Age of Empyre, page 19
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
“Stop!” Mawyndulë shouted. With a grasping motion, he locked the high priest’s legs together. The old Fhrey fell and skidded to a stop, causing those running behind him to jump over or dodge. One not-so-agile follower stepped on the priest’s hand, making Volhoric cry out. He clutched his injured fingers and rolled over. Seeing Mawyndulë staring at him, the priest’s face filled with terror.
Everyone knew I was going to kill Lothian, so why is he so scared of me?
That was the moment realization landed, the truth of the comedy he starred in revealed.
“You lied to me. You knew I’d lose my soul, and you lied!” Mawyndulë shouted at Volhoric.
He heard a pop and sizzle and looked back at the heap on the dais, cooked flesh in the shape of a person that the breeze stirred up. As Mawyndulë stared, the full weight of what he’d done landed.
I broke Ferrol’s Law. I’m no longer a Fhrey. But I’m the fane! How can the leader of Ferrol’s children not be a Fhrey?
Mawyndulë struggled to hold his breath against the nauseating smell that was sweet, putrid, and meat-like. The odor was so thick and rich that he could taste it on his tongue as he breathed through his mouth. He crossed the dais to the charred body and ripped the circlet from his father’s head, causing the blackened face to rock in protest. Mawyndulë put it on and shouted, “I’m fane now!”
The few people still in the Airenthenon froze, halting their efforts to escape. They looked his way, every face filled with fear—almost every face.
Imaly, who hadn’t left her seat until that moment, rose. “No, you’re not,” she told him and took a moment to brush the creases out of her purple-and-white asica.
“Of course I am!” he shouted. “My father is dead. That makes me the fane!”
Imaly shook her head, showing him the familiar mentor-like expression that he finally recognized as condescension. “Fhrey cannot kill Fhrey. You did. You broke Ferrol’s Law, so you are no longer Fhrey. You cannot be fane.”
Mawyndulë whirled and pointed at Volhoric, who was still lying on the floor with his legs trapped by the Art. “He said there was an exception. He told me Lothian had already revoked his standing as a Fhrey and could be killed without repercussion.”
“That’s true,” Imaly said. “And as you already pointed out, he lied.”
Mawyndulë glanced at the priest who struggled to drag himself to the door using only his arms. Then he looked at Imaly. “So you knew, too. You knew and you convinced me to do it anyway? Why would you do that?”
“Because we cannot be ruled by Miralyith forever, and that was the course that lay before us.” Imaly spoke in that same powerful, commanding voice she’d always used when orating to the Aquila. “That was not what Gylindora—what my great-grandmother—intended. The Miralyith have tried to vanquish Ferrol and replace him with themselves. Today we restore our god to his throne, and his will to our laws. The horn will be blown by a worthy Fhrey, one who—”
“The horn!” Mawyndulë burst out. “That’s it! Gryndal told me that the fane of the Fhrey must be Fhrey, that there’s a crack in Ferrol’s Law. If I blow it and survive The Challenge, I must be reinstated. If I do that, I will be fane. Where is it?”
Imaly hesitated. Mawyndulë could tell she hadn’t expected this. For the first time ever, she looked genuinely concerned. She glanced at Volhoric, still pulling himself across the floor.
Mawyndulë punched his fist into the air, and the two rows of marble seats just to Imaly’s left smashed against the walls, cracking the rock. “I have a very long reach, Imaly.” Mawyndulë glared at her. “You were behind this whole thing, weren’t you? All those times we talked.” He sneered at her as the full extent of her betrayal registered. She had deceived Mawyndulë for . . . years.
“You were only feigning respect. You pretended to help, when all along you were manipulating me to this.” Mawyndulë’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “I saved you!” He pointed at the far wall. “When the Gray Cloaks attacked and this whole building was about to come down, it was I who saved you!”
Imaly could have been a marble statue. Not a hint of remorse nor a trace of sympathy appeared on her face. “You saved yourself, or have you forgotten telling me that? I only fanned the flames of your own ambition. You’re not the type of person we need as our next fane.”
“And who do we need? You?” Mawyndulë glanced between Imaly and Volhoric. “Where is the horn? It’s here, isn’t it? You planned to blow it. Being the great-granddaughter of Gylindora Fane, you believe yourself to be the rightful choice. Isn’t that so? That’s what this has been about from the beginning. You’re stealing the Forest Throne for yourself. I was warned about you. Vidar said you were dangerous. He was right about that. But he also said you were smart, and on that score he was mistaken. You forgot one important thing. I may not be a Fhrey, but I’m still a Miralyith. With Synne dead, I’m the only remaining Miralyith in this city, the only one who isn’t three days away at the Nidwalden River.”
Mawyndulë sucked in a deep breath, and with it, he drew power from the people around him, from the dormant trees outside, and from the fires burning in the braziers. Extending his arms, he began smashing holes in the walls. He tore down the balcony, which shattered on the floor. The whole of the Airenthenon shrieked and rocked. “I’m done holding up tradition.” With a grunt, he destroyed another of the great pillars holding up the dome, and the whole ceiling slipped dangerously. “The old ways are gone,” he shouted. “I am fane, if not by law then by might. Everyone here will serve me or die. Now where is the horn!”
Imaly didn’t answer, but her eyes were on Volhoric.
With a sweep of Mawyndulë’s arm, the priest slid across the floor toward the prince. The old Fhrey cowered in a ball, his cloak and robes a chaos around him. Mawyndulë had assumed he was huddling out of fear, but he now suspected that wasn’t the case. The primary job of the Conservator was to keep the horn safe and present it to the Curator when called for. Imaly would want things done properly for her coronation. Mawyndulë pulled strings in a weave and manipulated Volhoric like a puppet, spreading his arms and lifting him up to reveal a strap over one shoulder and a bulge at his side deep in the folds of his robe.
Mawyndulë gestured for the priest to come closer, and Volhoric acted as if each wave of Mawyndulë’s fingers were a forward shove. Using the priest’s own hands, Mawyndulë forced him to strip off his clothes and reveal the horn at his side. Mawyndulë had never seen it before. Always kept in secret by the Aquila, it was a relic that most Fhrey had never laid eyes on. But they’d heard it. The moment the horn was blown, all Fhrey everywhere perceived its cry. Mawyndulë had always imagined it to be a jewel-encrusted treasure. The thing at Volhoric’s side looked like just an old ram’s horn with decorative markings.
“Bring it to me,” Mawyndulë ordered.
The priest no longer needed to be manipulated by the Art. He walked forward and handed the horn to the prince. Then he and Imaly stared at each other, their faces reflecting fear.
“It won’t work,” Volhoric said. “You’re no longer Fhrey. The horn will only sound for a child of Ferrol, and you’ve cast yourself out.” His words were brave, but his tone was just hopeful—less declaration and more wish.
“My soul is gone. You are right about that.” He smiled a wicked grin. “But Gryndal theorized that the only thing required to blow the horn is to possess a single drop of Fhrey blood, and I still have plenty of that running through my veins. Let’s see who is right—you or Gryndal.”
He lifted the horn to his lips and blew.
Chapter Sixteen
Uli Vermar
She did not go with us, but she suffered nonetheless. I do not think anyone will ever know just how much. — The Book of Brin
Persephone’s feet crushed the snow as she walked. The paths between the four quadrants of the Dragon Camp had been packed down with traffic, melted by the daytime sun, and refrozen at night such that sections were turned to ice. The heels of her boots managed to leave divots, creating little footholds that kept her from falling.
I need to ask Habet to toss wood ash along the glossy parts. And get the other fire tenders to do the same. It’ll look terrible but could prevent a few broken bones—not the least of which might be my own.
Persephone made daily visits to each of the quads to hear grievances and learn what was needed. Not that she could do much about the growing concern over Lothian’s dragons or the worsening weather, but sometimes it made folks feel better just to be heard. People could withstand hardships if they knew they weren’t alone and felt their sacrifices were appreciated. Persephone had learned this as a chieftain’s wife and honed her empathetic skills as a keenig. Simply listening made a difference.
Returning to the center of the camp after completing her rounds, she found Nyphron waiting in her tent. In his hand was the bottle.
“Who?” she said, no longer needing to ask what the container held.
“Elysan,” Nyphron replied. He said nothing more for so long that Persephone grew aware of the snap and crackle of the fire that, under Habet’s single-minded care, eternally sent sparks into the dark sky. Eventually, Nyphron tightened his lips and added, “He had his arms torn off by giants and was mounted on a pole while still alive, turned into a Grenmorian battle flag.”
The image was explicit, the delivery blunt, but Persephone held steady, watching him with a firm jaw and steady hands at her sides.
“I sent—ordered—him north to the giants to persuade Furgenrok to assist us.”
“I know,” she said.
He didn’t seem to hear. “I felt he was the best for the job. He gets—got—along with everyone and was blessed with insight and artful with words. I’ve never known a wiser Fhrey. He made the perfect ambassador. I was certain he could persuade them.” He looked up at her then. His eyes were dull, only casting back the flicker of the fire. “Didn’t work.”
He pulled the top off the bottle, making a deep, hollow sound.
Persephone remembered the night they toasted the deaths of Tekchin and the others who’d gone to the swamp. Nyphron had been cheerful—after a fashion—wearing a classic, brave warrior’s face. He joked, smiled, and made light, silly conversation. That—along with sharing a drink of erivitie—was how Nyphron mourned.
This time he was different.
Nyphron seemed angry but also sad, and there was an uncharacteristic dash of confusion. She thought a bit and realized Nyphron had often deferred to the recommendations of Elysan, and he sometimes sought out the older Fhrey’s opinion.
“He was like a father to you. Is that right?” she asked.
Nyphron appeared to think the question over. “No,” he finally said. “Zephyron was like a father to me. Elysan was something better. He was . . .” Nyphron paused with a finger up, his eyes chasing a thought. Then he shook his head. “There’s no word for it. Not in Fhrey, nor Rhunic, or even in Dherg. There just aren’t words for some things. I think perhaps it’s—”
Nyphron’s head jerked sharply to one side. His mouth dropped open in surprise.
Persephone turned to look but saw nothing unusual. He was staring northeast toward the forest and the river, which was a bad sign. The Fhrey had better hearing and more acute eyesight. She looked above the tops of the tents.
Dragons? Is he hearing them? Will I see them in a minute? Are we all about to die?
Persephone braced herself for the sound of leathery wings and the blast of fire.
Nothing happened.
She peered up at the Dragon Hill. The gilarabrywn was still there.
If dragons are coming, surely it would know and get up. Even if the danger was just the approach of the fane’s army, it should lift its head.
“Nyphron, what’s wrong?” she asked.
“The horn,” he said. “Someone has blown it.”
“What do you mean—”
Persephone heard running feet on snow. Turning, she saw Sikar, Erye, and Anyval coming toward them. The one bringing up the rear was still in the process of pulling on his cloak.
“It’s the horn,” Erye said.
As a Fhrey resident of the Dragon Camp, Erye stood out as doubly odd because she was neither male nor an Instarya. Erye was an Asendwayr. Since she hadn’t moved to Merredydd like all the other noncombatant Fhrey of Alon Rhist, Persephone suspected that she shared a bed with someone. Anyval was the obvious choice, but Persephone couldn’t rule out anyone, including Nyphron.
“The Uli Vermar has ended,” Anyval announced.
Just then, Poric and Plymerath joined them, coming from a different direction. Together they appeared as two ends of the Fhrey spectrum: Poric was small, fastidious, and pretentious, while Plymerath was big, smiling, and relaxed.
“Lothian is dead,” Sikar stated.
All of them looked east, stunned.
Poric asked, “How do you think he died?”
“Someone killed him,” Nyphron said hotly.
His anger baffled Persephone. Not only was it unlike him to exhibit such emotion, but there appeared no reason for it. The mystery was solved with Nyphron’s next words. “Someone who isn’t me.”
Anyval continued to stare out at the dark winter’s night with a dismal expression. “I don’t understand. Who would break Ferrol’s Law? And why replace Lothian now that he has the advantage?”
“Is it possible he was eaten by one of his own dragons?” Plymerath asked.
Persephone thought this might have been a joke, but no one laughed or smiled. She didn’t, either. “I don’t understand what’s going on. You all heard a horn? I didn’t hear anything.”
“You’re not Fhrey,” Anyval told her. The physician who had helped her after the raow attack recognized what all the others appeared to miss—that she wasn’t knowledgeable about the Fhrey laws of succession. What’s more, he realized how rude it was to ignore her ignorance. Snapping closed the clasp on his cloak, he took a step closer. “It’s Ferrol’s pact. We’re all bound to the horn by birth. If you have Fhrey blood, you hear it sound when someone announces their challenge to be fane.”
“Why do you assume Lothian is dead? Couldn’t someone be challenging him?”
“No. Lothian has already been opposed, so the horn remains silent until his reign ends. His son has first rights to the throne, so it’s Mawyndulë who is being confronted.”
“Not necessarily,” Poric said. “It’s possible he’s dead, too.”
“Maybe.” Anyval nodded. “But the horn would need to be blown again by this time tomorrow for that to be true.”
“It’s possible whoever blew it might go unchallenged.” Poric spoke as if he was an expert.
Persephone had her doubts. Poric was the sort to always assume he was right.
“Doesn’t matter,” Nyphron replied and finally drank from his bottle. “It will be another Miralyith.”
Persephone didn’t want to drink. She had questions and needed answers that no one gathered there could give her. With Lothian dead, perhaps the next ruler of the Fhrey would be willing to seek peace. Maybe a Miralyith had been forced to murder a loved one to make the dragon at Avempartha, and they killed Lothian in retribution. If that were so, there was a chance they could be reasoned with. Nyphron and the others didn’t know who was challenging to replace Lothian, but she knew someone who probably did.
Persephone climbed Dragon Hill in the dark. She stood twenty feet from the sleeping beast and waited. After several minutes—when her feet had sunk into deep snow and grown cold—she suspected she might be an idiot.
I don’t know what I was thinking. He’s just a man. He doesn’t actually know the future. If he really knew everything, he would have known I would come here even before I started this way. He should have been waiting. He should have been—
She heard the crunch of snow as a tall figure came toward her out of the night.
“Good evening, Persephone,” Malcolm said in greeting, vanquishing her doubts.
He looked the same as always: tall, thin, and not at all special. That night he wore a heavy winter cloak.
Does he even need it? Is he affected by the cold?
They stared at each other for a moment.
Why doesn’t he just tell me what I want to know?
Everything suddenly felt absolutely absurd.
They were standing in the cold snow at the foot of a dragon-like beast where she planned to ask Malcolm questions—the answers to which he couldn’t possibly know. Except she knew he did.
“What just happened? And don’t feign ignorance. Lying won’t help either of us.”
He shrugged casually. “You already know. Lothian is dead.”
“How did he die?”
“Murdered by his son Mawyndulë.”
“Oh.” Persephone was surprised Malcolm was forthcoming with information. “Will I be able to broker peace with the new leader of the Fhrey?”
“No. But that won’t be necessary as long as you keep Nyphron here.”
Persephone’s fingers were cold. She didn’t have mittens, so she tucked her hands into her armpits. “You keep saying that as if this is going to be a problem. Will there be a time when Nyphron wants to leave?”
“Yes.”
“My husband is many things, but flighty isn’t one of them. He doesn’t do anything without reasons—usually good ones. If he thinks we need to pull back, I suspect the retreat will be warranted.”
“I wouldn’t make such a point of it, if staying will be an obvious choice.”
“But you promise everything will work out?”
He didn’t answer immediately. The pause bothered her. “Nothing is absolutely certain.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? If what you say is true, I’ll likely be risking the lives of everyone I know on just your word. I might be risking the future of unborn generations as well.”
“I don’t control the universe, Persephone. I can’t guarantee success.”
“What are you talking about? Of course you can! You can see the future.”
