Age of Swords Page 20

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Nightmare

  There are many lies spoken during a war, even more before one. That is how they start.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  The pitcher and glasses that Mawyndulë had smashed in the council chambers had been replaced. They looked identical to the old ones, and he wondered if his father had used the Art the way The Traitor once had and just reassembled the pieces. Sadly, the Art couldn’t reassemble his father’s attitude—his dusty attitude—into something sensible. A week had gone by since Mawyndulë’s outburst in the meeting, and his father hadn’t said a word—no lecture, no shouting, no punishment of any sort. The lack of action didn’t surprise Mawyndulë; his father was weak whether confronting his son or the murderers of Gryndal. The fane was weak, period. Everyone praised Lothian’s performance in the Carfreign during the challenge, but Mawyndulë still recalled how Gryndal had dealt with Rhunes on the frontier—simply a flick of his fingers, and five Rhune died in a burst of blood. That sent a better message. His father just didn’t understand.

  As before, Mawyndulë slouched deep in the chair while his father’s advisers sat seated around the big table. They were discussing…well, Mawyndulë had no idea what they were babbling about. He was trying his best to ignore them.

  A fly entered the room and landed on the Miralyith banner hanging high on the wall. Mawyndulë trapped it there with the Art, holding the tiny creature frozen to the cloth. He wondered what the fly was thinking. Could it think? Did it have the concept of a god? Did it wonder if it had offended one? If he let it live, the fly might return home and tell his fellow insects of the strange experience. It would likely feel as if it had been singled out for some grand purpose by the divine. What else could it think? It certainly couldn’t begin to fathom that a prince stuck in a council meeting had trapped it for a time simply out of boredom. Things happen for reasons. The fly must conclude this or else abandon all belief that it was the center of the universe. Out of pity—and the kindness born from Mawyndulë’s desire that the fly and its brethren would never discover how truly insignificant they were—he pressed his fingertips together. Across the room and nine feet up the wall, a tiny fly died an honorable, yet inconsequential, death.

  “…assassins to kill…”

  The word assassins brought Mawyndulë back to the conversation. When he’d last paid attention, Kabbayn had been babbling about a request from the Gwydry for more rain to help the faltering crops and a similar, but counter, request from the Eilywin for clear skies to help them meet the midsummer deadline for building the new temple to Ferrol. The latter was supported by the Umalyn, but the former—as Kabbayn put it—isn’t something you can go without. The debate had raged in monotonous voices. Mawyndulë was almost certain there had been some discussion about revenues, but he never listened when finances were brought up. He was certain that nothing was duller. Assassins, however, weren’t financial issues, unless his father was hiring some to kill Nyphron and The Traitor. Either way, they had his attention.

  “…you, my great fane,” Vasek finished.

  “How certain are you of this?” his father asked.

  “Fairly sure, my fane,” he replied. “I’m still investigating, but my sources are usually reliable.”

  The Rhunes are hiring assassins to kill my father?

  Mawyndulë thought of the fly’s family sending a killer after him. Both were equally unlikely.

  “I can’t believe it. This has to be a mistake, a silly rumor. Fhrey don’t kill Fhrey.”

  No, not Rhunes. The threat is coming from within?

  “If they feel justified in their belief, they might. There’s a great deal of concern right now about the Miralyith legacy. The other tribes are frightened that the Law of Ferrol might be suspended and the horn denied, or the right to challenge will become pointless, given the obvious outcome.”

  Lothian laughed. “Seriously? These people are concerning themselves with the next challenge already? The Uli Vermar isn’t for another three thousand years.”

  “Well, my fane…” Vasek hesitated with an awkward, uncomfortable expression. “Three thousand years or your death. And you aren’t so young anymore.”

  Lothian scowled, then sighed. “My mother lived too long.” He looked over at Mawyndulë. “But don’t get your hopes up. I still have another thousand years at least.”

  “A continued Miralyith reign is exactly what the subordinate tribes are worried about.”

  “If that’s so, an assassination wouldn’t help anything,” his father said. “Even if they were successful, Mawyndulë would take the Forest Throne, and even with his meager skills in the Art, he could easily defeat the best challenger from any other tribe. They will still be ruled by a member of the Miralyith.”

  Meager skills?

  “Perhaps assassination would be used as a deterrent,” Vasek said. “What if every Miralyith who took the Forest Throne were killed? Would Miralyith stop petitioning and leave the field to others? The horn makes all challenges a fair fight, but a goblet of poison? A knife in the back? These are difficult for even a Miralyith to survive, are they not?”

  “And they would do this knowing Ferrol would reject them? That they would be cast out of the afterlife and Fhrey society? They would be isolated from everyone, even their ancestors.”

  “As I said, if one feels the sacrifice is worth it, if one thinks there is no other way, it is entirely possible.”

  “You’re saying the other tribes are planning to kill my father?” Mawyndulë asked.

  Everyone turned and looked. Each had the same expression of surprise, as if none had remembered he was there.

  “We don’t know anything for certain, my prince,” Vasek said with an unaccustomed tone of sympathy in his voice.

  The Master of Secrets obviously presumed Mawyndulë cared about his father’s well-being, which made Mawyndulë question the wisdom of his title.

  “You don’t need to worry,” Lothian assured him. “The tribes have no understanding of the Art. If they did, they wouldn’t dream of such things. The Talwara is well protected.”

  “The fane’s food is cleaned by a Miralyith,” Vasek explained. “All doors and windows are sealed by the Art each night, and only those assigned residency may enter these walls. Besides, I expect to get to the bottom of these rumors quite soon, and then we can eliminate those responsible.”

  “My fane?” Vidar spoke up. He had arrived near the end of the meeting as he usually did. His only reason for coming was to learn what, if any, direction the fane might wish to relay to the Aquila. “The meeting is about to convene, your son and I—”

  “Yes, yes.” Lothian swept his fingers at them. “Be off. Be off.”

  “If I may, my fane.” Vasek held up a hand to stop them. “Should these rumors prove true, the safest and easiest solution would be to calm any fears that might lead to such an act. Vidar needs to continue to assure the other tribes that they all have a voice within the Aquila and that there are no plans to change that dynamic. It may help to ease tensions until I can learn more.”

  The fane nodded his agreement.

  “I shall do my best, as always, my fane,” Vidar said to Lothian.

  Then without so much as a look, Vidar walked out, leaving Mawyndulë to chase behind.

  —

  Mawyndulë’s second Aquila meeting was more boring than the first, perhaps more tedious than anything could be. Makareta wasn’t there. He looked repeatedly until Vidar shot him a glare. The topic being discussed wasn’t the assassination possibility, but rather the drainage of the tea fields. At one point, Vidar kicked Mawyndulë’s foot in order to wake him, but no matter how hard Mawyndulë tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes open or his head raised. The second kick was harder than the first. The third time made him cry out.

  Mawyndulë had been lost in a nightmare where an assassin was stalking him through an unfamiliar section of the Talwara, which was strange because he knew every inch. The killer had alrea
dy murdered his father and was giving chase down endless corridors. The would-be butcher was a huge shadow that leapt out quite suddenly. Mawyndulë tried to scream, but couldn’t. He tried to summon the Art, but nothing happened. He then resorted to running, but the killer got a grip on Mawyndulë’s leg, squeezing until it hurt.

  When he woke, it was less the pain of Vidar kicking him and more the terror of the nightmare that caused him to scream. Regardless of the origin, the result was catastrophic. Everyone in the chamber stopped and looked at him in shock. Vidar appeared the most surprised of all as he leaned away, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

  “Pay attention, you little fool!” Vidar snapped.

  Maybe Vidar hadn’t meant to speak as loud as he did, but there was no doubt everyone in the chamber heard. Unfortunately, this included a lovely Miralyith with kitten eyes sitting in the gallery’s front row. Makareta had apparently showed up too late to keep Mawyndulë awake, but just in time for his most humiliating experience since The Traitor had stopped him from ending the life of the God Killer.

  Mawyndulë’s castigation didn’t end there. After the Aquila adjourned, Vidar reprimanded him further. He did so far more quietly, but by then Mawyndulë wasn’t concerned with volume so much as speed. He wanted to catch Makareta on her way out, and ask her if they could go somewhere before the meeting. He was hoping she would tell him where she lived. Instead, Mawyndulë was trapped, listening to a lecture from a second-rate Miralyith.

  “Your father will hear about this, but that should be the least of your worries,” Vidar said, and Mawyndulë realized who the shadow in his dream had been—a more frightening version of the senior councilor with fangs and claws. “You’ve tarnished not only your reputation in this esteemed body, but mine as well.”

  Vidar stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Listen, you little shite, your father might not care about the impression you make, but I refuse to be embarrassed by your behavior. While we are in this chamber, you do what I say, and that means paying attention and minding your manners.”

  Mawyndulë was stunned, but not so much so that he would assume a subservient role from a lesser Miralyith. He was the prince after all. “Why should I?”

  Vidar smiled then, and when he did, the senior councilor really did look like the thing from the nightmare. “Politics, my boy. You might be Lothian’s son, but trust me, I can ruin you. I’ll make everyone in this city hate you, including your own father.”

  “And when I become fane, I’ll have you executed.”

  “I’m twenty-seven hundred years old, boy. I won’t live long enough to give you the satisfaction. You, on the other hand, will have to live with the soiled reputation for the rest of your long life. Think about that the next time your actions could make a fool of me.”

  Mawyndulë hadn’t been trying to embarrass the senior councilor, but at that moment, he preferred that Vidar thought he had. The old fool walked out, leaving Mawyndulë under the great dome of Caratacus and Gylindora—the basket weaver.

  When Mawyndulë turned to leave, he realized he hadn’t been completely alone. Imaly was still seated in her center chair, watching him, her old fish eyes peering in a sickening fashion.

  “That didn’t go so well, did it?” she said, her hands clasped in her lap. She hadn’t spoken loudly, but the dome amplified her voice as if she were a Miralyith using a sound-enhancing weave.

  Mawyndulë shook his head.

  “Vidar is an ass,” she said so plainly that it stunned him. “Some aspire to these seats to better serve their fellow Fhrey. Some feel called, others obligated. People like Vidar do it for the prestige and the respect the position usually bestows. But he doesn’t understand that respect isn’t something you get from a position, or even from past achievements. Respect has to be earned, and re-earned, with every single person you meet. Vidar never learned that lesson, and as a result, he has never found the regard he so dearly craves, even from a pup like you. It gnaws at him, this feeling that he should be bowed to when he’s laughed at instead.”

  “I didn’t do it to make people laugh at him. I just fell asleep and had a nightmare.”

  “Doesn’t matter. In his mind, you did it on purpose, and people have been laughing at him his whole life. They haven’t, of course, any more than you intentionally tried to embarrass him. But like all of us, he sees what he looks for, and after twenty-seven hundred years he has certain expectations.”

  She got up and walked toward him. As she did, she glanced up toward the gallery behind Mawyndulë’s head. He quickly spun, thinking Makareta might be there, that she might have come back in, but the rows were still empty.

  Imaly smiled at him. “Mawyndulë,” she said gently, kindly, “you’re young. I know you don’t think you are, but you’re still very much a child. Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way. This isn’t about you personally. I think anyone under a thousand shouldn’t be allowed outside without a guardian.” She chuckled. “You need to be more guarded. You’re the prince. You will inherit the Forest Throne, and if you survive the challenge, you will be fane. There are many people who would like to harness the power you will one day wield.”

  “Apparently not Vidar.”

  “Like I said, Vidar is an ass, but he’s only an ass.”

  His grin grew wider. He liked it when she berated Vidar.

  “There are others far more ambitious, far more sinister than he. Just remember that the one you see isn’t nearly so dangerous as the ones you can’t.”

  She looked up at the gallery once more then walked out, leaving him alone beneath the steady gaze of Caratacus and Gylindora.

  —

  Mawyndulë arrived early at the Rose Bridge and sat on a big rock at the top of the bank, near where the span met the ground. He liked it there, perched high like a hawk on a cliff’s edge. Sitting in the twilight, he could see the water of the Shinara flowing by.

  He rarely spent time alone. In his youth, there was a staff that saw to his needs: maids, nurses, cooks, entertainers. The older he became the smaller the staff, but he would still have had a tutor if the last one hadn’t turned traitor and Gryndal hadn’t died. He expected his father to appoint a new instructor, but he hadn’t yet. The lack suited Mawyndulë just fine. He’d never liked lessons and enjoyed the free time, time to be alone, time to think, time to live.

  A yellowed leaf floated along the river like a tiny boat, spinning in the breeze, gliding over the ripples as if weightless. Watching it, Mawyndulë felt certain there was a greater truth in that otherwise insignificant leaf, perhaps because it was insignificant. Everyone knew mountains and skies were majestic, and worthy of observance, but no one ever bothered to look at a leaf. Yet there was a beauty there, a simple purity. Billions of them torn free from their homes and scattered by the wind, yet each—like the one on the river—was unique, its path different from any other. What an adventure it must be having, riding the water to lands unknown. He spotted more leaves, some greener than others, traveling downstream as well. Watching them pass, Mawyndulë felt wiser, more profound, because he alone appreciated the value of a leaf drifting on a stream.

  People began to arrive just after dark. That was the point. The meeting was meant to be secret. He hadn’t fully understood that the first time, but things made more sense now. The other tribes were suspicious of the Miralyith and looking for excuses to revolt. An open meeting of so many Miralyith would be seen as a threat.

  He didn’t recognize anyone at first, just nameless faces who hauled in wine and set out blankets. Many had baskets of food to share. Mawyndulë remained on his perch. Few noticed; when someone did, he smiled and they smiled back. Most sat and talked softly among themselves, and for a brief moment Mawyndulë saw them as the leaves on the river, all unique, all adrift on powerful currents they were helpless to control. And in that instant he realized that if this were true, he, too, must be a leaf.

  The thought evaporated with the arrival of Makareta.

  She didn’t co
me with Aiden as he’d expected. She was with two others whom he didn’t recognize. Maybe he’d seen them the previous week, but a lot of his memory of that night was fuzzy. When she spotted him, she grinned. He hoped she would come up to his ledge, hoped that he might have her all to himself, but pivoting on her left heel, she turned and waved for him to come down. By the time he had, she was holding out a cup of wine.

  “You came back,” she said with a giddy, childish bounce that made him happy.

  “I said I would.”

  “Orlene, Tandur, this is Mawyndulë, son of Fane Lothian.”

  Orlene was older, taller than Makareta. She actually wore her cloak and had the hood up, giving her a mysterious allure. Tandur held his cloak draped over one arm, and while his head was Miralyith-bald, he had a patch of neatly trimmed beard on his chin and just under his lower lip.

  “I saw you in the Airenthenon today,” Makareta said.

  He cringed on the inside, expecting some comment about falling asleep, the outburst, or Vidar’s reprimand, but that was all she said. He didn’t know why he didn’t leave it there. Mawyndulë told himself he should, but he realized he wanted to talk about it. “That whole deliberation about field irrigation was so monotonous.” He rolled his eyes. “I just couldn’t stay awake.”

  “It really was dull,” she offered.

  “Vidar kicked me. That’s why I shouted.”

  “He kicked you?” The tone of indignation in her voice made him smile. “He actually kicked you?”

  Mawyndulë nodded and took a sip of his drink, which tasted even better than the wine he’d had the week before.

  “Well, no wonder you shouted. And then he had the nerve to yell at you!” She sounded outraged.

  “He’s always doing stuff like that. And afterward, he threatened me.”

  “What?” she exploded, those already big eyes even larger.

  This caught the attention of those around them, who gathered to hear. One was Aiden, whom Mawyndulë hadn’t seen arrive, but who joined their little circle, which was quickly becoming the center of the meeting.