Age of Empyre, page 42
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
He walked across the inlet. He actually walked here. Probably thinks that impresses me.
He had a crude spear over his shoulder with a bag tied to it.
Not a bag, another shirt.
He had food in it. Berries were staining the bottom a reddish blue.
“I won’t forgive you,” she greeted him.
“I know,” he said, setting the spear down, leaning it against the wall to the right of the doorframe.
They stared at each other for a long time, like the game where one tries not to blink.
Out in the yard, her ducks waddled and quacked and birds sang. All of them were oblivious to the historic meeting.
“Are you going to ask me in?”
“No.” She folded her arms.
“Then why invite me?”
“Who said I invited you?”
He looked at her then with a winsome smile. Seeing her reaction, he quickly buried it. “You kept the key so I would come. I consider that an invitation.”
“It’s been sixteen years. Why come now?”
“I was visiting a friend in the area.”
“Those people you sent—they were very convincing. That’s why you sent them, isn’t it? To soften me?”
“Did they?”
“I invited you, didn’t I?”
He smiled again. “But you still haven’t asked me in.” He tried to look around her, seeking a glimpse inside her hut.
“And I won’t.” Muriel pulled the key from around her neck and held it out to him.
He looked at it for a long moment. “No,” he finally said, shaking his head.
“What do you mean, no?” She paused to look at the chain she held out to make certain the key was still there. It was, and she frowned, confused.
“I didn’t come here for that. The key is yours.”
Despite her foreknowledge of the meeting, this she hadn’t expected, and she stood holding the key in her hand, the little chain dangling. “Why?”
“Birthday present. I’m sure I missed one—most of them, I think. You need a really good gift to make up for that many.”
Muriel lowered her arm, her hand still clutching Eton’s Key. She continued to glare. He was being charming, which meant he was up to something dreadful. “Why?”
“Because I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.” She said it with intentional venom. She felt it important to remind Turin just how much she hated—how much she loathed—him.
“I know.” Her father shrugged in that irritatingly sensible way of his, the way that disguised the monster he was. “But one has to start somewhere.”
Silence. She watched him, studied his face. She was wrong. He did look different. She didn’t know how, but he appeared older somehow, or maybe just tired. “Why give it to me? Why now? Is it because Trilos has escaped, and you think I won’t use it?”
He showed no hint of expression on his face, no sneer, no eye-rolling, none of the familiar contempt. “I want you to hold it until you are ready to forgive me. Then—”
She laughed so loudly it sounded like a cackle and disturbed the nearby birds. She shook her hands at him, waving off any such ridiculous notion. “I can never forgive you.” Her voice was raised; she expected that. It shook; this surprised her. “Not after what you did. Not after all you did.”
He chose to skip over her comments. “Then, when you are ready to forgive me, I want you to use it.”
“Use it?”
“Yes. To let them all out.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t understand.”
He looked surprised. He took a step closer, just one. His hand reached toward her. What would she do if he dared to touch her? The question wasn’t answered, for he stopped. He studied her face, puzzled. “You can’t see it, then?”
“See what?” she asked, wondering if this was another trick, one more manipulation. Her father was an expert at steering cataclysmic events. He could throw a pebble into a pond, and if he did it early enough, that simple action could change the fortunes of millions.
Is this a pebble? Or a lie?
He was speaking of the future. All of the Aesira had some of the vision. Muriel wasn’t one. She was second generation, and would have lacked the talent altogether except her father had tricked her into eating Alurya’s fruit. That single bite was all it took to do the damage, to make her immortal and to give her the sight. Being Aesira, and having eaten an entire fruit, made Turin’s vision peerless, while Muriel’s was hazy at best. She could see anywhere in the present clearly, but the deeper into the future she peered, the foggier things got.
“You’ll understand when the day comes,” he told her.
“Which will most certainly be when trees walk and stones talk.”
She watched him, wondering if this was part of some master plan. With him, it had to be. “You’re not telling me something.”
“I rarely tell anyone anything.” He offered her a smile. “If I did, you might think less of me.”
“That’s not possible.” She didn’t know why she said it. The words just came out. Maybe she wanted to hurt him. That was usually the only reason she ever spoke with her father.
When he failed to reply to her declaration, she added, “Trilos is looking for you.” Her tone was meant to have a vengeful quality. She was issuing a proclamation of doom, letting him know he wouldn’t get away with everything. In reality, it felt more like spitting in the wind.
“I heard. He’ll be wanting to kill me, I suspect.”
“Can he?”
He shrugged. “You more than anyone know there are worse things than death. But yes, I think it’s possible. Trilos is smart. He’s probably already figured it out, or soon will.”
“That would be . . . bad. You in Phyre? The prison warden sentenced to being locked up? You’re very unpopular.”
He did reach out then, as if to touch Muriel’s face, and the question was answered. She recoiled.
Turin stood on the stoop with his hand still out, forgotten, as he looked at her. Not shock—her reaction wasn’t unexpected—but the shift in his expression was sudden. A grimace of pain stole over him. He lowered his arm, bowed his head, and looked at the ground between them. “You really should be rooting for me more. I know you don’t believe it, but I’m trying to fix things.”
“Fix what?”
“Everything.”
“And you think you can? Do you see so far as that?”
She expected he would say that he did; such was his way. Everyone knew he could see what would happen, but he used that knowledge against people. He lied about what he saw so no one could trust his visions.
“No,” he told her. “Not so far as that. And the maze keeps changing. One day I think I can, and the next, no. And now . . .”
“What?”
“Maybe I’m getting old.” He shrugged. “But I do hope that one day I can make it up to you—some of it, at least. But I’m not very good at that.”
“At what?”
“Being good. It takes practice, I suspect. And I think I get it wrong a lot. I sacrificed Brin, did you know that? I sent her to her premature death—twice.” His shoulders slumped. “I judged it was for a good reason, only things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to. And then there’s Persephone. She just died. Did you know? Probably not. You never met her. I ruined her life, too. Stole her one chance at true happiness. That’s part of what brought me here.”
This surprised Muriel. She believed everything always worked out the way her father wanted. Knowing the future made that a foregone conclusion, or so she thought. Either he was lying again or something else was happening. She hated him. That fact had been the foundation of her universe for so long that this new development threatened to upend everything. The unknown was always terrifying, and for the first time she was afraid not of her father, but for him—for both of them.
“I did the same to Tressa,” Turin said. “And Tesh, and . . . well, the list goes on and on, doesn’t it? Was I right? Was I wrong? I honestly don’t know. I can’t tell the difference between what I want and what is right. I don’t know how. I believe Alurya could have taught me, but . . . well, with my track record, there’s no one I can trust, right?”
There was that face again, tired—no, exhausted.
“Wait here.” She went back inside and grabbed an old satchel off the peg near the washbasin. She normally used it to gather mushrooms and berries. Returning to the doorway, she held it out. “Take this.”
For once she saw confusion on her father’s face. A pleasing sight. “Why?”
“You can’t waste time checking back with me.”
“Checking with you?”
“Stop lying!” she yelled at him. “This is why you came here. You know it. I know it, so just stop!”
Her father didn’t reply.
“See, this is you being you—being awful. This is what you have to stop. Take the bag.”
He took hold of the shoulder strap and studied the satchel.
He could be faking. Her father was the master of lies and deceit, evil and treachery, so this could all be an act. The one truth that lingered, the one pestering question that stopped her from completely giving up on him was . . . why? What did he stand to gain by coming there, by giving her the key? Maybe he was up to something she couldn’t see. He usually was, but it was also true that if anyone could fix the world, the one she would bet on—the only one she thought might be able to do it—was her father.
And if there is even the smallest chance he’s telling the truth . . .
Muriel wasn’t ready to bet on him, and she certainly wasn’t going to root for him. Still . . .
“I’ll watch you.”
This made his brows rise suspiciously.
“I’ll check in from time to time . . . when I’m bored,” she clarified. “Each time you do something I approve of, every time I feel my hatred of you lessen, I’ll send you a . . .” She thought a moment, looking around. She caught sight of the bags of feathers and smiled. Grabbing a little white tuft, she held it up. “. . . a feather.”
“Why?”
“It’s a symbol of rising, of renewed spirit, an embodiment of hope.”
He nodded, and she saw a smile rising.
“You realize that even with my help you have an extremely small chance of success.”
He leaned over and peered inside the hut. “You have a lot of feathers.”
“I was going to make pillows.”
He looked down at the bag he held. “So if I fill this up, do you think you can forgive me?”
“You won’t manage to. It would take an eternity.”
“No, not that long. I’m sure I’ll finish before trees walk and stones talk.” He winked.
She smirked and held up the feather. “Small feathers—big bag.”
“But if I do?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
He nodded. “That’s fair.” He looked at her, and for a moment, she thought he might try to touch her again. He didn’t. “It will be a long time, I think, before we meet again.”
“I don’t have your sight, but I’m guessing this is the last we’ll ever see each other.”
“So much faith in me. I’m overwhelmed.” He looped the strap of the satchel over his head, letting it hang across his chest. He clapped it against his side and picked up the spear again. He offered a wave, but not a goodbye.
He followed her front path, walking down toward the garden. When he was nearly to it, thunder cracked.
Turin looked up, his mouth open.
Surprised again, she thought. Two miracles in one day. I’m on a roll.
He continued to stare skyward as from out of the blue a single downy feather descended. He held out his hand and caught it. Turin stared at his palm for a long curious moment, then turned. “I thought—”
She showed him her empty hand. “Don’t cheat next time or no feather.”
“Cheat?”
“You want to do this? Do it as a man, not as Rex Uberlin. Sending people through Phyre is an unfair advantage.”
“I no longer have the key, so that ought to be easy.” Her father looked back at the tiny white fluff in his hand and grinned.
“It’s just a feather,” she told him.
“No, it’s not. It’s—” He stopped, and swallowed several times, then sucked in a shallow breath. “It’s evidence that you hate me a little less.”
“A very little bit. The weight of a feather, in fact.” She smirked.
“It’s a start.” He waved to her. “It is a start.”
Malcolm kissed the feather and slipped it into the satchel. Pulling it shut, he continued on his way.
Muriel stood in her doorway, watching until he passed beyond the hill and out of sight.
Michael’s Afterword
BACKGROUND INFORMATION
In February 2011, three critical things happened in my writing career. First, I finished the edits on Percepliquis, the sixth and final novel of my debut series The Riyria Revelations. Second, Orbit (the fantasy imprint of Hachette Book Group), announced they would be picking up that series and re-releasing it. And Third, I began work on my next novel.
I had decided to rework the first serious manuscript I had ever penned. This wasn’t my first novel (in fact, it was my 9th), but it was the first one I thought might have a chance of being published. Originally penned in 1986 and titled Wizards, it is the contemporary story of a man who accidentally receives the power to do just about anything. Inheriting such an ability initially led to selfish pursuits. Later, he discovers the power’s origin and that there is another person with the same skills opposing him in a classic Good versus Evil scenario. Throughout the book, he must learn not only how to survive but discover how to win in a battle where he is greatly outmatched.
I liked the idea, but back in the mid-eighties, I simply didn’t know how to write well enough to produce a decent book. I felt confident that I now had the talent and skill to fix the problems. I retitled it Antithesis and got to work. I spent an entire year researching, reconstructing, and rewriting. Then I stopped because I was mistaken. The book didn’t merely require a few corrections; it wasn’t worthy to begin with. Rather than release a mediocre novel, I shelved a year’s worth of work and walked away.
By then, it had been four years since I had written a book. I had spent that time editing and publishing The Riyria Revelations via two separate routes. Initially, it was released as a six-book self-published series (2008 to 2010), then afterward through one of the largest publishers in the world. Orbit fast-tracked the series, and they released all six books in three two-book omnibus editions from November 2011 to January 2012. Given it had been so long since I had written an original manuscript, I began to wonder if I still could.
For my next attempt, I started playing around with an origin story to my world of Elan—the tale of Nyphron. Writing something as extensive as Riyria generates a great deal of world building background, but very little of what I know actually makes it to the page. So I started contemplating what eventually became The Legends of the First Empire series.
While I was doing that, the Riyria books were being reintroduced to the world (in a much bigger way than I could have done on my own), and a need for more Riyria arose. My wife (and more than a few newfound fans) missed the pair, and in Robin’s case, depression actually set in. She lamented that I could revisit Royce and Hadrian anytime I wanted to, but with her limited imagination, she was cut off from their adventures. And so I began writing the first two Chronicles to sate her, and to remind myself I could still spin a tale.
Still, I was mindful that I needed to create something new. I was at a crossroads. I never had planned to be a fantasy writer. It just turned out that after nineteen novels, it happened to be the fantasy genre that first gained traction. I suspect most authors are in no short supply of book ideas. I had dozens filling my head. I wanted to try my hand at science fiction, horror, and what-if books. There was no end to the number of tales that excited my imagination. But I was published now, and it wasn’t only my desires that were in play. Orbit hoped for another fantasy series, and my readers wanted (and still do desire) more Royce and Hadrian. Doing something completely different might be asking too much of those who were now my supporters. The sophomore curse was upon me, and that might hinder acceptance of anything too different. I felt readers would be most accepting of another fantasy series, especially if it was set in the same world.
But there was something else I needed to face. I had lied in The Riyria Revelations, and I felt terrible about leaving that unaddressed. A great deal of Elan’s history, the mythology of the gods, and the Novronian Empire’s foundation were garbled tales altered over the centuries. I knew this when I wrote Riyria, and I felt a nagging need to reveal the truth. With that in mind, I returned to creating what I planned to be a little trilogy that would cover Nyphron’s story and the origin of the First Empire. My hope was to knock it out quickly, then move onto new worlds. That didn’t happen.
LEGENDS ORIGIN STORY
The story began its conception as a biography of Nyphron, written mostly in his point of view. He and his band of valiant adventurers would be a platoon of soldiers in a rebellious territory where they were not wanted. Nyphron would develop an atypical appreciation of humans, and when ordered to slaughter a village, he would refuse. The plot was designed to escalate from there, which was interesting but weak. There wasn’t enough there, there.
The story grew as I studied Iron Age Britannic history, looking for inspiration. I added Raithe, the human hero-warrior, and Persephone, the Queen Boudica of her people. I had the foundation for a love triangle building. Here is where the story entered its infancy, and I began writing what was then titled Rhune (the other books would be neatly named Dherg and Fhrey).
I got off to a rocky start when I began the series. I went with a different style, one that resembled other fantasy writers who I had read since entering the genre. Usually, no one—not even Robin—reads my books before they are finished, but I wanted to ensure I was on the right track. I wasn’t. Her response was, “I’m not sure who wrote this, but I would much rather read a book by Michael J. Sullivan. Can you please tell him that?” She was right. Instead of trying to be someone else, I went back to being me.
