do it,” Suri declared.
Persephone appeared taken aback at her sudden acceptance. “Suri, this is extremely dangerous. You’ll be all alone.”
The mystic nodded.
“Suri, there are dozens, perhaps hundreds of Miralyith in and around that tower. They could kill you. This could be a ploy. The fane knows what you are capable of, and this may be a trap to eliminate you. I think you should take some time and think about—”
“I said, I’ll do it.”
Persephone looked frustrated. “I don’t think you understand the full—”
Suri shook her head. “With Nyphron it’s all no, no, no, and still he doesn’t hear. And now you’re deaf to yes, yes, yes.”
Persephone ran a hand through her hair as if wiping that notion away. “Suri, I’m only concerned that you might not be thinking this through carefully.”
“No, that’s not it, but it’s okay.” Suri reached out and took the keenig’s hand. “Trust me. I know a lot about guilt. And you needn’t feel any. I’m not going for you, or because it’s what the fane requested. I’m doing this because it’s my path. This is what Arion saw. This is my Gifford’s Race. And for once, it’ll be only my life at risk. That’ll be a welcome change.” She smiled. “I knew this was coming. I’ve been waiting for it. Well, not this exactly, but Malcolm asked me to stay, and he said I would know why when the time came. This is it.”
“Malcolm? What does he have to do with—”
“Let’s just say I was waiting on the leaves, and now it’s my turn to touch the Black Tree. Arion gave me wings. It’s time for me to use them.”
Chapter Ten
The Trouble With Tressa
Kindness is often as simple as seeing what others choose to ignore. — The Book of Brin
The rain had started to fall during Brin’s meeting with Persephone and Suri, but when it came time to leave, Brin was pleased to discover a momentary pause in the downpour. Before she reached her tent, the sound of sobbing caught the Keeper’s attention, but after chasing it down, she discovered only Tressa. Brin told herself to keep walking.
Normally she avoided the older woman. Tressa had never been pleasant, but since the death of her husband, she had been worse than horrible. She drank heavily, cursed the gods at every opportunity, and cussed at everyone else with her remaining breath. Rumors claimed that she threw rocks at men and spat on children.
Everyone treated Tressa as a ghost, not merely ignoring her, but going so far as to pretend she didn’t exist. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the woman was dead. Seeing how completely Tressa had been severed from the clan, Brin almost felt sorry for her, but she stopped short of actually caring because she knew—as everyone did—that Tressa deserved her fate. No one could prove she had plotted with her husband to kill Persephone, but general opinion held that she should have been executed or at least exiled. Instead, Persephone showed mercy; the rest of the clan did not. That’s how ghosts were made of living people, but it was Tressa’s own fault.
That afternoon, Brin found Tressa in the mud just outside the Healing Quarter. She was bent over on her hands and knees, sobbing so hard that her body convulsed. The woman’s old breckon mor had long since rotted off her shoulders, and the ghastly oversized man’s shirt that replaced it was soaked. Her matted hair hung down into the mud, and bits of grass stuck to her upper arms. Spittle dripped from her mouth, connected to the puddle inches below her face by a liquid string.
It’s just Tressa. Probably drunk. Keep walking. But Brin’s feet refused to move. She’d never seen anyone so miserable before.
“Why?” Tressa cried out and slapped the puddle with her fist, causing an explosion. She lifted her head toward the heavy gray clouds and screamed, “Was that too much to ask for? Couldn’t you let me have . . .” The rest of her words were lost to sobs as she clutched her stomach and doubled over once more, wailing into the sodden earth.
Brin remained rooted to the spot. Seeing Tressa like this was painful to witness, regardless of what she’d done.
“Tressa?” Brin spoke the forbidden word.
The despicable woman raised her head in bewilderment.
“What’s wrong?” Brin asked. The question was foolish. The woman was no doubt upset that her husband was dead and she left alone and hated. Still, the question was infinitely better than asking if she was okay. Tressa hadn’t been okay in years.
Tressa didn’t speak, just stared at Brin and whimpered.
On any other day, Brin might have been concerned that Tressa, who was a bit crazy and a lot dangerous, would leap forward and attack. The woman was famous for irrational acts, and at that moment, she looked to have gone insane. But in Tressa’s red and puffy eyes, Brin didn’t see hate or anger. All she saw was helplessness and exhaustion. In Tressa’s dark pupils, Brin saw her own reflection.
“Brin?” Tressa said. “What do you want?”
Brin moved closer. “Is there anything I can do?”
Still heaving for breath, Tressa shook her head and managed to spit out, “He’s dead.”
“Konniger?”
Tressa’s eyes went wide and she launched into another wail. For a moment, Brin thought she was crying again, but then she realized she was mistaken. Tressa’s voice pealed with wild, hysterical laughter.
She’s finally gone completely insane.
“Elan’s fat ass, no!” Tressa said. Her laughter sputtered, and she hung in a state of limbo, as when a ball thrown upward hovers for a heartbeat before falling back down. Then she started crying again.
“Who then?” Brin took another step, inching around the puddle that Tressa didn’t appear to notice.
With a gasp, Tressa sucked in enough air to reply, “Gelston.” She managed a deeper breath. “Bastard survived a culling lightning bolt, lived through the Battle of Grandford, but today . . . today . . .” She hitched, gasped, and sniffled. “He just kicked off. I found him lying in his bed, his eyes on the tent’s flap. He seemed like he had been waiting for me. Although most of the time the old bastard didn’t know who the Tet I was.”
It started raining again, but Brin hardly noticed.
Gelston was her uncle, her father’s brother. The day Brin’s parents had died, he survived a lightning strike but never recovered. Sickly and suffering from a spotty memory, he hadn’t recognized Brin during her infrequent visits. The last time, he called her a sweet bit of honey and grabbed her wrist hard enough to leave a mark. After that, she found excuses not to come around. She heard someone was taking care of him, but she never dreamed it was Tressa.
“I should be happy, you know?” Tressa said, wiping her mouth with the back of a muddy hand. “Nearly seven years together and he never once thanked me, even though I cleaned his sheets, cooked for him, fed him, and washed his ass when he soiled his pants.” Her mouth was hooked in a deep frown as she looked out at the increasing rain. “But”—Tressa began to shake again—“he did hug me once.” Her lower lip trembled, and her arms clutched her body as she began to rock. “It was a few years ago, and I can still remember what it was like to feel . . . to feel . . . that at least one person didn’t hate me.” The sobs returned.
Now, Brin was crying as well.
“I know your mother taught you better than that,” Padera told Brin as the younger woman stood just inside the entrance of their tent, dripping wet and shivering with enough force to churn butter.
Brin looked out at the pouring rain. Gray sheets were coming in at angles across the field, making the tents on the far side of the Healing Quarter appear hazy and washed out. The noise of the storm was loud, a heavy drumming on the canvas.
“Get those clothes off.” Padera grabbed a blanket off the bed. “And tell me what happened. Why were you out in such weather?”
Brin began the arduous process of pulling at her wet dress, which stubbornly refused to let go. “Gelston is dead.”
“Something kill him?”
“No,” Brin said while peeling the dress away from her goosefleshed skin. “Tressa said he just died. Passed away in his bed.”
“Tressa?” Padera said with a suspicious and disapproving tone.
“She’s been taking care of him. He was my uncle, my blood, but it was Tressa who did all the work.”
“Trading his things for mead and ale, you mean.”
“No, it wasn’t like that,” she said, but then she realized it had been Gelston’s shirt that Tressa was wearing.
“Oh? You think so, do you?” Padera asked while wrapping the blanket around Brin and scrubbing her hair with a large rag, flinging the water free. “Why? ’Cause that’s what she told you? Did she explain her selflessness over the rim of an ale jug?”
Brin stopped Padera and looked her in the eye. “Tressa was sitting in the mud, sobbing like . . . well, like no one I’ve ever seen. I think—I think she loved him.”
Padera’s face grimaced, which was something akin to seeing milk curdle. “Even struck dumb by lightning, Gelston had better taste than to—”
“Not in that way.” Brin finished, shaking out her hair, since the old woman’s hands had moved to her hips to help make her point. “You had to have been there; it’s the saddest thing I ever saw. I can’t imagine being so hated.”
“There are good reasons why people hate Tressa.”
“But what I’m saying is that Gelston was all she had. In the entire world, he was the only one, and . . . and he couldn’t even manage to remember her from one day to the next. Don’t you see how pitiful that is?”
“And how would you have felt if she had succeeded in killing Persephone? And let’s not forget she did kill Reglan.”
“No, she didn’t. That was Konniger’s doing.”
“She was his wife.”
“That doesn’t make her guilty, just a poor judge of men. And Persephone could have ordered Tressa’s death, but she didn’t. If the keenig doesn’t think she’s guilty, who are we to judge?”
Padera took Brin by the shoulders and guided her past the spinning wheel to the bed. The large bag of straw covered in layers of soft woolen blankets whispered as they sat. Overhead, the rain drummed on the cloth roof, and the wind played with the entrance flap.
“Persephone is too kind for her own good.”
“That’s probably true, but what if she’s right? What if Tressa is innocent? Maybe she had no idea what Konniger was up to. That makes us guilty of punishing an innocent person.” Padera opened her mouth to protest, but Brin went on. “And even if she helped plan it, well, water doesn’t retreat from her lips when she needs to drink, and the sun doesn’t refuse to shine on her face. So who are we to punish Tressa? It all seems so cruel.”
“You didn’t feel this way yesterday.”
“That was before I saw Tressa sobbing in the mud. I used to think of her as a haughty witch who had no right to sit in Persephone’s chair. The one who had fought with my mother and thought Moya should be married to The Stump.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.” Brin looked back out at the rain. “But I do feel sorry for her.” She searched Padera’s shriveled face. “You think I’m being ridiculous. That I’m just a young, stupid, naïve girl.”
Padera drew Brin’s legs up and laid them across her own lap to dry the Keeper’s feet. “First, you’re not a girl anymore. You’re a grown woman. Second, I think you’re a lot like Persephone.” Then she shrugged. “And I wish the world was filled with more young, stupid, naïve women like you two. It’d be a better place if that were so.”
“I’m going to look for her first thing tomorrow.”
“What for?” the old woman asked.
“To be her friend.”
“Tressa doesn’t deserve any and certainly not one as good as you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Tressa is as stubborn as they come; she doesn’t make friends easily.”
“Maybe that’s because she hasn’t been given the chance. And she doesn’t have to do anything. She already has a friend, just doesn’t know it yet. As such, I’m going to help her.”
“How you gonna do that? Shove a soul down her throat?”
Brin frowned. “She doesn’t have anything to do now that Gelston is gone. She lacks a purpose, a reason to live. Like anyone, she needs to feel useful and that she’s making a difference. Having something she’s good at will give her pride.”
“Only thing Tressa is good at is drinking.”
“I’m going to give her something else.” Brin smiled. “I’ll teach her to read.”
Tressa looked at the neatly piled stack of parchments that measured more than a full hand in height. She’d never seen anything like them. Each sheet was covered with small markings, lines running in rows from one side to the other. Tressa lifted a page and then another. All of them were beautiful. “You made these?”
The younger woman nodded proudly, like she’d chugged a huge mug of beer without burping or having any come back up.
She and Brin sat on a blanket near the bank of the little creek that ran just to the west of the encampment. The rain from the day before had swelled the brook so it gurgled noisily over the rocks. The Keeper had gotten Tressa to come by promising to sew her a new dress. Tressa knew there would be strings attached but was willing to hear what Brin had in mind.
“What are they for?” Tressa asked.
“To keep a permanent record so future generations will know what happened.”
“Wouldn’t that put you out of work?”
Brin shook her head. “It’d give me a new job, and you can have one, too. I want to teach you to read, to understand these markings.”
“Wait, you want to make me a Keeper?”
Brin shook her head. “Not exactly, no. I just want to—”
“How long will it take?” She eyed the stack warily. Something wasn’t adding up. She wanted the dress, but at what cost?
Brin chuckled. “You have pressing engagements elsewhere, do you?”
“Maybe not,” Tressa said, not liking the woman’s attitude, “but I want to know what I’m getting into.” She touched the stack as if it might bite her. “Are you as good as your mother at weaving and sewing?”
Brin nodded. “Yup, she taught me well. I already have the thread and cloth.”
Tressa looked at Brin’s garment, made in the traditional Rhen pattern—beautiful, neat, clean. “Will you dye the thread to match?”
“Sure.”
Tressa stared longingly at the cloth. Gelston’s old nightshirt was filthy and ragged, and the holes at the elbows grew bigger every day. When it finally fell apart, she’d have nothing.
