Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Makareta,” Aiden said. “What’s going on?”

  She put one hand on her hip and pointed at Mawyndulë with the other. “Vidar kicked the prince, humiliated him in the Aquila, and then threatened him.”

  “What?” Aiden said, appalled.

  “I was there for part of it,” Makareta said. “I heard, well everyone heard, him call Mawyndulë a fool. Can you believe it?”

  “He said that? In the Aquila?”

  Makareta nodded so hard she spilled a bit of her wine.

  More and more people gathered. Mawyndulë saw faces behind faces all looking at him, all struggling to hear what he had to say.

  “He promised that he’d ruin my reputation. Guess he has connections or something.”

  “You’re the prince!” Aiden sounded just as outraged as Makareta. “That’s horrible. Am I right?”

  “Yeah,” Orlene said. “That’s outrageous.”

  “Thing is,” Tandur said, “Vidar is a wasted seat in the council. He wasn’t meant to be a voice of the Miralyith. He was just an assistant—there to fetch water if Gryndal got thirsty. But now…”

  “I agree with Orlene,” Makareta said. “That isn’t right. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Last week he made an utter fool of himself and gave Imaly another victory.”

  Mawyndulë took a second sip of wine as people around him gathered to voice their anger at his mistreatment. Once again, Makareta was standing close, so near that he brushed her asica with his hand.

  “What makes me angry,” Aiden said, with a shake of his fist that appeared a bit too showy, “is that Mawyndulë was Gryndal’s student, so he should be the one taking a place in the Aquila. He should be the senior councilor, not Vidar. Am I right?”

  Mawyndulë wasn’t certain if Aiden was really upset or just acting the part. Aiden might be the sort who would feign emotion to make himself look better.

  “Vidar only got the seat because he’s older. This is a travesty of timing and politics. The fane doesn’t want to be seen as favoring his son, so he’s forced to allow a fool to be the voice of the Miralyith in the council.”

  “We should do something about it,” Tandur said while looking at Aiden.

  As if any of them could do anything. Mawyndulë chuckled, hiding his laughter behind his wine cup. Did they really think he’d put up with such indignities if something could be done?

  “What do you mean?” Orlene asked. “What can we do?”

  Congratulations to Orlene! You win first prize for stating the obvious.

  “What can we do?” Aiden laughed. “What can’t we do? We’re Miralyith!”

  Mawyndulë got the feeling that was his answer to everything. Maybe he lived in a part of Erivan, in one of the more distant cities or villages, where the Art was worshipped. He certainly didn’t live in the Talwara.

  “And what are these meetings for, if not to do something? Each week we come and talk about the superiority of the Miralyith. Is it just talk? Do we just drink wine and complain?”

  “What are you saying?” Makareta asked.

  “This is our chance to do something. I mean really do something. Am I right?”

  Mawyndulë laughed again, but noticed several of the heads in the crowd nodded, their faces intent and serious.

  Makareta was nodding, too. “Like what?”

  “Mawyndulë is the heir, not only to the Forest Throne, but to Gryndal’s seat in the Aquila. Vidar is a disgrace to everything we stand for. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s quick to compromise because he doesn’t embrace the same values we do. The values of a real Miralyith.” Aiden’s voice was growing louder, taking on a rhythm. And as he spoke, he punched the air with that fist of his, or poked his finger at some invisible foe. “He’s working to diminish us to appease the lesser tribes, when he should be convincing everyone of the inevitability, and the wisdom, of a world dominated by the Miralyith.”

  “Instead of demonstrating how all Miralyith should be viewed as gods”—Tandur raised his own finger, pointing toward the heavens, or at least the underside of the bridge—“he only confirms everyone’s belief that all Fhrey are equal. His term in the Aquila will only retard our advancement.”

  All around him, Mawyndulë heard shouts of agreement. Some were hopping, bouncing with excitement. A nervous energy that might have been due to the wine. By the end of the meetings, everyone always did get a little loopy.

  “But what can we do?” someone else asked, someone Mawyndulë couldn’t even see due to the growing cluster of people squeezing him and Makareta closer together.

  “We should replace him,” Aiden said. “Am I right?”

  All heads nodded and there were murmurs of agreement.

  “Just think,” Aiden went on, “once we’ve replaced Vidar with Mawyndulë, we Gray Cloaks will have a direct voice in the grand council. And power to enhance our position.”

  People cheered, and at that moment Mawyndulë felt Makareta take his hand. “Here,” she said, handing him a cloak. “You’re one of us now.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Caric

  With few exceptions, I hold no love for the Dherg. They are deceitful, greedy, and cruel. They epitomize the worst traits imaginable. But of all the Dherg, one stands out as the most despicable. Read on…I am just getting started.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The grunting stopped. The ship no longer jerked forward at regular intervals, for which Persephone was immensely grateful. Looking over the side, she saw the oars rising into the air like bony wings. They dripped seawater that sprayed in the wind. Twelve dwarf-sized sailors pulled the poles inside, sliding them across their tiny laps, and securing the handles with leather straps. Six big, dirty metal pots and five smaller ones dangled from hooks and clanged against the side of the ship. A pair of giant rudders was controlled by a single dwarf, who sat on a stool holding one lever with each arm. Persephone had counted just about everything on the ship, which turned out to be smaller than she’d first imagined, but any place became cramped when you were trapped on it.

  Now that the oars were drawn in, the big sheet of cloth from the crossbeam was unfurled. It billowed and flapped as the sailors scurried to secure ties.

  “Amazing,” Roan said, peering up at the sail. She’d been saying that every few minutes since they came aboard. Roan was fascinated by how they steered the ship, how it broke through the waves, how the dwarfs propelled the vessel with poles, and how they stroked in unison, keeping time by singing. Roan didn’t appear to mind how terrible the singing was. She even seemed stunned that the ship floated on water, as if the woman who’d invented the wheel, the pocket, the hanging chair, the pottery table, and the improved copper ax didn’t know wood could float. To be honest, Persephone had her own doubts after watching them load twenty-three barrels and thirty-two crates, all of which appeared to be very heavy. “The wind is actually pushing us across the surface.”

  Persephone couldn’t care less, so long as they got where they were going, and did so soon. All the bobbing and rolling had left her regretting the second helping of Dherg porridge from that morning. What had tasted good going down certainly wouldn’t on its way back up. Arion was worse. Pale and moaning, the Fhrey curled over, hugging her legs, her bald head rolling from side to side on her knees.

  The Dherg had stuffed them out of the way along with the barrels and crates, near the front of the ship, the part of the vessel that rose and fell the most. Persephone was certain this wasn’t by accident. The sailors didn’t like them and hated Arion. They hadn’t said so, but that was part of the problem. The sailors hadn’t said anything, not to them. The sailors spoke only to Frost and Flood, and only in the Dherg language. At first, Persephone thought they might not speak anything else, but she caught them sneering when Moya made a comment about one of the sailors having porridge in his beard. A moment later, the sloppy eater scrubbed it out.

  Frost and Flood had reverted to their own language as well, grumbling as if the two were busy
cursing every living thing.

  “Oh, Grand Mother!” Brin exclaimed. The girl had been studying Arion’s old bandages—the ones with the magic markings.

  Everyone except Arion looked over expectantly.

  Instead of explaining, Brin made some marks on one of the slates she had brought with her.

  “What is it?” Moya asked, sitting with her back to a barrel, one of their blankets wrapped over her legs. Even in high summer, the morning wind on the open water was chilly. “Just realized you forgot to put out the campfire back home?” She chuckled.

  Even out here, at a time like this, Moya has a sense of humor, Mari love her.

  Brin held up the strips of cloth. “These aren’t just magic markings or pictures. These are symbols.”

  Everyone failed to see the significance, though Roan appeared intrigued; of course, she would be. She was also fascinated by icicle formations and the way dandelion fluff floated.

  “Symbols,” she said, as if saying the word again with more emphasis would make them understand. “They’re like what I’ve been trying to do.” She tapped the slate with her marking stone, which clicked with a hollow sound.

  Roan inched closer. “They say something?”

  “Yes! They’re words. They’re a message. I’m positive of it.”

  “What do they say?”

  Brin’s bright face dimmed. “I don’t know.”

  “Then how do you know they’re words?” Moya covered her ankles with the blanket.

  “Because of the way they’re drawn; they make patterns that repeat. It’s like what I’ve been trying to do. Someone else has already done it.” She pointed to a circle with a line through it. “This symbol is always in front of this square one.”

  Everyone stared back with blank faces.

  “Okay, okay, listen.” She flipped over her slate and pulled out a piece of chalk. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to mark down stories so Keepers can have a permanent memory of events. At first, I tried to make little pictures of things, like I did on the walls of my house back in Dahl Rhen, only it would take forever to illustrate a whole story that way, and you can’t illustrate a name. That’s what got me, a name. How do you draw a name? A name is just sounds. But what if a symbol could represent a sound?” She drew on the slate. “If this circle represents br and this square the sound in, then together”—she underlined both—“they make the name Brin! See? So all I had to do was make a symbol for every sound. Turns out there aren’t that many. That’s what I’ve been doing, and when you do that, these repeating patterns occur, just like on this cloth. They aren’t the same as mine, of course, but they’re the same sort of thing. Someone else has already done what I’m trying to do.” She held up the bandages as evidence.

  Persephone turned to Frost, who sat with stiffly folded arms, looking out over the water and appearing not to listen.

  “Is that true? These symbols were in the rol. These are the markings of your people. Can you understand what they say?” Persephone asked him.

  Frost glanced over with a miserable frown, as if she’d asked him to wash her feet with his tongue.

  “The Orinfar?” Rain said.

  “Is that what you call those markings?” Persephone said.

  Frost nodded. “Stops magic.”

  “But what does it say?” Brin rolled up on her knees, letting her own blanket fall as she leaned forward.

  Frost shrugged. “Doesn’t say nothing. Just symbols. We have them for counting, too. Use them for measuring and keeping track of who owes what. But the Orinfar, we learn by rote. They were given to King Mideon near the end of the war with the Fhrey. The gift came too late to help us win. By then the elf queen had us on our heels.”

  Arion’s head stopped rocking. One eye opened, and in a pained whisper she asked, “Who give?”

  Frost thought a moment and glanced at Flood.

  “Don’t look at me,” the other dwarf said. “You’re older than I am.”

  “By three minutes!”

  “Dee, da, dee, do, dah dah, drum,” Brin muttered as she stared at the bandages. “Dee, da, dee, do, dee, dee, dee. Dee, dee, do, dah dah, dee. Dee, dee, do, dah, drum, dee, dee.”

  “What are you doing?” Roan asked.

  “The markings repeat, and so that’s the pattern these symbols would make if they were sounds…or something close to that.”

  Arion’s head came all the way up and both eyes opened. Suri looked up, too. Both stared at Brin.

  “What?” the girl asked.

  “Do that again,” Arion told her.

  Brin repeated the sounds, and the Fhrey’s eyes widened.

  “What is it?” Persephone asked.

  “Sheen hath wee hove bragen groom,” Arion sang. “Sheen hath wee hove reen, breen, froom. Sheen ahwee, hath elochments hee. Sheen ahwee hath grooms fram thee. That’s the weave that I used to break Mawyndulë’s control on the people in your dahl. It’s what Miralyith call a ‘dampener.’ It severs an Artist’s power from the source.” She looked at Persephone and added, “Like tripping someone who’s trying to run. You break their connection to the ground, so to speak.” She said all this in Fhrey, and Persephone translated as best she could—leaving out the gibberish words which weren’t any language that she could tell.

  “So these markings are the language of the Fhrey?” Brin asked.

  Arion shook her head. “Language of Creation.”

  “It’s the song of birds,” Suri said. “The sound of wind, and rain, and rivers, the flap of wings, the rustle of grass. It’s the voice of trees.” She said this last bit looking hard at Persephone.

  “What you’re talking about, this recording of sounds, is…” Arion hesitated. “We call it ryeteen.”

  “Wri…ting,” Brin mimicked her.

  “Close enough. Useful for sending short messages long distances by bird.”

  Brin’s eyes went wide. “You can do that? Can you understand this?”

  Brin handed her the wrappings that had once bound the Fhrey’s head. Arion studied the markings and frowned. “These aren’t words. Not Fhrey words. But the sounds you made, the pattern, the rhythm…that was the Art. I never knew it could be painted. But the markings representing a blocking weave makes sense, as that’s exactly what the bandages did to me.”

  “Do the sounds have meanings?” Brin asked. “Are they like words? Can they be translated?”

  Arion and Suri both nodded. “In a way, sure. They are ideas after all.” She spoke to Suri in Fhrey for a moment, asking how to say a few words. Then she softly sang in the same rhythm but using Rhunic words:

  “Shut the way of hidden power.

  Shut the way of rock, beast, flower.

  Shut away, the elements be.

  Shut away the powers from thee.”

  “It says all that on the cloth?” Moya asked, astounded.

  “More than that,” Brin said. She had followed along on the bandages with her finger as Arion sang. “There’s more here.” The girl laid the bandages across her lap. “So the Fhrey can mark words on cloth?”

  “Some can, yes.”

  “Do they, um, ‘write’ stories?”

  “Stories?” Arion shook her head. “No. As I understand it, markings are simple things with a limited number of words. In Erivan, those that ryte are called scrybes. They use the markings to…” She hesitated, conferred in whispers with Suri, and then continued, “Keep lists, issue simple orders, and send short reports. It takes a long time to learn. Few understand markings. Stories would be pointless.”

  Brin seemed to want more from the Miralyith, but Arion was showing signs of fatigue. She grimaced as if she might vomit; then she moaned and laid her head back down. The ship rose and fell across the swells, and Arion moaned again.

  “How much longer?” Persephone asked.

  “We should arrive before dark,” Frost replied.

  “Thank you, Ferrol,” Arion whispered three times to her knees.

  “Where are your chain shi
rts?” Moya asked the Dherg.

  Frost wasn’t wearing his anymore. None of the three were. They had taken the garments off the moment they came aboard. Given how heavy they looked, Persephone guessed this was to avoid drowning should they fall overboard.

  Frost grumbled something.

  “Traded them for passage.” Rain spoke again. He was working on the mattock-bladed end of his pick, honing it to a bright edge.

  “It cost that much to be ferried across to Neith?” Persephone asked.

  “With her it does.” Flood nodded toward Arion.

  “The rest of you didn’t come cheap, either,” Frost said. “Dent is a scoundrel.”

  The ship continued its roll and pitch, and Persephone looked for something else to count—anything to keep her mind from thinking about her stomach. Her sight settled on Roan, who was winding the length of a string around the center of her long stick. Persephone assumed Roan planned to use it as a staff since it was nearly as tall as she was. But Roan had whittled it so that it tapered at both ends and had a flattened shape everywhere except in the middle, where she was wrapping the string.

  “What’s that, Roan?” Persephone asked.

  “It’s a bow, like for starting fires, but this one isn’t.”

  “Isn’t what?”

  “For starting fires.”

  “Huh?”

  Roan thought a moment. “I got the idea for the wheel when I saw Gifford’s pottery table. And I got the idea for this bow when I saw Habet starting a fire.”

  “But it isn’t for starting a fire?”

  “No.”

  “What is it for then, Roan?” Moya asked with a bit of irritation in her voice.

  “Throwing things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Remember when you were trying out that little spear, and it didn’t go too far?” Roan picked up one of the shorter sticks she had in her sack. They were all very straight. and Persephone wondered how she made them so uniform.

  “Uh-huh.” Moya nodded.