Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  While not as strong as Suri, Tura must have also had a talent for the Art. All genuine mystics and seers had at least a knack for hearing the whispers of the world. Sadly, Tura died never knowing the true nature of her power. Had she known, the old woman might have learned to focus, to train her inner ear to listen. Suri had spent the winter doing just that, and now instead of merely hearing the voice of the wind, she could hear other people’s thoughts. At least it seemed that way. Arion insisted Suri merely picked up on strong emotions the same way people sensed changes in temperature. Her talent made her adept at interpreting people in the same way she was good at reading bones.

  At that moment, Suri could tell, Arion was terrified.

  Suri didn’t care. She was too busy flying. Tilting her hands, she noticed how her cupped palms caught the wind, giving them lift. I really should have been born a bird.

  “Can we fly?” Suri shouted against the wind.

  “No.” The single syllable was drenched in tension.

  “I meant with the Art.”

  “I know what you meant, and no you can’t.” The last few words were hastily added, as if Arion was certain Suri was on the verge of giving it a try.

  “I thought you said anything was possible.”

  “I said it feels like anything is possible. It’s an illusion. You can’t do anything unnatural. You can’t become invisible or turn yourself into a frog. You can’t create life, bring back the dead, or—”

  Suri turned her head, feeling pleasantly like an owl spying a mouse. “I brought you back.”

  “I wasn’t dead.”

  “Sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “And no flying?”

  “No flying.”

  Suri sighed and jumped down off the rail, planting her feet back on solid ground. Arion’s posture relaxed, and Suri could feel a wave of relief pour off the Fhrey. Arion was looking much better, healthier than ever, and the wound on her head was nothing more than a white scar, which could be clearly seen since Arion had resumed shaving her scalp.

  The Miralyith had resumed a great many things.

  Suri had done the unthinkable that night under the wool with Padera and Brin. She had opened a door between their world and that of the spirits—then she walked through. She’d passed through the gateway to the dark realms of Phyre, to the long river that spirits traveled to reach their final homes. In that sunless stream, she’d found Arion struggling against the current, but slowly slipping away. Everyone eventually succumbed to that flow, every living thing. But Suri still had a toe in the world of the living that acted as an anchor, a lifeline. She had reached out, grabbed hold of Arion, and pulled. In doing so, she’d done more than just restore her to the living world—Suri had fixed her. There had been a hole in the vessel that had been her body. From that side, Suri could see it plain as a tear in a blanket held up to the sun. She had sewn it shut, woven it closed, and dumped Arion inside. With Arion safe, Suri had passed out from exhaustion. Only later did she learn how close she’d come to death herself. Swimming in the river, in that dark stream of the dead, wasn’t an activity for the living. Had she stayed too long, grown too tired, the current could have pulled her in and severed her lifeline. Then both of them would have been carried away into Phyre.

  Even after all that, Arion still didn’t wake up for days. That week was the worst of Suri’s life. She had lost Minna, and even after dragging Arion out of Phyre’s mouth, the Fhrey had not opened her eyes. After she did, Suri fretted over her like a mother with a new baby. As Arion grew stronger, the Miralyith discovered she wasn’t merely alive. She was whole.

  Arion could use the Art again.

  “This is very disappointing,” Suri continued. “I can’t become invisible. I can’t be immortal. I can’t create my own animals. I can’t convince flesh eaters to prefer plants. I can’t rearrange the stars or add a new season, and now I can’t even fly.”

  Arion pointed at her with the little ceramic cup she held in her hands. The Fhrey had a fondness for an awful-tasting tea she’d found in a shop in the city. Supposedly it was the same stuff she used to drink back in Estramnadon. “But you were able to make beautiful flashing images with fireflies.”

  Arion was always bringing that up.

  “Really impressive,” Arion said. “Never saw anything like it before. I still don’t know how you made such real-looking bears and bunnies out of streaking lights.”

  “Flies didn’t much care for it.” Suri left the balcony, returning inside the tower, getting out of the wind so they could talk. “So, what’s wrong? Persephone still refusing to send a message to the fane?”

  Arion looked up, innocent as a thief. “What makes you think anything is wrong? Are you sensing something?”

  “Don’t need to. You just climbed the Spyrok—way too many steps just to tell me I couldn’t fly.”

  Arion smiled.

  “What?”

  “You’re just…maturing so quickly—thinking like a Miralyith.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  She nodded while rubbing the cup. “I think it is.”

  “So I’m right? No message-bird?”

  Arion nodded. “The keenig is still siding with Nyphron. The Instarya here at Alon Rhist are just as unconvinced about the existence of a human Artist as Rapnagar was, which lends credence to my suspicion that the prince never told Lothian about you. Given that, Nyphron wants to keep your talent hidden. He believes the fane’s ignorance gives us a tactical advantage. Surprise, he says, is more valuable than revealing your existence. Right now, Lothian believes he has the only Artists capable of causing harm because I won’t break Ferrol’s Law. Nyphron sees you as our secret weapon.”

  “And what do you believe?”

  Arion looked into her cup. Sadness. Embarrassment. Suri read these as: Old as I am, I’m still a fool.

  “I suspect I may have been too optimistic about the effect of Rhune Artists softening Lothian’s attitude toward your people. And now that we’ve taken Alon Rhist, I fear things have gone too far. The fane can’t just forgive and forget anymore.”

  “But you still want the bird sent?”

  Arion nodded. “War is inevitable, but 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.”

  “So turning me into a butterfly didn’t save the world after all.”

  Arion looked troubled. “I can’t explain—maybe you could, but I can’t. Your ability to interpret is better. All I know is that the Art tells me you are the key to saving both your people and mine. I thought it was by proving a link between Rhunes and Fhrey and extending Ferrol’s Law to the Rhunes—that just seemed so sensible—but people aren’t sensible. Still, I feel it, this little string that stretches between you and peace. When I look at you, I sense hope. You’re like this light in the darkness, and you get brighter every day.”

  Arion thoughtfully rubbed the ceramic cup in her hands.

  Suri narrowed her eyes at Arion. That’s not it. Something else brought her up here. She couldn’t read Arion’s thoughts, but there was another clue. “Why did you bring that cup? Why carry it all this way? The tea must be cold by now.”

  Arion nodded and held the drink up. “Yes, this is actually why I came.”

  “Tea?”

  Arion shook her head and put the cup down. “Do you know the word Cenzlyor?”

  Suri thought a moment. “Mind swift?”

  “Swift of mind, to be precise,” Arion said. “That’s what Fenelyus called me. You’re swift of mind, too. The most naturally talented Artist I’ve ever known, and I’ve lived a long time. Thing is, I was given the title when I was fifteen hundred. I didn’t realize until after she died tha
t I was the only one she’d bestowed it on. I suppose she thought I was special somehow, and now I wonder if she knew that I would be the one to find you. She wanted me to be a teacher, and I am—your teacher. I assumed she wanted me to teach the prince, and maybe she did, but now I think that she sensed the importance of my life the way I sense the same about you—in vague pieces, some clear, and some impossible to fathom because they haven’t yet happened.”

  Arion moved to the balcony’s edge, put her hands on the railing, and looked out toward the east. With the evening sun behind them, it appeared to Suri as if they could see the whole world. The Bern River was a hairline at their feet, Mount Mador a bump on the landscape. Then came an ocean of trees—what Arion referred to as the Harwood. Beyond that stretched another river called the Nidwalden. Suri took Arion’s word for this as she couldn’t actually see it through the many trees. Across that river, what to Suri was a mere blue haze, was what Arion called home.

  “Only a week away,” Arion said so softly that Suri almost didn’t hear. “A week and forever.” She turned back to the mystic. “Nyphron and Persephone want us to recruit more Artists, find more swift-of-minds, more Cenzlyors. They think the fane will be sending an army of Miralyith—the Spider Corps. They are trained to weave attacks and defenses together—you know, like spiders. Get it?”

  Suri rolled her eyes. “A minute ago I was swift of mind; what happened?”

  “Sorry.”

  “So Persephone wants her own Spider Corps?”

  “Something like that. Good sense would advocate more than two Artists.”

  “And how do we find them? Look for people really good at starting fires?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Most don’t manifest as readily as you, but dormant Artists can usually be identified by creativity. Miralyith often start as regular artists: painters, sculptors, or even talented craftsmen. The better the art, the more likely it is the person is a latent Artist.”

  Arion held up the delicate cup. “Do you know who makes these?”

  * * *

  —

  By the time they found the little house at the back of the Rhune District, it was dark. For years, Suri had lived under the stars and never had any trouble seeing. Then she moved to Dahl Rhen and felt blinded by its torches and braziers. The same was true for this Fhrey city. Lamps on poles took the place of torches, and the effect was the same—they chased shadows from one place, making them gather all the more darkly elsewhere. That was the problem with people, too, Suri realized as she and Arion made their way down the narrow alleyway. Unlike all other living things, people were never content to just live in a place, to be part of it; they always wanted to change things, to make places conform. Maybe that was why the gods and spirits appeared so cruel—their way of saying, Quit it.

  The house was a simple wooden shack placed like an afterthought at the end of the narrow alley. A large storage shed, or maybe a small servant’s quarters, it bore little resemblance to the other grand homes along the street. As they approached, Suri noticed a man and woman sitting out on the stoop. The woman was the one called Tressa. No one liked her, but Suri didn’t know why. No one liked spiders, either, and Suri had long since given up trying to understand the insanity of walled-in people. Beside Tressa sat Gifford, the potter. A jug rested in between.

  The two had been talking but stopped at their approach.

  Tressa put one hand on the jug and pulled it closer to her. “What do the likes of you two want down here?”

  “That’s him.” Suri pointed at Gifford, whose brows jumped.

  “What’d he do?” Tressa asked. “There’s no need to pick on him. Gifford’s a walking curse to himself as it is.”

  “We aren’t here to pick on him,” Arion said. “Just want to talk a while.”

  “Talk, eh?” Tressa peered at them suspiciously. “About what?”

  Arion held up the cup. “About this.” She addressed Gifford, “You made it?”

  He nodded.

  “What of it?” Tressa spoke with the verbal equivalent of an antagonistic shove. “You against a cripple making a living?”

  Arion looked at Tressa. “Could we speak to Gifford alone, please?”

  “Will that make it easier to cast some hex on him?” Tressa asked. “I have a better idea. How about the two of you just leave. Go back to your fancy stone fortress, your one-eyed newts, cauldrons, and bat wings, and leave us in peace. Will you do that, please?”

  “I’ve never known any newts with only one eye,” Suri said. “And I know quite a few.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll bet you’re on a first-name basis with them, aren’t you?”

  Suri nodded. “Of course. Newts are ridiculously friendly.”

  This left Tressa looking confused. She glanced at Gifford as if at a loss.

  “Gifford,” Arion said, holding the cup up. “I think your workmanship is wonderful. Stunning, really. I’ve never seen the like. The porcelain is so thin, so delicate, you can almost see through it.”

  “Has a lot to do with the type of clay I use: soft, usually white; the wheel I spin it on; and the heat. You need lots of heat.”

  “Well, it’s lovely what you do, and not just the skill, but the creativity. The way the cup is shaped, this flower-like tapering, and the gentle swirl of the handle.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Came all the way down here to compliment him on his pottery?” Tressa asked skeptically.

  “Partially,” Arion replied. “I also have a few questions. Gifford, do you sing?”

  “Ha!” Tressa slapped her thigh. “Like a bullfrog with a cold.”

  Gifford frowned. “I can’t speak well. Singing is even mo’ difficult. My mouth doesn’t act like it should. The sounds get mushed sometimes.”

  “Okay, maybe not singing; how about humming? Do you ever hum while working?”

  Gifford thought, then nodded. “I suppose.”

  Arion looked at Suri with a smile.

  “So the man hums, so what?” Tressa grumbled. “Is it a crime to hum? I’ve been known to hum on occasion myself. What of it?”

  Arion ignored her. “Have you ever felt certain it was going to rain when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and then it did? Or have you known winter would arrive early or late?”

  Gifford shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Have you ever started a fire by clapping your hands?” Suri asked.

  Both of them looked shocked.

  “No,” Gifford said.

  “I think what Suri meant to ask was, have you ever wanted something to happen and then it did? Have you noticed a lot of happy coincidences, like finding someone or something when you really needed to, or having rain hold off until after you were safely inside?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  Tressa laughed. “This”—she indicated Gifford with both hands—“can hardly be mistaken for the face of happy coincidence. This”—she clapped him on the shoulder—“is what you get from a life of careful misjudgment and a bunch of drunk-off-their-asses gods in a bad mood.” Tressa spit, wiped her chin, and shook her head. “You think he’s some sort of magician because he can make nice cups?”

  “It’s possible,” Arion said. “I want you to do me a favor, Gifford. I want you to move your hands like this.” Arion made a plucking motion with her fingers while sweeping her hands back and forth. “That’s right. Now look at my palms and think hot. Imagine my hands on fire. Imagine them melting. Imagine my hands turning black as ash. Concentrate. Close your eyes if you need to.”

  Gifford stared at Arion’s hand, and Suri was worried the potter might succeed in setting Arion on fire. She assumed Arion knew what she was doing, but, just the same, Suri was ready to smother even the hint of a flame.

  Ever since Neith, Suri no longer had any trouble tapping the Art. Over the last eight months
, her work with Arion had been mostly about technique. To Suri, it was like they were back in the lodge, once more playing the string game together and learning Rhunic and Fhrey. Arion would demonstrate a standard weave, and Suri would take it and often improve the idea, making Arion smile and often laugh or shake her head and say, “Why has no one ever thought of that before?” Suri was certain she could protect Arion from anything Gifford might do; still, she was nervous.

  The deaths of Tura and Minna, and the appointment of Persephone as the keenig, had left Suri not only devastated, but alone. People were all around, but her family was missing. Trapped in the cold dark of Alon Rhist in winter, Suri had suffered depression so black she couldn’t eat. Raithe and Arion had pulled her out, but the losses were still fresh, and this made her protective, perhaps beyond reason.

  Gifford stared long and hard at Arion’s hands. His brows crawled up in a fleshy cramp above the bridge of his nose.

  “Oww!” Arion jerked her hand back. “Okay, stop. Stop! STOP!”

  “Did I cause you pain?” Gifford asked, stunned.

  Arion rubbed her palm. “Just a little.”

  Suri stared at Arion’s hand, confused. She hadn’t sensed anything, and any use of the Art would have been obvious.

  Tressa glared at the potter and inched away, pulling the jug with her.

  “You actually felt pain?” Gifford asked. “I made yew hand hot—just by thinking about it?”

  Arion still rubbed her hand. “Not too bad. Felt like—like I was holding a sunbaked rock.”

  “But I…I…” Gifford looked at Arion and then at Suri, and finally a bit guiltily at Tressa, who glared at him.

  “People who are creative are usually that way because they are more attuned to the power and forces of nature. They can hear the whispers of the world, and it helps guide them in the right direction. Oftentimes we hear it as our own thoughts telling us to go left, or just a sense that going right is a bad idea. Some might call it intuition or a gut feeling, but it is the world speaking in an ancient language that you can almost understand. Animals are fluent in this language; that’s how birds know to fly south in autumn, squirrels know to store nuts, and bears know to sleep late when snow falls. Trees know it, too. This is how they realize when to shed leaves and when to wake up from their deep sleep. Everyone can understand the whispers because they are spoken in our native language—the language of creation. It’s how the world was made. It’s how we were made. Rediscovering how to speak our native tongue, how to tap and use that power in meaningful ways, is what we call the Art. Not everyone is capable of making an intentional connection; fewer still are able to manipulate the power to their will.”