Age of Swords Page 9

  “Fane?” Mawyndulë ventured, without even realizing he had added yet another question.

  “Imaly is a direct descendant of Gylindora Fane.” Vidar paused, then looked at him. “You do know Gylindora was the first fane, yes?”

  Mawyndulë rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could. “I know that,” he said, stretching out each word to properly demonstrate his annoyance.

  Vidar did grin derisively at him then.

  “This fifth meeting of the Aquila in the Age of Lothian is hereby called to order,” someone said in a deep voice, and Mawyndulë leaned forward to peer down. The speaker was a tall, thin fellow holding a huge staff. “May our lord Ferrol grant us wisdom.”

  “His Greatness, Fane Lothian, will not be with us today, as he is still dealing with issues at Avempartha,” Imaly said. She remained sitting, addressing the audience with legs crossed at the knee. The top foot bounced slightly under the long folds of her asica. “His son, however, is here, and I’d like everyone to please welcome our newest member, Prince Mawyndulë—junior councilor for the Miralyith.”

  Everyone, including Imaly, began applauding.

  “Stand up,” Vidar said sternly.

  Mawyndulë pushed hurriedly to his feet, so quickly he nearly fell headlong over the rail. This brought a scowl and shake of Vidar’s head.

  One more reason to hate you, Mawyndulë thought. He did, however, like the applause. Something about the dome made the clapping of just twenty-some people sound rich, full, and satisfying. He was smiling before he knew it, a broad, tooth-filled grin. He’d never been applauded before. People always clapped when Mawyndulë was with his father, but never just for him. The sound, and all the smiling eyes, made him feel buoyant in a way he’d never experienced before.

  The moment was over all too soon. The clapping stopped, and Vidar tugged on Mawyndulë’s sleeve as if he didn’t trust the prince to know enough to resume his seat.

  All the faces turned back to the Curator then—all but one.

  She sat in the third tier—the row where those not dressed in purple and white were relegated. Young, and displaying the immaculately bald head of a Miralyith, she continued to smile at him long after the others had turned their attention back to Imaly. Mawyndulë looked away, feeling uncomfortable. He wasn’t accustomed to being stared at; he wasn’t accustomed to being seen. He’d spent most of his life in the Talwara alone with servants, who were far too busy to pay attention to him.

  At first, he thought the girl was about his age, but then he decided she was probably older; almost everyone was. Births were so rare that they were greeted with citywide celebrations.

  “…resulting in a surplus of acorns and mint tea,” Imaly was saying, but Mawyndulë hadn’t been listening. He was still thinking about the girl in the third tier.

  Is she still looking? It felt like it. Funny how he could almost feel the stare, like an itch on the side of his face, making his cheek hot. He had to look. He performed the most modest of glances.

  She was still focused on him. Her big, wide eyes were as cute as a kitten’s. And at that moment, she was biting her lower lip in a manner that made his stomach feel odd, sort of light and fluttery.

  Mawyndulë heard a humph. Vidar was scowling at him and took that moment to fold his arms in a severe manner.

  Mawyndulë looked back toward the center of the room, to the chair, which was now empty. Imaly was walking in slow thoughtful steps before the spectators.

  “…no, I’m afraid not,” she said as if answering someone’s question, and she may have been. Mawyndulë, who’d entered the Airenthenon with noble intentions of listening closely to the concerns of the day, found himself lost in deafening thoughts about the girl in the third tier. At least he was until he heard Imaly say, “…former First Minister Gryndal.”

  His head snapped around, and he fixed his attention on the Curator.

  “By all accounts the assault was less than successful. Seers report that neither Arion nor Nyphron was so much as scratched. As for the God Killer, they saw a Rhune with a copper sword on his back and a Fhrey sword in his belt, so I’m guessing he wasn’t harmed, either. Mawyndulë, does that description fit with your recollection of the Rhune known as Raithe?” she asked him directly. “The one who killed Gryndal?”

  “Yes,” he replied, not certain if he was expected to stand before speaking.

  Imaly hesitated a moment, as if anticipating he’d say more. Then she went on, still walking with her hands clasped behind her. “The Grenmorians were slaughtered, and only a few escaped. Despite the surprise of the attack and the disarray caused by the storm, the Galantians weren’t shaken. I had predicted as much when I voted against the action.”

  “What is being done now?” Volhoric asked. Mawyndulë knew him from many holiday celebrations. Being the leader of the Umalyn tribe, he was the Conservator of the Horn, and he officiated at all religious events. Although not a Miralyith, the priest was completely bald. Mawyndulë decided he didn’t hate him. Volhoric had a quirky sense of humor that Mawyndulë appreciated, and the priest could usually be counted on to smile at most things. At that moment, however, he wasn’t smiling. No one was. “Is that why the fane is still at Avempartha? Will there be another attempt?”

  “I don’t know,” Imaly said in her brash voice. “His Greatness has not included me in his thoughts on this matter. Perhaps his son can tell us more?”

  Again, Mawyndulë felt many sets of eyes, and his cheeks burned.

  Vidar shot to his feet. “His son is here to observe…for the present. But I’m sure that the fane will not rest until these rebels are brought to Ferrol’s justice.”

  “Such good news.” Imaly smiled gently at Mawyndulë, then turned to the senior councilor. “Vidar, as senior representative of your tribe, could you enlighten this esteemed body on how a primitive village and a handful of Instarya managed to defeat the might of the Miralyith?”

  “I can’t say I care for your tone or insinuation,” Vidar shot back.

  Imaly lifted her eyebrows in surprise. The response was just a tad overdone to be sincere.

  “Might I ask what tone you would like me to use? One of greater disappointment and surprise, perhaps? Oh, wait. No, that doesn’t work, does it? I distinctly recall being the one to say the attack was a bad idea. So surprise wouldn’t be appropriate, would it? How about dismay? How about despair at how easily those who defy this assembly’s advice stand here and pretend to be insulted when an explanation is requested?”

  “The fane isn’t accountable to this assembly,” Vidar shouted with indignation.

  Imaly stretched her thin smile. “And you are not the fane.” She turned to face the rest of the members, throwing out an arm in a sweeping gesture. “Or are you claiming the title in his absence, and Lothian is simply tardy in sending us the good news?”

  This brought a muffled bit of laughter, most of it coming from the third tier.

  Despite her ugliness and her large brutish body with its ungraceful movements, Mawyndulë enjoyed seeing Imaly belittle Vidar. He also hoped the girl in the third tier was one of those who laughed.

  Vidar said nothing. He stood rigid, making fists with his bony hands.

  “I hope the fane isn’t intending to repeat such a performance,” Imaly went on in his silence. “One humiliation should be more than enough for anyone to learn from. Don’t you think, Vidar?”

  —

  The rest of the meeting was too boring for Mawyndulë to process. He heard what was said, even understood some of it, but instantly forgot it all once the doors to the Airenthenon finally opened. When the light of the day spilled into the stone cave, Mawyndulë felt he could breathe again. His excitement at being a member of the grand council had been replaced with the dread that he’d have to do this again in less than a week. The idea depressed him.

  He had imagined the Aquila as an exciting place of grand debates on the nature of the world. He saw himself arguing eloquently about how the Miralyith should be r
ecognized as a distinct and superior race, separate from the general Fhrey population, much as Gryndal had believed. He would, by virtue of his logic and poetry, convince everyone of this sensible course. Instead, the grand total of his first day’s impressive elocution was a single word, yes.

  He lingered near the door as the attendees, including Vidar, streamed out and down the steps. His Aquila tutor was no longer in the mood for lessons, and Mawyndulë caught just a flash of the senior councilor’s robes as out the door he went.

  Mawyndulë looked up toward the third tier, already emptied. She wasn’t there.

  He sighed and plodded toward the exit, nearly walking into Imaly. She was even bigger face-to-face, a good two inches taller than he was.

  Was Gylindora Fane that tall? No wonder she took charge of the seven tribes. No, six tribes—he mentally corrected himself. The Miralyith hadn’t existed back then. They came later.

  “I hope you enjoyed your first day with us,” Imaly said in a pleasant, friendly voice—so different from the booming one she’d used when addressing the assembly. “It’s not always as boring as this. Sometimes it’s fun. Extremely fun.” She spoke the last word as if referring to something in particular, and that it wasn’t actually fun but something more sinister. She didn’t bother to explain, but proceeded as if he already knew. He didn’t, but Mawyndulë appreciated that Imaly wasn’t talking down to him the way Vidar did, as if he was an idiot or a burden. She spoke as if they shared secrets, even if he had no idea what those might be.

  “Don’t let Vidar ruin you,” she said. “Stand up for yourself. You might be young, but you’re still Lothian’s son, and quite possibly the next fane. Remember that and the fact that Vidar will never forget it, either.” She grinned at him.

  He felt she was saying more than her words suggested. He could see Imaly was the sort of person who did that—who spoke in innuendo, a complex language he wouldn’t always understand and maybe wasn’t supposed to.

  Mawyndulë smiled back. The moment he did, he squashed his lips into a forced frown. He didn’t want to like the big, ugly lady with fish eyes. She wasn’t Miralyith. She wasn’t his equal. In all likelihood, she was his enemy and the enemy to his aspirations. He didn’t need her to remind him he would be the next fane—and what did she mean by quite possibly? There wasn’t any possibly about it. He was the prince. And when his father died—and his father was already old—Mawyndulë would sit on the Forest Throne. He didn’t need her to tell him this.

  “You’ll be just fine,” she assured him. “See you next week.” She offered him a wink, and once again, he wondered if there was a hidden meaning in that last bit, as if perhaps next week would never come, or he wouldn’t live to see it, or maybe she would end up blind and unable to see him. He found speaking with Imaly exhausting.

  He nodded and ducked out the door, following behind the oldest and slowest councilors. The elderly wave of purple and white spilled down the steps of the Airenthenon. Some were caught up into conversation by small waiting groups. Mawyndulë recognized most of them, but he didn’t know a single name. They all knew him, of course. Everyone in Estramnadon had filed past his crib, or visited the Talwara over the last few years to see the new heir to the Forest Throne. And they all knew one another because they were centuries old. Mawyndulë was a sapling in an ancient forest. Still, he was the prince, and one day he would rule. But at that moment, he felt like a foreigner, an outsider looking at a world he didn’t know.

  Alone, he descended the steps to the ancient interlocking stones of Florella Plaza. Artists displayed examples of their work: statues of animals, glass sculptures as delicate as moths’ wings, and breathtaking paintings of the sweeping frontier. A group of landscapes near the Fountain of Lon caught Mawyndulë’s attention, and he went over to examine a particularly large image.

  The painting depicted a dramatic view of Mount Mador, caught in the light of a setting sun. The image was bold, passionate, emotionally stirring—and also a lie. Mawyndulë had stood at the same vantage point as the artist. He’d seen the view, and the pinnacle didn’t look anything like the picture. There were no bright oranges and deep purples, no gold ridges on the slopes. And while the mountain was large and impressive, it wasn’t that big. Not to mention, the clouds didn’t swirl so dramatically. Everything was embellished for effect. Looking at it, Mawyndulë thought the artist managed the opposite of their intention. The lurid colors and exaggerated size cheapened the truth, replacing grandeur with garishness.

  “Hello.” He heard a soft voice and turned.

  His muscles froze and rooted him in place. He was face-to-face with the girl from the third tier. She stood within arm’s length, smiling at him, and just as pretty up close. Prettier even.

  “That’s mine.” She pointed at the painting. “Do you like it?”

  He nodded, his mind searching for his voice. “Yes…much…ah very much. It’s…it’s wonderful. Amazing really.”

  Her smile grew bigger and brighter.

  Mawyndulë’s heart began to gallop. He could feel it throbbing and worried it might be noticed under the layers of his asica.

  “I wasn’t actually there,” she admitted. “I borrowed from other paintings.”

  “I was,” he said.

  “I know. Did it look like this? Do you think I captured it?”

  “Absolutely. Better than absolutely. Better than perfect. You improved on perfection. Really.” Mawyndulë tried not to listen to himself. He knew he was babbling. His fingers trembled, and he was starting to sweat.

  Again she smiled, and his stomach became buoyant, feeling the way it did when he went swimming. Actually, no—more than that—he felt a tad nauseous, but in an impossibly pleasant way.

  “I’m Makareta.”

  “I’m Mawyndulë.”

  She laughed a short, light sound. “Of course you are. Everyone knows you.” Her smile disappeared, and a worry wrinkle appeared over her eyes. “Is it okay for me to talk to you? I mean, is that allowed?”

  He didn’t know what she meant.

  “I wouldn’t have, except you were looking at my painting. I thought…” She turned away with troubled eyes. “Maybe I should just stop talking now.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be all right?”

  Her brows went up. “You’re the fane’s son, and a council member of the Aquila, an important person. I’m…well…I’m nobody.”

  Mawyndulë was stunned that such an amazing girl as Makareta—a Miralyith—could see herself as a nobody, but he did like that she considered him too important to speak to.

  “You’re Miralyith, aren’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “Then how could you be nobody?”

  “I’m not important, not like you. I’m just—”

  “All Miralyith are important.”

  She smiled again. He liked making her smile, and he managed it so easily. Up close, she was dazzling. He would’ve likened her blue eyes to pools of water, or fiery gems, or the endless skies, if any of those things had been remotely as beautiful.

  “You sound like friends of mine,” she said. “They go on and on about how the Miralyith are the chosen ones of Ferrol. The Blessed Ones, they call us. Why else would Ferrol give us such gifts? They chide me when I struggle to accept my own position, my birthright.”

  “These friends sound very wise.”

  “A lot of Miralyith our age feel that way. Would you like to meet them? We’re having a gathering next week on the first night of the new moon, under the Rose Bridge in the north end of the city.”

  “Under the bridge? Why there?”

  She paused and looked around them. Lowering her voice, she said, “Not everyone would appreciate the things we talk about.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “Come and find out.” She looked down at her feet a moment, then back up at him. “If nothing else, it would be nice seeing you again.”

  Mawyndulë couldn’t argue with that. He gave her a nonchalant shrug, but in
his mind, he was already making plans to find the bridge.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Road to Tirre

  So I had this idea. A crazy one—or so I thought at the time. I did not have a clue what I was doing. No one else did, either. That is how it was at the beginning, and maybe it always is like that at the start of great things.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Roan checked the carts as she had every morning, afternoon, and night since they set out from Dahl Rhen. She crawled underneath each broad wooden bed and looked at where the axle passed through the wheels to make certain it wasn’t shearing. The long wooden poles had developed deep, splintered grooves, and the weight was taking a toll, but they were still holding up. Persephone had packed the carts solid. All the grain, slabs of smoked meat, barrels of water and beer, tools, weapons, wool, and even the stone figure of Mari bounced along, riding in style. Roan prayed the carts would last the trip. It’d be her fault if they didn’t. The stress made eating impossible, and walking all day without food made her dizzy.

  The procession had stopped, and the midday meal was being prepared. All around, people were gathered in small groups. Roan wasn’t a social person. She’d spent most of her life trapped in a little roundhouse with Iver, who didn’t let her go out and punished her for speaking with others. She’d learned early, and painfully, that it wasn’t wise to defy him. So, while Roan found most everything in the world intriguing, she shunned people. Now that Iver was dead, this was more out of habit than need, but old ways were familiar ways—safe ways—and Roan had become an expert at hiding from the world.

  Still, the dwarfs fascinated her. Their metal shirts, fashioned from hundreds of tiny rings, were amazing. And the things they know! They’d called what she’d built wheels and carts—giving names to her ideas as if they had known what was in her head before she did. One of them had helped her build the axles, another new word. He called himself Rain. He was the one who brought her copper and tin that he’d dug down to—something she’d never thought of doing. And with it, he suggested making something he called bushings, reinforcements on the axles to protect the area of rubbing to prevent the wooden poles from being sawed in half.