Age of Legend Read online

And nothing has changed.

  In her hands, Suri held Arion’s knit cap. She rubbed her thumbs over the little holes in the open weave of thick wool yarn, and she recalled Arion’s voice. 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 had said that just a few days ago, but that seemed like another lifetime. Suri didn’t feel brighter.

  Sounds of movement came from behind her. Someone was walking from the ruins of the fortress across the bloodstained clay. Malcolm. She didn’t need to look or use the Art to know who it was. He was the only one who wasn’t frightened of the wasp’s nest on the porch or the mystic who had summoned it, and she had been expecting his visit.

  Since Raithe’s and Arion’s funerals, Suri had spent most of her time at this exact spot. She and the gilarabrywn were a pair of unlikely twins tethered together. Suri occasionally left in search of food, but she was careful to avoid others. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, answer questions, or face looks of pity—or, more likely, fear. She didn’t want to talk to Malcolm, either. While he had nothing to do with Arion’s death, he had pushed her into killing Raithe and creating the gilarabrywn.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” he said, approaching. “How with time, simple things, silly little things like knit hats, can become so important. Magical, in a way.”

  Suri looked down at the hat and nodded. “She only wore it for a short while, said it itched. But I remember her best that way.”

  He sat down beside her, his big knees sticking up like a grasshopper’s.

  “Are you . . .” Suri was about to say Miralyith, but even as she spoke, she realized he wasn’t. Miralyith gave off a signal, a hot spot, a light. Malcolm seemed like everyone else, except more so. She’d never noticed before, but if he were a tree, he wouldn’t be any old one. Malcolm would be the perfectly shaped, full-leafed oak that everyone imagined when thinking of a tree. He wasn’t ordinary, that was certain, and he also wasn’t easy to comprehend. Looking at him was like trying to make sense of a cloud. She gave up on the possibility of understanding Malcolm. Not every puzzle needed to be solved, and some things were more trouble than they were worth. She guessed he was like that.

  “Am I what?”

  “Nothing.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “How are you doing? You okay?”

  “No.”

  They sat in silence as a dry wind failed to convince brittle grass to dance.

  “Tell me something. Is this it? Was that all?” Suri asked. Malcolm had revealed he could see the future, and she didn’t know how much more she could take.

  “You’ll have to be a little more specific.”

  Suri expected he would know what she was referring to, that he could read her mind, but maybe that was unfair—people thought she could read minds, too. “Arion believed that if the fane knew a Rhune was capable of the Art it would result in peace between our peoples.” She nodded in the direction of the gilarabrywn. “Well, the fane saw with his own eyes, so the war should be over. Is it?”

  Malcolm sorrowfully shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

  “Then why did you . . .” Suri’s eyes teared up. “If you knew it wouldn’t be enough, then why sacrifice Raithe?”

  “You already know the answer to that. The fane’s forces would have overwhelmed us, and everyone would have died. Raithe saved us. You saved us. And . . .”

  “And?”

  “It was necessary for what’s yet to come.”

  “So, what about me? Is my part in all this over? I mean, I did what Arion wanted, and what you needed, so I’m done, right?”

  Suri didn’t care about the future, having been shattered by the past. She had reached record levels of self-loathing after killing two of her best friends and failing to save a third. These were not the actions of a virtuous person. As it turned out, butterflies weren’t beautiful. They, like pieces of a broken heart, were monsters. Innocence hadn’t just been lost, but crushed to death without mercy, and Suri didn’t feel so much lonely as left behind. She planned to return to the Hawthorn Glen, bury herself in the forest, and never come near people again.

  Malcolm frowned. “You’re thinking of running away?”

  Oh, sure, now he can read minds.

  “You can’t. Not yet. I’m sorry to say you’ve only taken a few steps in the role you’ll need to play.” He sighed. “I wish I could tell you everything will be all right from now on, or that the worst is over—”

  “It gets worse?” Suri’s eyes grew big in disbelief.

  Malcolm frowned again. “The point is—”

  “How can it possibly get worse?”

  “What you need to focus on is that in the end everything will be—”

  “Worth it?” she said hotly. “Nothing can make up for what’s already happened—nothing!” Suri was standing without realizing she’d gotten up. “Minna is dead. Arion is dead. Raithe is dead. And I killed all of them!”

  “You didn’t kill Arion, she—”

  “She was in Alon Rhist because of me!”

  “Suri, you need to calm down,” Malcolm said softly.

  “I don’t want to calm down! I’m not going to calm down! I—”

  “Suri!” Malcolm said sharply and pointed toward the hill.

  The gilarabrywn had its head up, eyes open and glaring. While she found it hard to interpret the facial features of an enchanted creature, Suri was pretty sure the gilarabrywn wasn’t pleased.

  The mystic took several deep breaths, wiped tears from her eyes, and sat back down.

  “I never asked for any of this,” she whispered.

  “I know, but it was given to you just the same. We have but the roads that lie before our feet, and all too often our choices are limited to walking or standing still. And standing still gets us nowhere.”

  “What about going back?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “What you think of as a retreat is merely going forward in a different direction. Both paths are equally fraught with peril.”

  “So, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, not running away will suffice for now.” He looked over at the gilarabrywn, who settled back down. “And don’t release that yet.”

  “No?” Suri had dreaded the idea of plunging the sword into her creation. Doing so wouldn’t be murder, not really, but it would feel like it. Convincing her to put it off wouldn’t take much.

  Malcolm shook his head. “Like you, it still has more to do. The good news is you don’t have to do the deed. Give me the sword. When the time comes, I’ll see he’s put to rest.”

  She handed him the black-bronze blade with Raithe’s true name etched along the weapon’s flat side.

  “So, if I can’t go to the Hawthorn Glen, what should I do?”

  “You’ll discover your new path when you reach it. That’s the beauty of roads, they all lead someplace.”

  As if to illustrate the point, Malcolm stood up. He smiled at her—a good smile, the perfect smile for that moment—and it did make her feel better. He started back toward the ruins of the Rhist, then he stopped and focused once more on the gilarabrywn. “Did Arion teach you how to make that?”

  This puzzled Suri, as she assumed Malcolm was already familiar with everything related to the creation of a gilarabrywn. He had certainly seemed well educated that night in the smithy when Raithe was transformed. “The weave I used was etched on the Agave tablets.”

  Malcolm’s eyes narrowed, and confusion filled them as if he and Suri no longer shared the same language. “Agave tablets?”

  Suri nodded. “Slabs of stone deep inside Neith with markings on them. Brin did the translation.”

  “Where did these tablets come from?”

  Suri shrugged. “The Ancient One carved them.” Now it was Suri’s turn to be confused, and her brow furrowed. “How come you don’t know about this? I thought you knew everything.”

  Malcolm was no longer displaying that perfect smile. “So did I.”

  Brin sat at the little desk in the pigeon loft, her back against the stone wall. Around her, a dozen birds cooed from individual coops. Persephone had asked her to keep watch for any reply from the fane, and since the loft was one of the few spots untouched by the devastation of the battle, Brin had decided to move in. The place was perfect for working on her book. It already had a tiny desk that had been used to compose messages to Fhrey outposts.

  Being so engrossed in her work, she didn’t notice Malcolm’s arrival until he cleared his throat and asked, “How’s the book coming?”

  How did he know I was up here? She looked over, dumbfounded.

  “That’s what you call it, right? A book?” he asked.

  “Yes, The Book of Brin.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Roan and Persephone mention it often, and with a great deal of pride, I might add. It sounds wonderful, this idea of making a permanent record of everything that’s happened. But you need to be careful. Don’t allow personal opinion to distort facts.”

  Brin leaned forward on her stool, planting her elbows securely on the surface of the desk. “Are you referring to Gronbach? Because that vile mole has earned every negative thing I wrote about him.”

  “The dwarf?” Malcolm paused and thought a moment. “Well, I wasn’t referring to him specifically. But now that you bring it up, I should point out that you run the risk of painting a whole race with the same ugly brush, which could have unexpected consequences in the future. My point is, you need to be as accurate as possible because your account may well be the account.”

  This wasn’t news to Brin. The whole reason she’d started her project was to make a single permanent record of all past events, a common resource to be used and added to by subsequent Keepers. “I’d never lie. Keepers are honor-bound to be exact and precise.”

  Malcolm nodded but exhibited a pained smile. “And yet, they have frequently failed to preserve the past accurately.”

  “What are you—”

  “Let’s take Gath of Odeon, for example. He’s a legend among your clan, isn’t he?”

  Feeling that Malcolm’s visit had shifted from brief to prolonged, she covered her ink cup and sat back. “Yes.”

  “So, what is a legend?”

  Brin found the question bewildering. Malcolm was trying to make a point, one she instinctively felt she wouldn’t like. He was looking for something in particular, but she had no idea what that might be. Giving up, she offered the obvious answer, but with a noncommittal shrug. “An important story or person, I guess.”

  Malcolm sighed. Apparently, that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “You do understand that not all stories are true, right?”

  “I know some people lie, yes. But I told you, I’d never—”

  Malcolm held up his hand to stop her, then pointed at the other stool in the room. “Do you mind?”

  Brin gestured an invitation, finding it odd that he’d asked. This wasn’t her bird loft.

  He pulled the stool over and sat across the desk from her, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Brin,” he began gently, “there are times when people can say something happened that didn’t, without lying. They believe it to be the truth, even when it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a simple mistake. Other times it’s because someone lied to them, perhaps even out of kindness. And then there are instances when a story changes over time. Keepers might add a little flair to make their tales seem more exciting.” He thought a moment. “Or to illustrate a point.”

  Brin offered only a confused expression.

  “Okay, let’s go back to Gath. He’s regarded as a wise and heroic person, right? He’s the one that led the Ten Clans out of the east when the great flood came. Gath is seen as a savior of the Rhunes, and rightly so. But the stories about him are bigger than that. He isn’t known as just some average fellow who in a time of crisis found the courage and determination to push everyone into leaving, is he? The stories make him out to be more than that.”

  “You mean like how when he was a kid, he solved so many riddles?”

  “Exactly. Maybe he was unusually bright, but perhaps that part of his story was added later by people just trying to show him as wise. It’s entirely possible he wasn’t smart at all. When you think about it, making him appear special actually gives the wrong impression. The truth is that everyone can achieve greatness, but many don’t try because they think of themselves as merely ordinary.”

  This made Brin remember a day long ago when Konniger held his first lodge meeting. Persephone had tried to persuade him to move the clan, but Maeve, the Keeper at the time, had killed the idea by saying, “Gath of Odeon was renowned even before the flood. Heroes like him no longer walk among us.”

  And yet they did—or maybe, as Malcolm suggested, heroes aren’t born, they’re made, grown from ordinary stock and fertilized by crisis.

  Malcolm continued, “The Book of Brin solves the problems of forgetfulness and embellishment, which might just make it the most important thing ever created by mankind. But if it isn’t accurate, it could create other issues. Your book will be seen as an authority, like an eyewitness, and as such it won’t be easily disputed. With so much responsibility, you need to be careful about what you write. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Brin nodded, feeling altogether frightened. What had begun as a way to make Keepers’ jobs easier had morphed into something potentially dangerous. She felt like a child who’d brought home a bear cub because it was cute. She looked at the pages of her book spread out on the desk and worried what might happen when the cub became a grown bear.

  Malcolm looked at the parchments as well. “So, how far have you gotten?”

  “Not nearly as far as before.” A rush of frustration threatened to make her cry. With all that had happened, her emotions were like milk in a too-full bucket—they spilled over easily. “I had a lot more done, but it was destroyed during the Miralyith attack. I worked so hard, and now”—she gestured at the pages on the desk—“this is all I have. I had to start over.”

  “I see.” He nodded solemnly, then offered a positive smile. “But second attempts are usually better than firsts.”

  She frowned at him, then reconsidered. “I’m working on the Battle of Rhen right now and . . .” She shrugged. “It’s coming out pretty good. I guess it might be better than the first time.”

  “Have you finished the part about your time in Neith?” His eyes went to the largest stack of pages.

  She sighed. “Not yet.”

  “But you still remember?”

  “I’m a Keeper—that’s my job.”

  “Of course.” Malcolm nodded. “Would you mind telling me a bit of it? About Neith, I mean. In particular, about the stone tablets.”

  Brin nodded. “Okay.”

  Malcolm smiled and settled back on his stool.

  “We found slabs of rock with markings on them.” Brin showed a self-conscious smile. “You see, I didn’t really invent this thing Arion calls writing. I tried to, but I hadn’t worked it all out. Well, not until I found the tablets, that is. Almost everything I’m doing now is based on what I found there.”

  “How were you able to understand the markings on the stones?”

  “It wasn’t hard. The tablet on top of the stack was a guide. It showed the list of symbols arranged in groups by the sounds they corresponded to. Once I understood each mark, it was simple to do the substitutions.”

  Malcolm looked confused. “I still don’t understand. I look at what you’ve done here, and it’s beautiful, but I can’t tell you what it says. How can you?”

  “Well, of course you can’t. You didn’t study the guide. I have it memorized, so it’s easy for me. Let me show you.” She pointed at the page she was working on. “See here, this mark makes a wa sound like water or want, and this one sounds like all, as in ball. Put them together and you get wall.” She patted the stone behind her.

  He nodded. “Well, yes, that makes sense, but how do you know”—he pointed at one of the markings—“that this one sounds like wa?”

  “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? The symbols are universal.” She pointed at her page again. “When I first wrote sun, I used a circle to represent the sss sound. Anyone would do that, right? So, the circle is a universal symbol for sss. Once I went through the guide, I knew I was on the right track.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “That only makes sense if everyone in the world speaks Rhunic. In Fhrey, the sun is called arkum, and in Belgriclungreian it’s halan. The goblins call it rivik. So, why isn’t the circle an ar, ha, or ri sound?”

  Brin paused, considering this. “I don’t know, but I must have been correct because it worked. After I performed the substitutions, the words made sense. Even the names were right.”

  “Names?”

  “Yeah. The tablets told of the world’s creation. They mentioned Ferrol, Drome, and even Mari. So, I must have gotten the sounds correct. I suppose the writer must have spoken Rhunic.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “Actually, those names are the same in every language, even Ghazel, but that doesn’t explain the other words. You’re right. The fact that you deciphered them correctly is undeniable. So . . .” Malcolm rotated a page in order to view it right-side up. Brin had no idea what he hoped to see. To him it would be nothing but rows of indistinguishable markings. “There’s only one explanation,” he said. “These tablets were created for you.”

  “Me? That’s not possible.”

  “Of course it is. Before Gifford was born, Tura told Padera he would one day win a race to save humanity. He—well, everyone really—thought this was preposterous, and yet he did exactly that. The proof of the prophecy is self-evident because it was fulfilled. Since you read the tablets, my hypothesis is a sound one.”

  “But it doesn’t mean me specifically, right?” Brin didn’t like the idea that an ancient being who was capable of creating a monster like Balgargarath had left her a personal note. That was as scary as Tet. “Anyone who speaks Rhunic could have deciphered them. It didn’t have to be me.”

  “Have you taught anyone else your symbols? Does anyone but you know the correlations between these markings and their sounds?”