Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Lipit nodded to Raithe. “We’ve heard of you.”

  “He is my Shield.”

  “A worthy choice indeed. You do yourself a great honor by selecting so mighty a warrior. Allow us to express our extreme sympathies for the passing of Reglan and your son Mahn. They were both great and honorable men.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now I must ask. Is Clan Rhen welcome in Tirre?”

  Lipit looked over at the stone god that faced him. “Of course, of course. The people of Clan Rhen are our brothers from the wood.”

  “In that case,” Persephone smiled and said, “may the blessings of Mari be upon this dahl and this land.”

  Lipit’s shoulders relaxed. He closed his eyes and took a breath. All around the courtyard, his people did the same as they got to their feet.

  “Persephone, my good friend, please come in,” Lipit said in the more familiar tone she was used to. “I’ll have wine and cheese brought.”

  “And my people?”

  “The streets are crowded. Would it meet with your approval for them to camp outside, along the north wall?”

  Persephone waited a moment, and Lipit licked his lips and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Persephone nodded then whispered to Raithe and Malcolm. “Would you please let everyone know they can come down, and see to…well, take care of things until I return.”

  They both nodded and headed back.

  —

  By the time the two returned, Cobb’s body had been covered in cloth and his large family were still weeping over it. As for the husband and wife who had also been run down, only a young boy was draping their bodies. The three must have joined the procession from one of the outer villages, as no one appeared to know them. About fourteen years old, the lad was thin as a stick and had a lock of hair standing straight up. He didn’t cry. His eyes weren’t red. His lips didn’t tremble.

  Tough one, that kid. Like a Dureyan. He has that weathered, forsaken look.

  Roan also stood among the dead. She didn’t cry, either, but she looked sick.

  Raithe wasn’t good at public speaking. He didn’t care for talking in general, but it had to be done. He took a deep breath and straightened. “Persephone has asked me to tell everyone that Clan Tirre has welcomed us,” he said loudly, and everyone nearby turned to face him. Those farther away moved closer to hear. “We can make a camp outside the north wall.” He looked down at the bodies. “But we’ll have to do something about the carts so we can bring them down safely.”

  Roan’s jaw tightened, and her eyes squeezed shut as if he’d hit her. When she opened them again, she mouthed, I’m sorry. Not even a whisper gave the words sound. She did this over and over, her hands clenching and unclenching, her arms frozen at her sides.

  Raithe didn’t know what to say, and stood with his eyes downturned.

  Malcolm stepped forward. “We mourn those who left us this day, but their sacrifice gave us, and possibly all of the clans, a chance at survival. Dahl Tirre had been planning to close its doors, but Mari’s ride showed them the wisdom of unification. These people didn’t die in vain. Their deaths, and Roan’s carts, saved Clan Rhen. Let us honor them all.” He bowed his head reverently, whispering a quiet, unheard prayer.

  “How can we fix the carts?” Raithe asked Roan softly. “Make them so they don’t”—he hesitated—“harm anyone else.”

  “She didn’t kill those people,” Gifford said. The crippled potter stood beside her then took a step forward, putting himself between Raithe and Roan.

  Raithe had often seen the two sitting together during mealtime and speculated they were sharing more than each other’s company. But in five days, he hadn’t seen them so much as hold hands.

  “I know that,” Raithe said. “And Persephone knows that, too. But it’s important that—”

  “No one can know what will happen with something so new,” Gifford went on, not hearing him. “When you toss a pebble in a lake, you can’t know all the places that will be affected by the wipples. If it wasn’t fo’ Woan, all the food and supplies would be left behind.”

  Raithe didn’t try to interrupt. Gifford wasn’t talking to him; he was looking at Roan.

  “It’s widiculous to think it was Woan’s fault. If I make a cup and someone swallows so fast that they choke to death, am I to blame? It’s the same thing. It’s the same exact thing. So don’t blame Woan.”

  Gifford stopped and Raithe looked back at her. “Can you fix the carts so they don’t roll so fast?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.”

  Raithe gave another glance at the boy who’d lost his parents. Something about him was familiar. Nothing obvious stood out, and Raithe wasn’t going to intrude on the kid’s grief, but he felt he ought to know. Raithe had spent a lifetime feeling that way, as if some important truth was just out of reach.

  He stared hard at the kid.

  Nothing.

  With a shrug, he turned away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Under the Rose Bridge

  I have always found it fascinating that the Fhrey are divided into seven tribes, just as the Rhulyn are divided into seven clans. But Rhulyn clans are based on bloodlines and regions, and the Fhrey tribes are distinguished by class, occupation, and power. At the bottom is the Gwydry, the working class, at the top, the Miralyith.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Mawyndulë was certain that if he’d been at Avempartha—or better yet, if his father had let him lead the attack—Nyphron of the Instarya, Arion the Traitor, and all the Rhunes of that despicable village would be dead. Instead, his father foolishly counted on Jerydd.

  Jerydd the Stupid, as Mawyndulë had recently dubbed him, was the kel of Avempartha. Mawyndulë had met him once, the oldest Fhrey the prince had ever seen, so old that he no longer needed to shave his head; all his hair had fallen out years ago. In its place were brown spots, making him as speckled as the owl he kept as a pet. Like an old couple, the two had been together for so long they had begun to look alike—a pair of ancient, mottling incompetents. Neither one knew how to fly.

  Upon their first meeting, Mawyndulë had mistakenly liked Jerydd. He met the kel when Mawyndulë and Gryndal had spent the night at the tower on their ill-fated trip to Rhulyn. The old Fhrey and his bird had seemed friendly, even wise. Mawyndulë knew better now. The imbecile had sent giants to do the work of Miralyith, trusting the power of the ancient tower to do what was best dealt with in person. Plus, he and his cronies had used too weak a hand. Lightning and hail? Mawyndulë shook his head at the absurdity. Better to have sent fire and wind. They should have burned the entire forest: every building, blade of grass, and tree. All of Rhulyn should have been reduced to smoldering ash. Mawyndulë wouldn’t have stopped there. He would have rent the ground with quakes, breaking their roads and leveling hills. What did Miralyith need giants for? Conviction was what was required, but that virtue had died with Gryndal.

  Mawyndulë realized all this as he sat in the council room of the Talwara. He wasn’t allowed at the big table where the new First Minister, the Master of Secrets, the fane, and the commanders of the Shahdi—the Erivan home guard—had gathered. Instead, he was relegated to a little desk beside the pitcher of water and glasses. He wasn’t there to contribute, only to listen. Attending was part of his ongoing education, his chance to learn how a fane ruled. But observing from his exiled corner, Mawyndulë saw only what not to do.

  “Petragar reports resistance in obtaining the cooperation of the Instarya stationed in Alon Rhist,” Kabbayn said.

  The new First Minister was a pathetic excuse for Gryndal’s successor. He’s not even Miralyith! Although apparently he didn’t mind impersonating one, dressed as he was in an elaborate asica. Why his father had picked such a feckless fraud was beyond Mawyndulë’s comprehension.

  “Cooperation?” Lothian appeared both surprised and amused. “How is that an issue? They will do as I command. I have decreed that Petragar is the
ir leader, and they are to abide his authority.”

  “Of course, of course,” Kabbayn said, retreating, “but they won’t have their heart in serving him.”

  “What need have I for their hearts?” Lothian asked.

  Kabbayn opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and he closed it again.

  “What else?” Lothian asked.

  “I’ve obtained news that the Rhunes are gathering, my fane.” Vasek folded back the sleeves of his gray robe but left the hood up. Where the sleeves were pulled back, Mawyndulë spotted the burn marks on his wrists. The skin was puckered and shriveled, redder then the rest. Seeing even that small glimpse made Mawyndulë grimace. “It seems they’re going to appoint a keenig.”

  “Keenig?”

  “Their version of a fane, I believe. A single leader who’ll unite all the clans under one banner. It’s possible they’re making plans for war.”

  “War?” The fane chuckled. “With whom? With us, you mean?”

  “I believe so.”

  Several at the table laughed, none more heartily than the commander of the Lion Corps, who, when he was able, added, “Of all the nerve.”

  Vasek didn’t laugh or smile. “There are a great many of them, my fane. And they sent messengers to the High Spear Valley as well. It could prove serious if the Gula-Rhunes join forces with the Rhulyn clans of the south.”

  “Unlikely,” Lothian said. “We’ve taught them to hate, trained them to slaughter one another.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “We’ll have the Instarya instigate another conflict. That should douse any would-be flame. Things will settle back down then.”

  Mawyndulë couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He’d been excluded from the plans for the giant attack—The Punishment, as his father had called it—which hadn’t punished anyone. He couldn’t continue to sit idly by while fools blathered so. The prince pushed to his feet, slapped the little desk with the untouched water pitcher, and said, “Settle back down? Are you hearing yourselves? We need to slaughter them all!”

  “Mawyndulë!” his father snapped. “You don’t have a voice at these proceedings.”

  “I’m a councilor of the Aquila.”

  “A junior councilor, and as you might have noticed, there aren’t any senior councilors in attendance.”

  “But I should have a voice. I’m the only one making sense, and it’s the same thing Gryndal would say—”

  “First Minister Gryndal isn’t here,” Vasek interrupted. “And no one knows what he may or may not have—”

  “He’s not here because they murdered him! And that’s why they must die. All of them!”

  “You are excused,” his father told Mawyndulë with a sharp voice.

  “But I—”

  “Out. Now!”

  Mawyndulë left, but before he did, he overturned the desk, shattering the pitcher and the glasses. Childish, but then they were acting like children, too, and it felt good to break something.

  —

  Mawyndulë wasn’t planning on going to the Rose Bridge. He told himself that even as he ducked into the Garden, avoiding the evening crowds in Florella Plaza. He would come out on the north side of the city, which would put him in easy reach of the bridge—just in case he changed his mind. All he really wanted was to get out of the Talwara and away from his father. He thought the fane might go looking for him after the meeting, and Mawyndulë decided he’d rather not be found.

  I might go after all. Wouldn’t mind seeing Makareta again. I’m already in the area.

  Mawyndulë had liked talking to her. She didn’t seem like a genius or anything, but in some ways that made her even more appealing. Nearly everyone knew more than him, or acted as if they did just because they were centuries older. Mawyndulë liked that Makareta didn’t put on airs. In a way, that made her smarter—or at least more genuine.

  While walking through the Garden, Mawyndulë considered the design and decided the rocks were a little too perfectly placed and the shrubs too neat. He supposed the intent was to fool visitors about a pristine origin. History held that it had been designed by Gylindora Fane and Caratacus, and then built by the founders of the Eilywin tribe. He would have preferred to see the Garden more natural, which meant messy and haphazard.

  The longer he studied his surroundings, the more certain he became that Gylindora had everything wrong. What did she know anyway? Yes, she had been the first fane, but she wasn’t there when life sprouted on Elan. Mawyndulë was convinced the cradle of life had been in utter disarray. People always expected order, they liked believing in symmetry and equity, but no such things existed without applying force. His father likely felt he was being evenhanded by dismissing his son in the council chambers rather than hearing his extremely valuable advice. If life were fair, his father would see the righteousness of his son’s wisdom. With his father’s realization would come remorse, and justice would be served. That would be fair, but the world didn’t work that way, nor was it pretty or perfect.

  As he approached the Door, Mawyndulë slowed. Not that he wanted to savor the moment, or to show reverence or respect. He did so because the Door scared him.

  Mawyndulë had heard about children daring one another to knock on it, a rite of passage. But he hadn’t known any kids when growing up. There were never too many to begin with, which made him think the rumor wasn’t true. He’d only approached the Door once, on his twenty-fifth birthday. The Umalyn High Priest had pressed Mawyndulë’s palm against its surface and declared him a true Son of Ferrol. The rough wood had felt like a dead tree. No—not a tree—a dead person. Remembering it now, Mawyndulë imagined his hand on the face of a corpse, and a chill raced up his back.

  Supposedly, paradise lay on the far side of the Door, the place where everyone went upon death. So what would happen if it opened when I was standing too near? Would it suck me in like a whirlpool? Would I die when crossing the threshold? Maybe it isn’t paradise. Maybe it’s something else. Something so not-paradise that it had to be locked away.

  Mawyndulë worked his way to the circle that surrounded the Door. The Garden was designed to bring everyone to the center, so he couldn’t avoid it entirely, but he kept to the outside ring, skirting the area around the benches. The sun was down, and only a faint gray light remained. The dimness made the Door appear that much more ominous. When he was young, Mawyndulë had had nightmares about being there alone at night. In his dream, someone was always knocking. As he drew closer, he realized the sound came from the Door’s other side. He’d struggle to keep himself from reaching out, a battle perpetually lost. Even as he extended his hand, Mawyndulë tried to convince himself it wouldn’t matter, because the Door couldn’t be opened. But of course he was wrong. He always woke before seeing what horror was on the other side, and maybe that was worse—the not knowing.

  As Mawyndulë went around, he spotted a person sitting on one of the benches. During the day, that wasn’t unusual, but after dark it was downright creepy. The guy wore a dirty brown robe, stained and tattered. He had dark hair and the ghost of a beard.

  Not a Miralyith.

  The figure sat leaning forward, staring at the Door. Mawyndulë didn’t pause; he kept moving and slipped by. The fellow on the bench never looked up; he didn’t move a muscle.

  Maybe Mawyndulë would go to the Rose Bridge after all. He was curious about the meeting and who attended. Perhaps they were a bunch of nuts who turned their backs on Ferrol and worshipped the moon or something crazy like that. He wondered how many would be there—he’d prefer just Makareta. As much as he hoped that might be, he knew it wouldn’t happen. She didn’t seem like the type to stand alone under a bridge at night, but hadn’t he already determined she wasn’t too intelligent? Odd for a Miralyith, but he supposed not all the gifted could be smart. The creative ones could be pretty dumb, actually—Arion, for example.

  He started picturing Makareta, standing in the dark, rubbing her chilled arms, searching intently. Maybe she had concocted the whole story to
lure him to a place where they could be alone. He imagined her shyly admitting her attraction. She’d have to confess the truth when he arrived and no one else was around.

  Is it okay for a nobody like me to be out, unescorted, with the prince? she would ask.

  He found himself grinning as he slipped out of the Garden, and he was walking quickly by the time he turned onto the narrow lane that went downhill toward the river. With any luck, he wouldn’t even go home that night, and his father could search the palace all he wanted.

  —

  If Mawyndulë needed any further proof that the world wasn’t fair, he didn’t have to look any farther than the Rose Bridge.

  Makareta wasn’t alone.

  Fifteen, possibly twenty, people clustered under the span that crossed the Shinara River. At midsummer the water level was low, and there was plenty of room among the flat rocks. The gathering looked like an odd late-night picnic. Several had brought cloths, laying them over the stone. They had baskets of fruit and cheese and bottles of wine by the crate. Several people stood around, sipping from wooden cups. Each attendee had a dark, hooded cloak, though few actually wore them. They carried the garments across an arm or tossed over a shoulder. Perhaps they expected colder temperatures as the night wore on. Mawyndulë wondered if he should have brought something warmer as well, but the night was muggy and he didn’t expect needing more than his asica. If anything, he wished he had worn his short linen one, but he had dressed for the council meeting and hadn’t taken the time to change.

  Without a moon, the space below the bridge was dim but not dark. Illumination came from buoyant lights. Sparkling balls of various colors bobbed and floated like bubbles. He’d seen them before, usually at Miralyith-hosted festivals. The lights reflected off the surface of the Shinara and lit the underside of the bridge. Everything under the span was splashed with the strange upside-down illumination that rippled across the stone pylons and people’s faces, giving it all a carnival glow.