Raithe shook his head. “I thought you heard the stories. He killed my father.”
“That was true?” Nyphron looked surprised.
“Killed him right in front of me.”
Nyphron stared hard at Raithe, and for another long moment no one moved or spoke. Then the Fhrey nodded as if understanding something. “Thing is, Shegon was a brideeth eyn mer.”
“I’ve heard that about him,” Raithe said.
“If it wasn’t forbidden, I’d have killed him centuries ago.” Nyphron ran an absent hand through his long hair and looked at the sword beneath Sebek’s boot. “Give it back to him. He’s earned it.”
“We going again, then?” Raithe asked.
“No.” Nyphron held up his free hand as he sheathed his sword. “I found out what I wanted to know.”
“Which was?”
“That it’s possible.”
“What is?”
“For a Rhune to kill a Fhrey.”
“Glad to have helped.”
“Can we come in now?” Nyphron asked.
“Sorry.” Raithe shook his head.
“Not very courteous of you.”
“Neither is slaughtering thousands of people and burning down Dureya and Nadak.”
Nyphron nodded. “You make a good point. But would it make a difference if I told you we”—he gestured toward his group—“had nothing to do with that? In fact, we’re outlaws…rebels…because we refused to take part in that reprehensible affair. We went against the edicts of our ruler and declined to butcher defenseless Rhunes. We’re in flight, like you, and from the same pursuers. If you have been offered shelter, couldn’t we receive the same?”
Raithe was stunned. He had imagined the conversation going differently. “It’s ah…it’s not my decision to make.” He turned to look at Persephone again. She blinked then nodded.
“It would appear the lady approves,” Raithe said. “Welcome to Dahl Rhen.”
“Wonderful.” Nyphron smiled. “Where is Maccus?”
“Maccus?”
“He’s the leader here, right?”
This time Persephone spoke from the shelter of the open gate. “Chieftain Maccus…was…that is…he is…dead. He’s been dead for, ah, seventy years, I think. He was my husband’s great-great-grandfather.”
“Oh,” Nyphron said. “Well, do you still make that marvelous wine? The pale red one, with a hint of nuts? I’ve boasted about it all the way here.”
“There was a vineyard once, up on the slope of the Horn Ridge,” Persephone said. “But it was lost to drought decades ago.”
Nyphron scowled. “Doesn’t anything in this place last?”
“Hardship,” Persephone replied. “We always have an abundance of that.”
The god looked directly at her. Their eyes met and he smiled. With a nod, he replied, “Well…at least you have that.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Tutor
There were seven clans of the Rhulyn-Rhunes and three for the Gula-Rhunes. Each clan had a chieftain. When it was necessary to unite, a single leader was named and we called him the keenig, which eventually became the word king. The Fhrey had tribes instead of clans and no chieftains. Instead, they had a single ruler who was called the fane.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The three stones clattered to the marble floor. One rolled toward Arion, who picked it up and handed the smooth egg-sized rock back to Mawyndulë. The fane’s son acted as if the little stone weighed a ton—every movement dramatizing extreme effort. Even his breathing appeared labored, each exhalation a long sigh. He stood before her, frowning, head bowed and shoulders slumped so that the sleeves of his asica slipped down and covered his hands.
“I can’t do it,” he told her.
“Try again,” Arion insisted.
“I don’t want to.”
The two were in the palace’s entrance hall, which Arion had chosen for its high ceiling. She’d chased away the servants to give them privacy, and it was there, before the grand staircase and among the lavish frescoes, tapestries, polished stone, and vases filled with flowering plants, that the two faced off in a battle of wills.
“I don’t care. Do it anyway.” Arion folded her arms in a gesture that should have ended the debate, but this was no typical student of the Art. Mawyndulë was the prince, the twenty-five-year-old son of Fane Lothian, and every one of those years had been spent isolated in the Talwara Palace. Surrounded by servants and those eager to curry favor, the prince had developed an inflated sense of himself.
He glared back defiantly, his anger unmistakable.
Most people wouldn’t risk antagonizing the son of the only Fhrey endowed by the god Ferrol with the power to kill or order the death of another of their kind. But being too lenient wouldn’t help Mawyndulë or the future of their people. After spending time with him, Arion was sure Fane Fenelyus wanted her grandson schooled in more than just the Art. And she was going to do exactly that.
You may be the prince, she thought, but I’ve lived more than two thousand years. Which well do you think goes deeper?
If she was going to teach him anything, she had to establish respect. As far as Arion knew, the only person Mawyndulë held any respect for, other than his father, was First Minister Gryndal. Not a surprise, Gryndal was a legend and held in awe by nearly every Miralyith.
Arion didn’t waiver. She stood with folded arms, staring directly back. After several minutes, the prince’s ire turned to bafflement. Servants who’d been with him since birth weren’t likely to lock eyes with him for long. This was only their third meeting, his second lesson, and the prince was testing her boundaries. Centuries of meditation and training gave her a considerable edge. Arion didn’t so much as blink. The prince struggled to mimic her resolve. The lad was stubborn if nothing else. That was good. It showed a strength of character. She could work with that.
In the stillness of their silent war, Arion could hear the rustle of leaves and the songs of birds entering an open window accompanied by a pleasant spring breeze. Deeper in the palace, she could make out the muffled music of the Estramnadon Choir practicing for their performance before the fane. She settled in for a long battle and focused on her breathing, each inhalation and exhalation evenly paced. Arion was just becoming comfortable when Mawyndulë’s glare wavered.
The prince huffed, and with a scowl picked the stones up again—two in one hand, one in the other. He threw the first, but with too much force. Arion was grateful she had insisted on practicing under the high ceiling of the entrance hall. Mawyndulë quickly threw the second stone, too quickly. The height and timing were both off.
Is he really so inept or feigning incompetence out of defiance?
The stones came down like projectiles, and Mawyndulë chose to dodge rather than catch. She didn’t criticize his reluctance. From such a height the rocks would hurt.
The stones hit the floor again with loud cracks.
“See!” Mawyndulë shouted, putting hands on hips. He pursed his lips so tightly that they went white.