Age of Empyre, page 28
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
“Brin?” She whispered the name, casting it forth as a sacred wish, a prayer, wanting so badly for it to be true. “Brin,” she called, louder.
The woman’s head tilted. A quivering hand came up and parted the hair, revealing weary eyes, wind-beaten cheeks, and cracked lips.
“BRIN!” Persephone shouted, then ran to the Keeper’s side. The keenig tightly wrapped the young woman in her arms. “Oh, Brin, Brin, Brin,” she cried.
Malcolm held out the horn to Nyphron. “I promised you the world, and I’m handing it to you now. Blow this. If you do, the war will end, and you’ll rule both sides of the Nidwalden.”
“I don’t want to rule them. I want to kill them.”
“I understand. But that’s not one of your choices. Once that sun sets, Mawyndulë, with his fleet of dragons and army of Miralyith, will be fane. You can either blow this and fight him for the Forest Throne, or refuse and accept both defeat and your own death. The choice is yours.”
Brin’s clothes were soaked, and she shivered within Persephone’s embrace.
She must be freezing to death.
The Keeper looked so tired, beyond exhausted. She was used up, empty, and withered.
The woman lifted her head clear of Persephone and glared at Nyphron. “Blow it,” she begged in a desperate voice. “We all died bringing it to you. I’m the only one to make it back. Blow it. For the love of Elan, do it.”
“We all died . . .”
Persephone felt the words as much as heard them. And in that moment, she remembered a girl-mystic with strange tattoos and a white wolf standing in her darkened lodge.
“I came to tell you that we’re all going to die. All of us.” Suri had said.
But it wasn’t us, Persephone realized, it was them. Everyone she had ever loved had died, even Brin. Yes, she was back, but could anyone fully return from such a thing?
Silence caused her to look over.
With a noncommittal expression on his face, Nyphron took the horn and weighed it in his hand. He sneered at the thing. “Mawyndulë, eh? Lothian’s son.”
“There’s a certain sense of symmetry in that, don’t you think?” Malcolm asked.
Nyphron considered this, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
He raised the horn and blew.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Horn Blower
Turns out, Mawyndulë did not expect his musical debut to be a duet. — The Book of Brin
Mawyndulë sat on the Forest Throne. He’d never done so before. His father wasn’t the type to indulge his child with even a momentary sit in the Big Chair. Mawyndulë wasn’t all that certain what a father did, or was supposed to do, but he figured that since Lothian had been a failure at everything else, it only followed he was a bad father. The throne was about as comfortable as one would expect from a chair made out of intertwined living trees. Thankfully, the bark had worn away, but Mawyndulë still insisted on using a pillow. The seat was also weirdly sized, seemingly built for a giant. The armrests were too high, the seat itself too wide and deep. He had to either sit a mile from the backrest or have his feet stick up in the air like a child. Mawyndulë had hoped sitting there would help him feel more confident, more self-assured. Instead, the throne only made him feel small.
The seat wasn’t his yet, but that didn’t matter. He was the only Miralyith in the city—assuming the Rhune and her wolf had left. Reports of her taking the road west were plentiful. No one had tried to stop her, least of all Mawyndulë. Those in the city had heard what she’d done, and where she’d been. No one was concerned that she had assaulted their prince, but everyone was fascinated that she had entered the Garden Door. Already the Rhune and her white wolf were slipping into the realm of legend. Mawyndulë had murdered his father on the floor of the Airenthenon, but all people talked about was how impressive the Rhune had appeared in that formal asica, carrying the Horn of Gylindora, and how blue the wolf’s eyes had been. Mawyndulë was glad she was gone.
Until he heard the horn blow.
It happened as the sun set. Everyone heard it. The sound pierced the ear like teeth scraping metal.
Now he needed answers.
Mawyndulë was shifting in his seat, trying to center the pillow, when the Aquila were ushered into the throne room by palace guards. The fane’s soldiers had heard about Mawyndulë killing his father. They also knew the entire Aquila had been complicit in the act. Mawyndulë had explained the whole thing to them while reminding each he was blessed with the Protection of Ferrol. He also reminded them that he was the only remaining Miralyith within three days of the city. Then he asked for their loyalty. Unsurprisingly, none had refused.
Mawyndulë had considered executing the Aquila right away. He’d almost done it that night, imagining a grand public barbecue right in the plaza. But he’d held off. He wasn’t fane yet. He didn’t know all the rules, and while he was invulnerable for now, he guessed this wouldn’t last. Slaughtering the whole of the Aquila—the leaders of each tribe—might anger too many. It could spark a full-scale revolt. Best to wait until after I am enthroned, he thought. And I want Imaly to personally crown me. He felt that would be the sweetest victory of all. So he had them imprisoned—all of them, including Vasek and a handful of others he suspected of being sympathizers. Executions would begin the day after his coronation.
Imaly and Volhoric came in first, followed closely by Osla. The two ringleaders held hands like lovers. Mawyndulë suspected the high priest and the Curator hated each other now, but fear made friends of everyone. Nanagal and Hemon came next. They didn’t hold hands, but they bumped shoulders as if neither one wanted to be first or last into the room, as if there might be a penalty for either. The five crept forward, huddling in a tight group. Mawyndulë had heard sheep did the same thing because the odd one out got eaten.
While Imaly did nothing, Volhoric bowed.
“Your Highness,” Imaly said.
Not “my fane,” Mawyndulë noted.
“Who blew the horn?” he demanded.
The fact he had heard its blast at all was a positive sign. It meant he was still Fhrey enough to participate in the ritual. But the fear of not knowing who he would face in battle was making him sick. He felt nauseous.
“How would we know?” Imaly replied. “Being locked in a cellar makes it difficult to be informed.”
“Truth be told, my fane, we are in uncharted territory here,” Volhoric said.
“So how do I know who to fight?” Anxiety leaked into Mawyndulë’s words, which alarmed all of them. Each took a step back.
Mawyndulë’s frustration rose. “Don’t you have some way of locating it? Did it reach the river? Did it get to Avempartha?”
That was his real concern, his greatest fear. If the horn had somehow managed to travel all the way to the tower, then he could face another Miralyith. Mawyndulë was confident in his ability to defeat any non-Artist, but he doubted he could stand up against even the weakest of his own kind.
I failed in combat against a Rhune. What chance do I have against someone like Jerydd, even as old as he is? If he is the one who blew it . . . the thought terrified Mawyndulë.
“I don’t see how,” Nanagal said. “Avempartha is three days away.”
“Maybe it would be possible with a good horse,” Osla said. “It could travel a hundred miles in a day. But it would probably drop dead right after. Still, it might be possible, and Avempartha isn’t nearly that far . . . is it?” She looked at the others.
“The Rhune didn’t have a horse. I’m not even certain their kind can ride one,” Mawyndulë replied.
“If I may,” Imaly started, “surely there have been reports of the Rhune’s movements since leaving the Airenthenon. If you could provide us with what’s been reported to you, perhaps we could aid you better.”
Oh, yes. You’re always the helpful one, aren’t you, traitor.
Mawyndulë calmed himself. “Eyewitnesses say they saw the Rhune take it inside the Door, and she didn’t have it when she came back out.”
Shock washed over the faces of each of the Aquila members, their eyes widening.
Not even Imaly is that good at deception. She did not expect that.
Mawyndulë’s stomach had been in knots since he’d heard the report. Was he being challenged by someone who was dead? Or had it been that odd, filthy guy in the Garden who had blown it? There wasn’t anyone more obsessed with the door than Trilos.
If that’s the case, I’m done for. He’s as talented as Jerydd. They both can create strawberries. I’ve never heard of any Artist who can manifest something from nothingness.
When no one said anything, Mawyndulë took a different tack. “What happens if the challenger never comes forth? What happens then?”
The sheep shared more wide-eyed looks.
“Ah . . .” Volhoric opened his yammering mouth again. “That has never happened. The challenger has always been eager to engage, either to fight or quickly concede. In the case of two combatants, they have always been together because the horn was always here. We’ve given each the chance to blow, and the ritual went on from there. It’s not supposed to happen like this. It’s just not.”
“Is there a time limit? Like between the first and second sounding of the horn? A point after which I win by default if the challenger doesn’t show up?”
“Like I said, we are on new ground here, my fane. I suppose it’s possible that everything will just washout and start over,” Volhoric offered.
“Washout? Start over? What does that mean?”
The high priest didn’t look at all certain of himself. “Maybe if the challenge isn’t met, the whole process begins again.”
“You mean I’d have to blow the horn again?”
Volhoric nodded. “Possibly.”
This was almost more frightening than not knowing who had blown it in the first place, and Mawyndulë’s anger grew again. “We don’t have the horn anymore! We. Can’t. Have. A. Do-over.”
He pointed at them, sweeping his finger like a weapon. All of them shrank in terror as it passed over them. “Take them away,” he yelled at the guards. “Lock them up again. And no meals, not even bread. Until I get real answers, I won’t be able to eat, so they don’t get to, either!”
The guards herded the group out, leaving Mawyndulë alone on his ill-fitting chair.
All manner of nightmares rushed at him.
Who can it be? A monster? Trilos? My father? A god? Ferrol himself might be coming to dole out punishment for my crime.
As far as Mawyndulë knew, no one had ever murdered a fane then blown the challenge horn. Perhaps this act had broken some universal law and summoned a deity to deliver retribution. In some strange way, he preferred the idea of having to fight Ferrol over having to face his own father. He imagined Lothian returning from the dead still blackened and charred, his eyes angry.
Mawyndulë put his head between his knees and cried.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Losing Weight
The worst thing people can do to one another is also the best—provide challenges. How we respond becomes our lives. How we live our lives becomes the best and the worst parts of our afterlives. — The Book of Brin
Tesh saw that Iver was right about the snow. Small icy flakes pelted them and made a hissing sound where they struck the frost en masse. Gifford led them around the curve of the cliffs out into what Roan’s light revealed to be a wide canyon.
She’s brighter than Brin was, Tesh thought as he realized he could see from wall to wall. In between was a flat plain of white littered with the broken pieces of the bridge.
Roan had pulled his arm around the back of her neck and was acting as a crutch the same way she used to help Gifford.
I’ve become a burden.
Tesh looked at Gifford, who carried Tressa in his arms. His light was growing brighter.
He feeds off Roan. He lives for her. Who do I live for?
By the time they reached the base of the big pillar, they heard sounds unlike anything since they’d fallen in. The noise was odd, like thunder made from breaking glass. Down the length of the canyon that zigzagged with the randomness of a mammoth crack, they could see a reddish glow, and it was moving, growing bigger and brighter.
Gifford set Tressa down gently, then tilted his head back and peered up at the long ascent. “They are attracted to your light, Roan. Is there any way you can turn it down? Can you think terrible thoughts?”
Roan shook her head. “I doubt you’d want me to, even if I could. We both need to be as light as possible in order to climb.”
Only then did Tesh notice the connection between buoyancy and brilliance. To be without weight was to be light.
Roan placed Tesh’s hands on the rock as if he were drunk, and they’d reached the door of his home. “I can’t carry you. You have to climb. You have to pull yourself up.”
Tesh felt that miserable rock: dry, rough, sharp, and cruel. “I can’t. I’m just too heavy.”
“Yes, you can. You know you can. You just have to decide to do it. You, too, Tressa.”
“I’ll never climb this thing,” she said, looking up and uttering what was close to a laugh. “I don’t even know why you brought me.”
The sound of the shattering thunder grew louder, and what looked to be sunrise stretched out across the horizon, becoming brighter but retaining that terrifying red color.
“You have to try,” Gifford told them. The desperate way he rushed his words decided the matter for Tesh.
“I will on one condition.”
“A condition?” Gifford said. “We’re doing that again?”
“Don’t wait for us.”
“You’re just giving up again.”
“No, I’m not.” Tesh nodded toward the red glow. “This could take time, and I already have enough weight to deal with. I can’t add fear and guilt on top of it. You and Roan go up. We’ll either make it or we won’t, but being responsible for your failure won’t help.”
Gifford looked at Roan, who shook her head. “He’s lying, just as he did to Brin.”
Gifford frowned, then grabbed Tesh by the shoulders. “I want your word you’ll do it.”
“You have it.”
“No,” he said. “I want your word on Brin’s eternal soul.” Tesh pushed back, but Gifford wouldn’t let him go. “I want your word that you’ll fight harder than you ever have, that you’ll do whatever is necessary to climb this damn pillar. Swear it.”
Tesh didn’t make a sound.
“Swear it, or so help me we’ll stay here and be eaten. Is that what you want? Is it?”
“No.”
“And you know us; we’ll do it. We are just that crazy. Both of us.” He looked at Roan, who promptly and emphatically nodded.
“No one has ever called me sane,” she said without a hint of humor, but there was something in her voice that surprised Tesh. Her tone was different, more alive, more free. The expression on her face was new, too. She was smiling, and not just with her lips. Her eyes sparkled. Roan was happy. She had always been a closed, cowering, sad person, slow to speak, quiet and meek, the sort to content herself with the corners and dim places of the world where she could hide. But this shining woman was different. She was now able to tolerate Tesh’s arm around her shoulder as they walked. Roan was . . . healed. The word came to Tesh, and he thought it had never before been so aptly applied.
Gifford was right. They were both crazy.
“You want us to go? Swear it!” He gripped Tesh with powerful arms and slammed him against the rock. “You swallowed your stupid pride to learn how to fight from the very people who murdered your family. You did that for a memory. Are you telling me you won’t even try for Brin’s sake? She’s up there waiting for you. Do you care for her so little?”
The lousy culling cripple.
“I—loved—her.”
“You still do, you idiot! Just prove it. Swear to me, now. Swear it!”
In the distance, Tesh saw movement. Something was drawing toward them. Far too big to be a giant, this was the size of an open-plains storm, where the clouds billowed up into huge formations, then darkened and rolled in. Typhons were not beings so much as events. They were both the herald and the doom, the portent and the catastrophe. Seeing the horizon approach, Tesh understood how small they all were, and how foolish.
“All right! I swear. Now both of you get out of here.”
Gifford stared a moment longer, then nodded. “See you at the top.”
The going was easy for a while. Gifford just followed Roan, who hadn’t the slightest trouble scaling the stone. Not that it was a hard climb. There were plenty of handholds and small ledges to rest on if they needed to. She didn’t. Roan was inexhaustible—him, not so much.
“Need to stop,” he called up when they reached another ledge. Gifford had no idea how high they were. All he knew was that he couldn’t see the bottom anymore. Tesh and Tressa had faded into the darkness.
“Why?” She looked back down, all that brightness making it hard to see her face clearly.
“I’m tired.” He threw himself on the foot-wide jut of stone. “This isn’t easy.”
“How could you be tired? You don’t have muscles, no lungs, no—”
“I don’t know how, but I am. Are you saying you aren’t even a little weary?”
“No more than walking.” She paused, analyzing his question as she did everything. “Actually less.”
Roan let go of her holds and dropped down to him, scaring Gifford so badly he yelled. “Don’t do that! You could fall!”
She bent low and looked into his eyes. She peered deep, tilting her head left then right as if trying to get a better angle. She was searching for something, peering into his house through the tiny windows of his eyes. “You have weight.”
