Age of Legend, page 17
part #4 of Legends of the First Empire Series
Jerydd led her up several sets of stairs, through great rooms, and across interior bridges that joined spires. All the while he watched her, and not only with his eyes. She felt the deft touch of the Art probing and investigating. At last they reached a small room where he offered her a seat. This chamber wasn’t as elaborate as some of the others. Just two chairs and a little table filled the space, but there was a window that looked out on stars.
After taking a moment to slip off his cloak, he sat. Suri did the same, removing her old traveling cape and draping it on the back of the chair. A few of those who had walked with them began to whisper excitedly until Jerydd asked them to leave with a stern look and a sharp wave.
“Please forgive them,” Jerydd said with a dismayed tone. “Most have never seen a Rhune up close, much less one wearing an asica.”
“I take no offense at that, but I’m curious. Why didn’t you extend a bridge for me? That wasn’t very polite.”
Jerydd looked surprised by the question. “I was told to expect a well-educated practitioner of the Art, someone who would need no assistance crossing the river.”
Suri still found it rude, but because Jerydd bore no resemblance to the horror that was Gryndal, and he seemed more like an old Rhune than a Fhrey, she began to relax.
A porcelain teapot rested on the table, steam escaping its spout. Jerydd filled two small white cups. “Do you have tea in Rhulyn?”
Suri nodded, then realized that a mute response might appear less intelligent, so she added, “Several types—for enjoyment and medicinal purposes.” She had taken a chance using the word medicinal. Arion had used it a few times, and Suri always thought it sounded smart, but she couldn’t be positive she’d used it correctly. Jerydd’s face betrayed no hint that she’d made an error, and Suri guessed she’d lucked out. “Arion was never fond of our willow-bark tea.”
At the mention of the name, Jerydd perked up. “I was told you were a student of hers. Is that correct?”
Again, Suri nodded, then silently chided herself for it. She needed to talk, to prove that Rhunes were civilized, thinking people. “Arion helped me”—she almost said become a butterfly but changed it at the last second—“learn the Art.”
“And you believe yourself to be a Miralyith?”
Suri didn’t need the Art to know this was a trap. “No. Miralyith is a Fhrey tribe. I am human. I can never be a Miralyith.”
Suri expected an impressed nod, as she was certain that had sounded smart, but Jerydd appeared unimpressed.
“Then what are you?”
This stumped her. Butterfly wasn’t going to cut it with this old Fhrey, even though in her own mind that’s how she saw herself. She considered all the names others had called her: Rhune Miralyith, witch, sorcerer, magician, spell weaver. None of them fit, and they all had negative connotations. In addition, they were Rhunic words, which would mean nothing to him. She needed something enlightened, something Fhrey, something like—
She smiled. “I’m Cenzlyor.”
Jerydd looked puzzled—no, it was more than that: He seemed concerned. “Do you know what Cenzlyor means?”
“It’d be ironic if I didn’t.” Suri ventured a friendly smile. “Swift of mind. It’s the title given to Arion by Fane Fenelyus, and a nickname that Arion gave to me.”
They both sipped tea, which was different from what Suri was used to, more fragrant, as if brewed from flowers.
Jerydd clutched the cup to his chest with both hands. His left had a slight quiver, which the right helped to steady. She didn’t sense that he was frightened. The more probable explanation was that age had weakened him.
And yet, isn’t it possible he’s putting on a thick mask just like me?
The Fhrey had lost almost every major engagement of the war, the exception being the First Battle of the Harwood. Pushed back to the tower, they were on the brink of destruction. Suri had been a big part of their early defeats. She had made the gilarabrywn that had turned their fortunes at the Battle of Grandford. And while Jerydd may indeed have forced her to extend a bridge to the tower as a means of identification, it was also a test. He didn’t know she had refused to build a bridge for Nyphron and his troops, but how could he not be worried about her doing so in the future? Was it so outlandish to believe he could be frightened? He certainly had more at stake than she did. She’d gambled her life, but if peace couldn’t be reached, it could mean the destruction of his entire civilization.
She wanted to calm his fears, so she said, “I’ve been sent to discuss ending this war.”
“Nyphron has given you the authority to negotiate?”
“Persephone has. She is the leader of my people.”
“Not Nyphron?”
“He is her husband.”
Jerydd’s eyes widened at that. And while previously the Art had detected only dead air between them, she received a sudden burst of shock, topped with an aftertaste of revulsion. All of it was quickly erased.
Not wanting to appear too passive or submissive, Suri asserted herself. “And are you able to speak for your fane?”
“Actually, no. I was merely instructed to verify that you existed. Now that we’ve literally crossed that bridge, I’ll report my findings and receive additional instructions, but, well . . .” Jerydd set down his cup and stood. “It’s late, and I’m certain you had a tiring trip. I’ve been rude in not offering you food and rest. You are our most distinguished guest, and nothing will be spared to ensure your comfort. I will order a chamber prepared, food brought, and tomorrow we’ll know more about how to proceed. Would you care for a bath?”
Suri didn’t know how to answer that. She loathed baths. Never understood why Arion had loved them so. The whole idea was preposterous. No one could avoid dirt, and why would anyone care about having some? It wasn’t cold like snow or hot like—well, a bath. And how was covering oneself in water better than being covered in dirt? Still, Arion took a bath every chance she got. Concerned that she would be perceived as less cultured by refusing, she said, “Of course. The road was very dirty.”
Jerydd smiled in understanding. “Absolutely. I’ll see it’s taken care of. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
With that, he stepped out, leaving Suri alone with her fragrant tea.
Suri couldn’t sleep. She’d always had trouble doing so indoors. Too quiet, and too—there was no other way to describe it—too dead. Life was lived under stars and clouds, surrounded by living trees and blades of grass. Nodding off in any room, even one that was no doubt the best in Avempartha, proved to be too difficult, so she was awake to see the tower of Avempartha change colors with the morning light. The glow shifted steadily from blue to a warm, golden hue. As far as rooms went, this was the most beautiful one Suri had ever been in. And yet there was a door—a closed door. Thankfully, it wasn’t bolted. She had checked that almost as soon as Jerydd left and continued to verify the fact throughout the night. If the door had been barred, Suri would have added a large hole in the wall, whether the Fhrey liked it or not. She’d make it a big opening leading to a broad balcony. With the amount of power Avempartha was feeding her, she felt confident she could have built a city.
That was another thing keeping her up. She practically vibrated with raw energy. Suri felt buoyed, almost euphoric. The channeled strength of the falls was a temptation, begging her to try it out, put it to a test. And yet . . . that massive flow wasn’t the most power she’d ever felt. Not even close.
They came to her shortly after sunrise. Jerydd, who smiled broadly, and his flock of bald Miralyith, who watched her with suspicious eyes, had entered after a polite knock. One of the group carried a small wooden box.
A gift?
“Slept well, I hope?” Jerydd asked.
Suri only smiled back.
“I’ve received instructions and have made arrangements for your transportation.”
“Trans-per-tey-shun?” Suri didn’t know what that meant, and it pained her to show ignorance. How stupid must I look right now?
“Ah—yes.” Jerydd bit his lip.
He’s surprised I don’t understand. I was doing so well, and now . . .
“For a person of your importance, I’ve secured a carry.”
Suri winced at yet another unfamiliar word.
This time Jerydd appeared to understand and added, “A carry, is . . well, you have them. It’s a box on wheels that is pulled by horses.”
“Oh, you mean a wagon?”
Jerydd smiled but didn’t nod, which made her think he had no idea what the word wagon meant. How do you like feeling ignorant?
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I don’t mind walking. I’d actually prefer that.”
“This is better. The journey is quite long.” He smiled again.
“Where am I going?”
“To Estramnadon. It’s our capital, and we want you to be comfortable.”
“I thought we were going to be discussing matters here.”
Jerydd smiled once more, and there was something in that expression she didn’t like. “The fane wishes to conduct negotiations with you personally. A Rhune who can wield the Art is an incredible thing. He feels it’s important that our people meet you. Most Fhrey have never encountered a Rhune and their impressions, I’m sorry to say, aren’t very enlightened. Seeing you, and hearing how eloquently you speak our language, will make it easier for the fane. The peace process will be accepted as an agreement between equals. Without that, the people would think him weak and wouldn’t understand how he could give concessions to a people that are thought to be so inferior.”
I’m not likely to meet the fane, am I? Suri’s words came to her from the past. She’d been arguing with Arion about the woman’s plan to stop the war. At the time, Suri wasn’t a real Artist, Arion was considered an outlaw, and she didn’t know anyone else who could arrange an audience. Since then, everything had changed.
Jerydd’s argument made sense, and Suri knew that meeting the fane face-to-face had always been Arion’s wish. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go.”
“Wonderful. Ah . . .” Jerydd looked over at the container. “There is one small matter that we need to address for that to happen.” The Miralyith holding the box stepped forward and pulled back the lid. Inside was a circular metal band.
Suri recognized the same sort of collar that Malcolm had worn. And just like the ex-slave’s, this one had a small but formidable-looking device that would keep it closed.
Before she could say anything—and she had quite a bit to say—Jerydd spoke up. “A personal audience requires this. It has long been the policy of the fane—of any great ruler, I suspect—that no one enters their presence armed with weapons. I hope you can understand that it would be insane to allow you, an enemy combatant and powerful Artist, to have a private audience with our leader. We won’t even allow our own people to approach him when armed, and Fhrey don’t kill Fhrey. We certainly can’t allow you to walk into his chambers with all the power of the Art.”
It was then that Suri noticed that the inside of the collar was engraved with markings. She knew them well, having once painted the same symbols on a set of bandages for Arion.
“The Orinfar,” she said.
This time Jerydd nodded. “You must surrender your weapon before I can allow you to proceed.”
Suri stared at the collar. Persephone hadn’t said anything about this. Did she know? Suri didn’t think so.
“I realize this is unpleasant,” Jerydd said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to don one of these. But look at it from our point of view. There’s no way for us to be sure that you’re not going to assassinate our leader. As powerful as you are, it would be beyond foolish for us to let you cross the river, much less get near our fane.”
Suri didn’t take her eyes off the circlet. She remembered the difficulty Roan had in getting Malcolm’s off. She also recalled how much Arion had complained when cut off from the Art.
“Let me ask you this,” Jerydd said. “Would you allow our best warrior to bring his extremely sharp sword when visiting your leader? Would you take that chance with . . . what did you say her name was?”
“Persephone.”
Suri tried to imagine if the situations were reversed, making it difficult to ignore Jerydd’s point. And yet . . . “Can’t I just speak to you? And then have you talk to the fane? It will take longer, but—”
“That wouldn’t solve the issue of having others in Estramnadon meet you. There are members of his council, leaders of each tribe who may not understand his giving in to what they see as a barbaric race.” He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that the only chance for this to work is for you to go to Estramnadon, and to do that we must ensure that you can’t obliterate it.”
Suri thought about the destruction of Neith, and wondered if he had heard about it. Regardless, he made a valid point.
Her trepidation must have shown because he reached out and closed the lid. “Never mind. I can see you’re uncomfortable.” He waved to the one holding the box. “Take it away, and extend a bridge for her to the west bank of the river.” He then turned his attention back to Suri. “I’m sorry we couldn’t work this out. But I do thank you for coming, Suri, and trying to end this awful war.”
Arion’s words emerged from the past. One day, when both sides have drunk their fill of blood, the truth about you could provide the honorable excuse to end it. It’s just so horrible to think people—so many people—need to die to reveal wisdom that ought to be common sense.
“Wait,” Suri said, stopping the flock of Fhrey and the box from leaving.
If they wanted me dead, they could have killed me before I even crossed the river.
“If I put this on, I’ll be given safe passage to the fane and back again?”
“Absolutely,” Jerydd replied. “But I don’t want you doing anything that you aren’t sure about.”
Suri probed as best she could, but the Art offered no hint, no suggestion about his intent.
What value is there in Minna’s, Raithe’s, and Arion’s deaths if I walk away now? And how can I deny that this is the path Malcolm wanted me to follow? What good is a butterfly that’s too afraid to flutter?
Suri nodded. “If it can bring peace, I accept.”
When the lock clicked into place, Jerydd felt a wave of relief pass over him.
It’s over. She’s ours!
A moment before, he’d felt the power radiating off her like the heat of a massive bonfire. The Rhune’s strength had been stunning, and it was little wonder she’d nearly killed Mawyndulë and was capable of conjuring dragons. But with the collar on, the fire had gone out. The woman who had called herself Cenzlyor was now just a Rhune, and Jerydd knew how to deal with their kind.
“Look at it,” he said to the others with a sneer. “The traitor dressed it up, taught it to speak, and how to use the Art, but it’s no better than any other Rhune now. The fane was right to neutralize this threat. And his plans will certainly end this war. Not through a negotiated peace, but by the annihilation of the entire barbaric horde who dared to wage war against us.”
The Rhune backed up and brandished the stick she’d brought. The moment Oscile tried to grab her, she struck him across the side of his head. “You lied!” she shouted.
Jerydd waved a hand, and the staff was ripped from her fingers and thrown across the room. But that was all he could do. The collar prevented the Rhune from using the Art, but it also prevented Jerydd and the other Miralyith from silencing or controlling her. She’d have to be subdued by physical force. She was quick, but outnumbered, and they pushed her back into a corner of the room. Kicking and clawing, she was restrained with thick leather straps. Then four of them lifted and carried her out.
Jerydd ordered, “Lock her up.”
Chapter Thirteen
My Prince
I have always thought children are universally loved, but I find it hard to believe that even a mother could love the likes of Gronbach and Mawyndulë. — The Book of Brin
Mawyndulë watched with indignation as Treya assembled the tower of twigs. With amused bewilderment, he saw her gather brown pine needles, dead leaves, and a massive wad of withered blond grass. From her pack, she pulled out a bark-stripped stick as thick as his thumb and a little bow that she bent against the ground so that the string could be pulled taut. Then she retrieved a knife and a foot-long board and began cutting a depression in it. Amazingly, there were three other cavities, all scorched.
She’s done this before! The thought was mind boggling.
Mawyndulë stretched his legs across the dirt and stole one of Treya’s three traveling bags, the soft one with bedding. He propped it behind his head to watch. Frogs peeped in the darkness of the forest. Crickets added to the general noise of the woodland. No fireflies, Mawyndulë noted. Too late in the year, he guessed with a vague disappointment. Chilled, he pulled his cloak and elbows tighter but did nothing to interfere with Treya. A night on the road was devoid of good entertainment.
Placing one end of the stripped stick into the little divot she’d just dug out in the face of the board, Treya wrapped the bow’s string around the spindle and began sawing back and forth, spinning the vertical stick. She applied pressure on the butt-end of the spindle with a block of stone and continued to drill the little depression wider. Smoke emerged after only a few seconds. Treya stopped her drilling, which confused Mawyndulë since she had just started making some real progress.
