Age of Myth (The Legends of the First Empire #1)

“Ow,” Sarah said with a sympathetic grimace. “That looked painful.” Her wise, motherly tone spoke about more than the pain of a finger.

With a curious sort of mental hiccup, Persephone remembered that Sarah had been there when the ring was placed on her hand. Most marriages were informal and gradually built over time. The only public declaration came when a couple began sharing the same roof or a child was born. But Persephone had married a chieftain, which required a formal ceremony, and Sarah, her closest friend, had stood beside her. The ring and the torc were the badges of the Second Chair’s office. But in Persephone’s mind, the silver band had always been the symbol of Reglan’s love.

Persephone nodded and tried not to cry. She’d done enough of that already, and her eyes and nose throbbed from rubbing.

After the death of her husband and with no son to inherit his father’s position, Persephone was expected to leave the lodge to make way for the new chieftain and his family. More than a hundred years had passed since a chieftain’s wife had failed in her most important responsibility: bearing a child who lived to assume the First Chair. Maeve, the Keeper of Ways, had been consulted, and she decreed that Konniger, Reglan’s Shield, would assume the position. There might be challengers, so the matter wasn’t officially settled. But no matter who prevailed, Persephone’s fate would be the same; she had nowhere to go.

Sarah had been there for her twenty years before, and she once again stood by Persephone’s side, offering a place to live. From the outside, all roundhouses were as identical as the materials and land allowed. On the inside, Sarah’s was by far the most welcoming. Filled with animal-hide rugs, baskets, a spinning wheel, a sophisticated loom, and a huge bed covered in furs, it offered a comforting respite. An open-hearth fire in the center of the floor kept the space warm. Without a chimney, a thick layer of smoke hovered at the peak of the cone-shaped thatched roof. Its slow escape dried herbs and cured meat and fish hanging from the rafters.

Part of the coziness came from the piles of wool, thread, yarn, and the stacks of folded cloth that provided softness. But what made this roundhouse special were the walls—or wall—as roundhouses had only one. The interior was plastered in daub, and designs of great beauty had been painted by Sarah’s daughter, Brin. Some were as simple as charcoal outlines of little hands; others were circles and swirls of yellow and orange paint. A few were complex illustrations of people and events. Even the logs framing the entryway, not to mention the door itself, displayed celestial swirls and stars. The circular wall of Sarah’s home was a marvel of artistic wonder.

“I can’t believe I forgot to take it off.” Persephone held out the ring. “Would you mind returning this to the lodge?”

Sarah took it and nodded, offering pitying eyes. Persephone didn’t want to be pitied. She’d always seen her role as an example to her people and found herself ill suited to the role of woeful widow.

“No, wait.” Persephone stopped her. “I should be the one to give it to Tressa. It will look like I disapprove if I don’t.”

“Might not be Tressa,” Sarah said. She walked to the door and peered out. “Holliman has challenged Konniger. They’re getting ready to fight now.”

“Holliman?” Persephone said, confused. “Are you serious?”

Persephone joined her friend at the door. The front of Sarah’s home faced the little grassy patch of open space before the lodge steps, which the dahl’s residents used for outdoor gatherings. Between the burning braziers in front of the stone statue of Mari, the two men checked the straps on their wooden shields, each armed with an ax.

“It’s not like he doesn’t stand any chance.” Sarah held the door open as the two looked out.

“Holliman is only a huntsman,” Persephone said. “Konniger has been Reglan’s Shield for years.”

“He’s big.”

“Konniger is bigger.”

“Not by much. And there’s more to combat than size. There’s speed and—”

“Experience?” Persephone stared at Sarah as she let the door close. “I guess it’s good that the matchup is so one-sided, Konniger won’t have to kill Holliman. He’ll yield quickly. We can’t afford to lose such a talented hunter.”

The door jerked open, and Sarah’s daughter entered. “Sorry I’m late.”

Brin was tall for her age, most of the height in her legs, and in many ways she was a ganglier version of her mother. Sarah possessed a tiny nose and an easy smile, and although not particularly beautiful, she’d always been remarkably cute. Both braided their hair, or more likely Sarah braided both, the obvious choice in style given that Sarah was the dahl’s most talented weaver.

The girl flopped on the bed and sighed heavily.

“Something wrong?” Sarah asked.

“It’s Maeve. She’s crazy and being stupid.”

“Brin!” her mother scolded.

“I mean, I don’t know how she expects me to learn everything down to the emphasis on words and the order of lists of names.”

“Maeve is an extremely talented and capable Keeper.”

“But she’s old,” Brin said.

“So am I. So is Seph, and I can assure you we aren’t crazy.”

“Okay, but if you’re old, she’s ancient, and definitely losing her mind.” Brin bounced up to a sitting position and crossed her legs. “It’s insane to think a person can remember that much detail. Who cares if Hagen comes after Doden in the list of men slain at the Battle of Glenmoor?”

“I know it must be difficult keeping everything straight,” Sarah told her. “But you shouldn’t blame your failures on others. You won’t be Keeper that way. You need to pay better attention.”

“But…” Brin frowned and folded her arms.

“Your mother is right,” Persephone said. “Being a Keeper isn’t only about remembering the stories; it’s an important responsibility. It’s crucial that you know the customs and laws. I realize you find details such as when to plant which crops boring, but those are the kinds of things that determine whether everyone lives or dies. That’s why Keepers are so revered.”

“I know, but…” Brin looked hurt and turned away.

Persephone sighed. “Brin, I’m sorry. I’m just…listen, you’ll make a fine Keeper, but you’re still young. You’re only fifteen and have plenty of time to learn. You need to listen to Maeve, do as she says, and don’t argue. If she gets frustrated, she’ll pick someone else.”

“Which wouldn’t be so awful,” Sarah said. “You could get back to learning the loom.”

“Mother, please!” Brin rolled her eyes, then got up and reached for the empty water gourd.

“Well, you were the one pointing out how old I am. I’m going to need someone to take over when I’m too feeble.”

“I didn’t say you are old. I said Maeve is old—then I clarified that she is ancient. You were the one who brought up your age.”

“Pretty good memory,” Persephone said.

Brin flashed her a mischievous grin.

“You’re supposed to be on my side, Seph,” Sarah told her, then turned to her daughter. “Your grandmother, Brinhilda, taught me her secrets to making Rhen cloth, and—”

“And you hated it,” Brin said. “You despised how Dad’s mother forced you to work at it for hours at a time.”

“Of course I did. I was a stubborn young lady like you, but I did it. I learned, and it’s a good thing, too. Otherwise, you and half the dahl would be standing here naked, and what would we do with the wool your father shears?”

“Being a Keeper is important, as well. Persephone just said so, and she’s the Second Cha—” Brin stopped herself and covered her mouth, looking as if she’d accidentally stepped on a newborn chick.

“It’s okay,” Persephone told her. She rubbed the empty place where the ring used to be. “We all have changes to get used to.”

The clangs of battle erupted outside as the fight commenced. A curse was followed by a grunt. Then came the gasp of spectators followed by cheers, boos, and the thud of ax on shield. Brin rushed toward the door, but her mother caught her by the wrist. “You don’t need to see.”