Age of Empyre, page 41
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
Roan snatched up a bundle. She drew it back and set it on her lap. Unfolding the wool wrap revealed a bound book.
“Bwin’s book,” Gifford said.
Roan opened the cover and flipped through page after page of black marks on parchment.
“Can you weed it?” he asked his wife.
Flipping back to the first page, she caught a lock of hair, twirled it into a tight string, and put it into her mouth.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The First Empyre
I shall henceforth endeavor to piece together all that is known of such said era, which is now recognized by all contemporary scholars as the Age of Myth and Legend. I will record in honest detail and objective discourse how Novron the Great did win the Elven War and establish our grand empire through courage, valor, and for the love of Persephone, a simple farmer’s daughter. —Migration of Peoples by Princess Farilane
On her sixty-second birthday, the day the city was to be officially named and dedicated, Persephone woke up coughing. Her chest hurt from the hacking, and she rolled over and spat into the bucket beside the bed. She steadied herself before coughing and spitting again.
More blood than usual.
Bringing up blood wasn’t good, and the fever, chills, chest pains, and sore throat weren’t much of a warm hug, either. Even so, she’d had those other ailments for weeks, and the blood was a relatively new occurrence. The way it stained the interior of the bucket left her uneasy, as if she had one foot off the edge of a cliff and the other was slipping.
She lay across the bed on her stomach, staring down until she noticed the sunshine coming in the windows. Spring mornings had a different kind of light, a softer, more hopeful radiance. Happy light, she thought. Along with the morning shine came the sound of hammering, distant shouts, and laughter mixed with birdsong. For a moment, Persephone believed she was back in the lodge in Dahl Rhen. Her hand fanned out across the covers searching for Reglan, but that side of the bed was empty—had been for years.
This isn’t Dahl Rhen.
People called the outpost New Rhen or Rhenydd in the Fhrey tongue. Old Rhen was on the other side of the Bern and Urum. This place, this side of the rivers, was known as Avrlyn—“the Green Land” in Fhrey, but for Rhunes it had always been “the Forbidden Lands.” A man had once been killed for being where they were now; that man’s son had long dreamed of coming back. He never made it.
Persephone swallowed. That hurt, too. Everything did these days. She rolled over, so she could see out the window. Her bedroom was up five stories. The height still disturbed her, but it provided a perfect view of the city.
By Mari, it’s ugly.
What had been a lovely green hill overlooking the Urum River had been torn into a muddy mess. After so many years, all they had managed to accomplish was to scar Elan’s face, turning a natural beauty into a hideous blemish. Nyphron wasn’t one for the Eilywin tradition of natural harmony. He and his staff of Belgriclungreian designers had their own vision of how the world ought to be. Straight roads, square buildings, and stone—lots and lots of stone. Thousands of men and hundreds of dwarfs labored on scaffolds, using wheels and pulleys to lift brick and block. None of the buildings were finished, and everyone suffered equally under temporary roofs of wooden planks. The Grand Marchway, as Nyphron euphemistically called it, was a line of muck this time of year. In summer, the mud dried, but the city was infested with biting flies and broiled in unrelenting heat. In winter, everyone froze because the buildings were up high, made of stone, and there weren’t any natural windbreaks.
Persephone would have preferred a log lodge.
The way Nyphron kept adding to the city, she wondered if it would ever be finished, but her husband was intent on dedicating the place that afternoon. He had a special ceremony planned where he would unfurl the dragon banners and give a speech from the balcony of the palace, the dome of which was still under scaffolding. Persephone rolled back and collapsed, a rasping in her chest. She felt exhausted and hoped she would feel better soon. Nyphron would want her with him for the dedication.
She heard a light tap on the door as if a mouse was rapping, and without a pause Justine’s head peeked in. The woman who had once been Nolyn’s nurse had become Persephone’s. “Are we awake?”
“You seem to be, so it looks like we are,” Persephone croaked out, then coughed again.
Justine stepped inside. Sunlight splashed across her face, revealing the growing threads of gray invading the woman’s once dark hair.
When did that happen?
“How are you this morning?” The woman had a serious concern in her voice, a tone that was practically suspicious.
“Better.”
“Are you just saying that because I sound worried?”
“Scared you, huh?”
Justine nodded with a series of fast shallow bobs and a false smile.
“Do I look like I did last night?” Persephone challenged. She had no idea what the answer to that question might actually be, but given that she no longer felt like hungry rats were nesting inside her chest, she took a gamble.
“No,” Justine conceded. She dragged the word out with reluctance while studying Persephone’s face, “But you always look fine in the morning.”
This was true. Persephone’s mornings were usually her best times. Her afternoons were iffy, and her nights, horrific. The last one hadn’t only scared Justine—who had actually cried at one point—but Persephone had felt that second foot slip, too. She’d had trouble breathing, a great deal of trouble. She felt as if she were drowning, and once more recalled the face of Morton Whipple—that poor little boy hadn’t changed a bit; he was still trapped under the ice.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Food?”
Persephone shook her head. This made Justine scowl. “You have to eat.”
“I’ll just spit it out again if I do.”
The worry crawled back onto Justine’s face.
“Maybe later,” Persephone offered.
Justine slowly nodded. “If you’re up to it, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Nolyn?” she asked.
Justine shook her head with a sympathetic frown. “No, he’s with Sephryn and Bran. They’re helping with decorations. Do you want me to get him? He’s not far away. He asked me to let him know if . . .”
“If what?”
“Do you want me to send for him?”
“No, he was here all last night. He slept in that chair, or tried to, and I feel better, don’t I?”
“You tell me.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you tell me who this visitor is?”
“An old friend, although he doesn’t look as old as he should. He’s waiting. I told him I had to see if you were up to a visit.”
“Who is it?”
Justine smiled, and without answering, she returned to the door, opening it wide. “Malcolm? She’ll see you now.”
The man hadn’t changed a bit. No gray hair on him, no potbelly, no wrinkles around his eyes. He could have been one of Nolyn’s older friends. Persephone had come to terms with him being far from ordinary. He could see the future and gave brave adventurers keys to the underworld. Malcolm had helped her from the very start, and ultimately, he was responsible for the Rhunes winning the war peacefully. She would forever be in his debt.
“Malcolm!” she shouted and then coughed.
“Watch yourself!” Justine snapped.
Persephone held out her arms. Malcolm crossed the room in three long strides and embraced her.
“It’s been so long,” Persephone said. “I thought I would never see you again. Have you visited with Nyphron?”
“No,” he replied softly, sitting on the bed beside her.
Judging everything to be satisfactory, Justine grabbed the empty water pitcher and left the room.
“Have you seen Nolyn? He’ll be thrilled. And you must meet Bran, Roan’s son. The boy is growing like a salifan plant. He’s taller than I am now.”
Again, he shook his head.
“What about Moya, Tekchin, and Sephryn? Oh, you probably don’t know their daughter, do you?”
“I haven’t seen anyone. I came here only to see you.”
This didn’t surprise her. Persephone wished it did, but she’d guessed it the moment he entered. The man’s timing had always been impeccable, and she realized now that Malcolm never showed up anywhere by accident. The last time he’d appeared out of nowhere was just before Padera died.
“What—ah—what do you think of the city? Nyphron is very proud of his creation. Has a whole army of—oh! Did you hear Rain has been crowned the new dwarven king? Frost and Flood can’t believe it. He’s pardoned them. They say they will go home after finishing Nyphronronia, but I wonder if that will ever happen. Nyphron keeps making it bigger. They’re actually putting in waste tunnels that Roan suggested. That’s a huge project. Personally, I think the dwarfs just like digging holes.”
“Persephone, it—”
“You can call me Seph. You’ve known me long enough.”
He smiled. It was a sad smile. “Persephone, it doesn’t end here.”
“You aren’t wearing your leigh mor.” She pointed at his tailored tunic. “I’m afraid they’re falling out of fashion. All the young people are wearing tunics now, and jackets. You’ve probably seen them. And the girls, they have these dresses where the top halves are stitched tight—fitted to their bodies. Not exactly decent. They say the new clothes are more freeing, but I’ve seen the way the men look at them, and it isn’t luxury of movement that these girls are after.”
“I think it helps if you understand that it doesn’t end here,” Malcolm went on.
Persephone looked down at the bed. When she looked back up, her lower lip trembled. “Malcolm . . . Malcolm, I think I picked wrong. I think I failed. I think I messed everything up.”
“No, you didn’t.” He took her hand in his and gave a soft squeeze.
“But Nyphron is—” She rolled her eyes. “Nyphronronia! He’s actually going to name it that.”
“No—no, he won’t.”
“Of course he will. They’re having the ceremony this afternoon. His arrogance has gotten the better of him.” She took a breath. “He should name it after Nolyn, but he won’t let his son have anything. The two are already at odds. Do you know what Nolyn means? Do you know why I picked it?” She sighed. “I fear I chose wrong . . . I only thought . . .”
“Persephone, when the ruins of Alon Rhist have lain buried for so long that no one remembers what the strange bluish stones sticking out of the ground are, or how they got there, the age you lived in will be remembered as an age of myths and legends. People—your people—will live in an era of unparalleled prosperity. This city will stand for centuries and never have need for walls. Raithe’s dream of living in the land of green will be magnified beyond his ability to imagine.”
At the sound of his name, tears slipped down her cheeks.
She nodded. “Nyphron should name the city after Raithe. It’s really his city—his dream finally realized. He always wanted to make something good and lasting.” She fixed Malcolm with an intent stare. “Will it? Will this city, will this empire and the peace it was built on stand forever?”
“Forever?” Malcolm looked pained. “That’s a very long time.”
“Will it last?”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so? You know everything, Malcolm. You knew to come here today.”
He bowed his head and sighed. “It was supposed to last. That had been the plan, but there is a dark spot on the landscape of the future, a shadow into which I cannot see. Wasn’t there before, but it is now. The Book of Brin went into that hole.”
This surprised Persephone. “Roan has Brin’s book. She’s been teaching Bran to read it.”
Malcolm shook his head. “She has but a tiny portion, the first part, the flawed part. The rest disappeared with Brin. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Many things shouldn’t have. The Belgriclungreians weren’t supposed to attack the Fhrey, and the Fhrey weren’t supposed to learn the Art and nearly annihilate the world with it.” Malcolm shook his head in dismay. “Two steps forward, one step back.”
“Why does that happen?”
“I’m not sure, but I’m certain it’s not good.”
Persephone felt the rats waking up in her chest, and felt a weight pressing down. It was getting harder to breathe again. She looked out the window at the morning sun. It was such a pretty day. “Do you see anything hopeful? Or was it all for nothing?”
“Not for nothing. I won’t let it be for nothing. I’m not the sort to give up.”
“But can you see anything positive in the future? Tell me something encouraging, Malcolm. I need to hear that things will work out, that there is hope for my people—for all people.”
Malcolm nodded. “I see a baby, a descendant of yours, crying in the dark. Born on a cold night in a despicable city very near here. His parents have been murdered, and he is forgotten and ignored. The woman who takes him from his dead mother’s arms will abandon him in a gutter less than a week after he takes his first breath. He has no chance of survival, and the fate of the world rests with him.”
“That’s not helping, Malcolm.” Persephone wiped the tears from her face. She could feel the fluid welling up in her chest, and the rats building a nest in there didn’t like it one bit.
“Then let me tell you something that will. I’m going to make you a promise.” He leaned in and whispered, as if he feared someone might be listening, “I swear I’ll be there on that cold night when he cries alone in the gutter.” He squeezed her hand, and she knew this was meant as a covenant, a solemn vow he wasn’t making lightly. “When the world turns its back, I’ll pick him up and deliver him to safety, and I’ll watch over that child when he faces his most difficult challenges. I’ll do this for you so through his strength a woman very much like yourself will one day sit on the throne of the world and rule with wisdom and compassion and change everything.”
Persephone rubbed the pain in her chest. “The one who you speak of, this man from the gutter who will save the world, will he be as courageous as Moya and as steadfast as Gifford? Will he be as selfless as Raithe and Suri and as intelligent as Brin and Roan? Surely, he must be all these things to ultimately succeed where they failed.”
Malcolm frowned and looked down at his feet.
“What’s wrong, Malcolm? Tell me the truth.”
He frowned and shook his head. “No. The man I speak of will not be great. He’ll be a terrible person, detestable, murderous, cruel, and untrusting.”
Persephone stared, bewildered. “How could—I don’t understand. How can such a person make the world better.”
Malcolm’s head snapped up, and he looked as if she had slapped him. He appeared deeply hurt. She could see the pain and shock in his eyes—eyes that were deeper than any man’s should be. He looked away, staring out at the horizon. As he did, she saw tears well and slip down his cheeks.
Then he sucked in a weary breath. “Because I hope that no one is beyond redemption, and anyone can correct the misdeeds of their past,” he told her in a weak voice. He took another breath. “I believe this to be true. I have to.”
Malcolm let go of her hand, stood up, and started for the door.
“Malcolm?” she said, stopping him.
He turned.
“What will they name the city? You said it wouldn’t be Nyphronronia, and we both know you can see the future. So, what then? Later today, at the dedication, I doubt I’ll be in any condition to attend. So tell me what will Nyphron call it?”
Malcolm paused a moment then replied, “Percepliquis.”
“Percep—the city of Persephone?” She looked stunned. “But—but why?”
He offered her one last sad smile. “In memory of you.”
Muriel knew who was knocking at the door to her little hut before she opened it. She knew before the knock. She had known hours ago, but made him knock anyway. She felt it was good for him to wait. She might have made tea, could have set out wine. The occasion was so rare it certainly warranted it. Muriel didn’t bother. They weren’t friends, and this wasn’t to be a cordial meeting.
Muriel had been in the process of sewing up a bag of goose feathers, the tiny down plucked from the chests of hundreds of waterfowl. She would have a wonderful pillow when she was done, but finishing it would need to wait. She got up from her stool and opened the door.
She hadn’t seen him in the flesh in centuries. Hadn’t so much as bothered to eavesdrop or even sneak a peek. She could, and had, in the early days. Not that she was at all interested. Muriel just wanted to make sure he was leaving her alone. He promised to keep his distance, but he was also a habitual liar. However, until that day she’d never even caught him spying. That was the first wrinkle in her perfectly made bed, the one where her father wasn’t just the architect of all that was bad in her life but in the world as a whole. She hadn’t expected him to really leave her alone, but he had. He respected her privacy as well, which was as jarring as seeing rain fall up. Sending the key to her was the second wrinkle. Muriel preferred a smooth, simple bed to lie in. Wrinkles were not just unsightly, they were uncomfortable.
He didn’t look any different, couldn’t. Neither of them ever changed, at least on the outside. His hair could have been cut, or grown out, but it wasn’t. The clothes were different. The last time she’d seen him, he’d worn his full regalia: a magnificent robe that changed color, a scarlet, living mantle that enveloped and stroked him with affection, and, of course, the Crown of Light. He had none of those old trappings. The man standing in her doorway wore a stained wool shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The front was left loose, tie strings hanging, his collarbone showing, a pool of sweat in the cleft. His pants, though rolled up to the knees, were wet; the hair on his calves slicked.
