Age of Swords Read online

  Sawed was another new word, derived from the remarkable metal tool that could smoothly cut through wood. Roan couldn’t count the number of ideas that little device was birthing inside her head. If Roan were a god with a divine anvil she’d make dozens of saws, but she didn’t even have a workbench anymore. She didn’t have anything. Iver’s home had been mostly destroyed, and what had remained had been left behind.

  Her master had been dead for over a year, but he had continued to surround her. His house, his things, had always been a reminder. Now the house was gone, the last physical connection broken. Leaving her past behind, Roan had expected she’d feel something: relief, peace, hope. But she found none of those things. The world was the same as it had been, except now she didn’t have a workbench.

  “Well?” she heard Gifford say.

  Looking out from under the grain cart, Roan could see Gifford and Rain down on their knees, peering under the wagon at her.

  “Still weakening, but it should survive another day.” She turned on her side and rolled back out into the sun. “I thought a few of those bumps today might have cracked the axle, but it’s fine.” Roan loved saying the world axle. She liked how the word formed in the back of her mouth like she was coughing up phlegm. “How much farther to Tirre?”

  Gifford looked to Rain.

  The little man shrugged, staring out across fields dotted in daffodils. “Hard to gauge distances here.” He talked with the same rolling accent as the other two dwarfs, a melodious trundling of thick tongues that stretched words into growls. But his voice was higher, his words clipped, halting, and precise, as if he didn’t have the same amount of time that the others did.

  Roan understood his point. In the vast rolling uplands of few landmarks, it would be difficult to tell how far they’d come. Endless fields of tall grass swayed everywhere, interrupted only by an occasional clump of trees or small creek. She was about to nod her agreement when Rain added, “Directions aboveground are impossible to gauge with any accuracy.”

  Roan looked at him for a moment, perplexed. She used a hand to shade her eyes and glanced upward. “The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. And if the rising sun is to your right then you’re facing north, and south is behind you.”

  Rain squinted his eyes at her. “North, south, east, west? What good are those?” He pointed up at an angle. “What direction is that?” He pointed in the exact opposite direction toward the ground. “Or that? It’s not east or north, is it? And it’s not exactly up or down, either. And how far is far? How near is near? What’s the length of a finger? And what is the distance to the sun? Underground it all makes sense. There are rules down there. Logic in the rocks. Up here…” He scowled at the sky. “Up here it’s all just a wishy-washy mess. All air and open space that can’t be measured or gauged.”

  Roan thought about this and realized measurements were indeed a problem. When she’d asked the question, she hoped to hear they were close, but how far was that? Without specifics, she couldn’t hope to determine whether the carts would finish the journey. That the carts had managed the trip so far was—as Persephone put it—a miracle.

  The miracle applied to people as well as the carts. Just two days after setting out, the crowd had grown to almost six hundred. The injured from Dahl Rhen had been left at the first outer Rhen village, and at each settlement, Persephone urged people to stay in their homes and wait for further instructions. Even so, the parade south gathered a few more citizens from each town before moving on. Parade described the procession well. Padera had saved the one remaining flag, which had flown from the top of the lodge, and Habet carried the tattered cloth, flying it on a long stick right out in front.

  Each day the column stopped just twice, once for the midday meal, and then well past sundown to make camp for the night. As always, Padera and Grygor orchestrated the cooking.

  That day, Raithe had borrowed Roan’s ax to cut a nearby tree. But Grygor became too impatient to wait for the God Killer, and snapped logs over his knee for firewood. Wide-shouldered Engleton and two other men were busy digging a pit to put it in. Habet, after planting the Rhen banner nearby, worked at igniting the kindling using a strip of rawhide held taut by a bowed stick. The strap was looped around another vertical piece of wood that spun quickly as he moved the bow back and forth. Where the vertical stick was pressed against a log, wool placed in a knothole started to smoke. Those who had nothing else to do gathered to watch Habet—the master of the clan’s fire. Or maybe they just knew that the sooner he got the wool to light, the sooner there would be food.

  Satisfied that her carts would reach the next camp, Roan walked with Gifford and Rain toward the sound of laughter. On the far side of those watching Habet, another group formed a circle, clapping and cheering as if being entertained by a minstrel show. At the center were the Galantians, who themselves were ringed around Moya.

  At first, Roan feared her friend was being punished, beaten the way Iver had done to her. No, she thought, Moya would never let anyone beat her. She should have known better. As she and Gifford got closer, Roan realized Moya was fine. She didn’t appear the least bit frightened and laughed along with the rest. In her hands, she held a thin sword.

  “Maybe it would be best if you just stand back and throw something,” the Fhrey named Tekchin was telling her. He stood in front of Moya brandishing a stout stick and making everyone laugh as he pushed aside Moya’s swings.

  “The Fhwey twaining the women too?” Gifford asked.

  It stunned Roan how Moya could stand in front of so many people—in front of the gods—without fear.

  They aren’t gods. Roan had to constantly remind herself of that fact, just as she had to convince herself that Iver was dead. She’d seen him laid in the ground and even dropped in a handful of dirt. During the burial, she’d thought his pale, bluish cheeks had twitched when the dirt hit. She’d nearly screamed; not because she thought he had come back to life, but because she was terrified of the punishment for throwing dirt in his face.

  “Eres,” Tekchin said, “let her throw one of your javelins.”

  The Fhrey with the little spears glared back in alarm.

  Tekchin rolled his eyes and shook his head. “They’re weapons, not sacred artifacts, for Ferrol’s sake. Let her try one.”

  Eres scowled for a moment then reluctantly waved Moya over. He held out one of the spears.

  “You throw it from the shoulder and follow through,” Eres explained. “Try and hit that deadwood over there.”

  “The stump or Tekchin?” Moya asked with a mischievous grin, and everyone laughed again, but louder this time.

  Moya was a marvel. Roan watched astounded, as if the woman stood in the center of a roaring fire. Roan couldn’t imagine being stared at by so many, much less a ring of Galantians. They were all grinning, and Moya grinned right back. She was closer to being one of them than Roan was to being like Moya.

  Moya took the javelin and threw, but the little spear made it only halfway to the deadfall.

  Eres took what looked like a stick with a cup on its end. “This is an atlatl, a thrower. See?” He took another javelin and inserted the butt end in its cup. Then he flicked the javelin, making it move faster and travel farther. The weapon hit the stump with a loud thwack.

  Moya looked at him as if he were insane.

  “She’d do better with this,” Anwir said. He demonstrated his technique for whipping a stone with a sling. Swinging the long straps in a circle over his head, he let one fly. When Moya tried, she managed to shoot the pebble much farther than the javelin, but in completely the wrong direction. A distant crack was followed by someone cursing, and Moya cringed.

  “Maybe you should just stick to the sword,” Tekchin said.

  Roan looked at the javelins and the sling and thought about Habet starting the fire. There’s always a better way.

  “I could heave a stone betta than that,” Gifford told Roan.

  “So can she,” Roan replied. This caught the
attention of both Gifford and Rain.

  “What do you mean?” Gifford asked.

  “Moya can knock a squirrel off the branch of an elm tree when pitching a rock, and with either hand. I don’t know why she’s faking, pretending that she can’t throw well.”

  He focused on Roan. “Have you done that? Faked being bad at something.”

  Roan looked up. “I don’t need to pretend. I am bad…at everything.”

  Gifford laughed. “Woan, you made a joke. That’s wondiful.”

  She looked at him, puzzled.

  Gifford stopped laughing. His expression changed; he grew sad. Roan hated when that happened. Too often she made Gifford look that way. She made a lot of people sad, but none more often, or as deeply, as him. He looked like he might cry, and she didn’t know why. She hated not knowing things and began thinking, looking for answers. Has to be a reason. Everything has a reason. Then she realized what it was. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No, really, it’s my fault. And it was so beautiful, too.”

  “What you talking about, Woan?”

  “The amphora you made…the one with the woman on it who you said was me…it got smashed in the giant attack. I should’ve taken it to the storage pit when we ran. I’m sorry it’s gone. That’s why you’re sad, isn’t it? I knew you shouldn’t have given it to me. So beautiful, and it’s my fault it’s gone.”

  Gifford put a hand to his mouth as he sucked in both his lips. He leaned forward and she saw his arms come up as if he might try to hug her again.

  She cringed.

  He stopped.

  Then he did cry. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “No, Woan,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking about the amphora. And I don’t mind that it was smashed. And I would…I would give you a million mo’, each one betta than the last if I thought they could help.”

  He moved away from her, away from everyone, sniffling as he went. She let him go. He wanted to be alone. He didn’t like people seeing him cry. She understood that; she understood that very well.

  —

  Suri lay deep in the field, the tall grass swaying overhead. Bees buzzed from one flower to the next. She was close enough to hear that everyone had started eating, but far enough away so that no one would stumble on her. She felt Minna’s head pop up and realized someone had. It wasn’t hard to guess who.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Arion said in Rhunic.

  “I’ve been avoiding you,” Suri said truthfully, and not just because Arion had been traveling near the goats, which were frightened by Minna. Very stupid animals. Who couldn’t love Minna?

  “Not your fault,” Arion assured in tender tones.

  “You’re right,” Suri replied. “It was yours.”

  When she had moved close enough, the Fhrey’s shadow blocked out the afternoon sun, but Suri still didn’t look at her. She closed her eyes instead.

  “You are right. It was,” the Fhrey said.

  “Did you want me to kill him?” Suri asked.

  “No!” Arion was so shocked she switched into Fhrey. “But…I suppose I should have realized you might not be entirely committed to releasing him. The Art is powered by the forces of nature, and they aren’t tools like a hammer or ax…more like fire or wind. In that way, it can have a will of its own. It can sometimes assist in unintended ways, like a too-helpful friend. What you want and what you think you want need to be aligned, or the results can be…well, you know.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him,” Suri said. She felt she needed to say it out loud, and not just so Arion could hear.

  “I believe you. I was foolish to expect such a complex weave so early in your training.”

  “I don’t want to be trained. I like being who I am.”

  “But you could be so much more. You are like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.”

  Suri frowned. Why did she have to pick butterflies as her example? “Maybe I like being a caterpillar. What’s wrong with inching along and eating leaves?”

  Arion sighed and switched once more to Fhrey. “You don’t really believe that. Now that you know…now that you’ve seen what it’s like, you’ve had a taste and are hungry for more. Now that you’ve touched the chords, you can’t help wanting to fly. None of us can. I remember my first time. Nearly a thousand years ago, but I remember it so clearly. I never felt so alive as when I first touched the chords, when I saw what was possible…like being born a second time. Do you honestly think there are any caterpillars who, upon learning that they can become one of those beautiful winged creatures, say, ‘No, thanks. It’s not for me. I don’t really want to fly. I don’t want to be beautiful and soar to the sun on painted wings.’ ”

  “Maybe not, but I would.”

  Arion sat down. “Why?”

  Suri wished she would just go away.

  “Why not be a butterfly, Suri?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We have much time.”

  Suri sighed to show she didn’t want to talk about it, but Arion just waited. So did Minna, who looked at her friend with expectant eyes; Minna loved stories. Suri sighed again, took a new breath, and spoke in Fhrey because she didn’t want to have to repeat the whole thing. “I once found a grove of perfect strawberries. I love them, and these were big, and ripe, and wonderful. Usually, other animals get to them before I do, but that time I was first. Completely alone, I considered myself so very lucky, didn’t have to share. I ate all of them, one after another, whole handfuls at a time. So wonderful! I should have taken some for Tura, but I didn’t. I devoured them all. I became very sick. My stomach twisted and cramped. I went home to ask Tura for help, but she wasn’t there. I lay in bed for hours, feeling terrible.”

  “Are you saying that pain can come from too much—”

  “Quit trying to get ahead of me,” Suri snapped. “This has nothing to do with the strawberries; they were just what brought me home.” She waited, and Arion didn’t say any more. “So all night I was sick. I called out for Tura, but she never came, even though she had always done so in the past. The next day I went looking, and I found her facedown in the garden.”

  “Are you saying—”

  Arion stopped when Suri pushed up and glared at her.

  “Boy, you are impatient.” Suri huffed. “Do you want me to explain or not?”

  Arion made a show of closing her mouth.

  Suri frowned at her then went on. “Tura was dead, and I was alone. All my life Tura had taken care of me. Told me what to do and what to avoid. She was the mystic, and I was her apprentice. That’s what she always said. And she also said that when she finally died, I would be the mystic—just me, no one else. The forest would be all mine, and I wouldn’t have any more rules to obey, no more restrictions, no one to report to. I used to long for the day when I would finally be in charge of myself. But that morning, I knelt beside Tura and begged Wogan to wake her. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be the mystic anymore. But”—she paused and this time looked right into Arion’s eyes—“once you’re a butterfly it’s impossible to go back to being a caterpillar, even if you want to. You’re stuck with those wings, and you have to fly away, and life stops being a simple thing of inching happily along leaves and eating in the sun. Life becomes something else entirely. You don’t get to stay in the Hawthorn Glen beside the gurgling brook. You’re forced to go away, away from the forest that had been your home, away from everything you’ve known and loved. You have to be something different and give up everything. There’s always a cost. And I can’t imagine those pretty wings come cheap. Nothing has so far.”

  They sat for a while, not speaking.

  The sun was warm enough to be called hot. The bees didn’t care. They labored as they always did, going from one flower to the next, landing and straining the stalks with their weight. When they left, the stalks sprang back and waved goodbye. Suri didn’t know these bees—at least she didn’t think so. She was already too far from home. The breeze
was nice, and she was certain it was the same one she knew from the forest. Nothing like a good breeze on sweating skin to make a person feel loved.

  “I know why you did it,” Suri finally said.

  “Did what?”

  Suri wasn’t looking at Arion. She stared out at the hazy summer horizon where hills rose above hills until they became mountains of faint blue. “Why you had me free the giant instead of doing it yourself. It’s because of your head. It hurts when you do magic. You haven’t done any for a long time, but you put out Magda when she was on fire. That’s why you needed to lie down. And after you had trapped the giant, you could barely walk. You slept even though it was the middle of the day. You wanted me to free him so you could avoid the pain.”

  Suri didn’t know what she wanted Arion to say, or even if she wanted her to say anything. She told her because the knowledge had been trapped inside and needed to get out. Otherwise she would feel as if she was holding a secret, and having secrets was like keeping a weasel inside a house. They don’t like it one bit and dig and claw to escape. A weasel will make a terrible mess of a home, and a secret does the same to a friendship. Suri had come to think of Arion as a friend, a good friend. They had known each other for only a short time, but already Suri knew that, next to Minna, Arion was her best friend.

  When Arion didn’t say anything for several minutes, Suri turned to look. The Fhrey was sitting hunched forward in the grass surrounded by wildflowers that gently patted her. The sun was on Arion’s face, and Suri saw glistening silver lines running down both cheeks. Her eyes were closed and her body trembled, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Suri was puzzled, but just for a moment. Then she understood, and she slid over to the Fhrey. She put her arms around Arion and felt her lean in. “It wasn’t your fault, either,” Suri told her. “Wogan wanted the giant to die. After what he and his brothers had done to the forest, I imagine all of creation wanted revenge.”