Age of Empyre, page 15
part #6 of Legends of the First Empire Series
Imaly walked around her chair and gripped the back of it with both hands, speaking to them over its top. “To fill this seat, a Nilyndd was chosen. Not a powerful Instarya warrior, nor even a pious Umalyn, but a lowly basket weaver from the crafters’ tribe. The lowest of us was understood to be the best choice because she had no vanity, no sense of superiority.” Imaly revealed an inner humor that spilled onto her lips in a modest smile. “Except in her basket weaving, about which I was told she was unbearably conceited.” In a normal meeting of the Aquila, this bit of humor might have elicited laughter. That night the best it raised was appreciative smiles.
Imaly let her arms fall away from the chair. “The true talent and success of Gylindora was wholly due to her ability to see all Fhrey as her family. Her fairness and understanding are what allowed her to establish Estramnadon and this council. She understood that she needed help to govern. More recent fanes have forgotten that—the ones who never had the benefit of having woven baskets.”
The Curator moved around to the front of her chair. “The spirit of Gylindora Fane no longer sits on the Forest Throne. As a result, our people face annihilation. We who once ruled the known world have been brought low out of arrogance, pride, and our own crippling traditions.” She said this while looking at Volhoric.
The high priest frowned and shifted uneasily in his seat.
“The laws Caratacus brought to us along with the divine horn were given and accepted as a means to save us from ourselves. Now those very laws may be our undoing. Blind adherence is foolhardy at best and at this point suicidal.” She clapped her hands against her thighs. “Fane Lothian is killing us. First, he refused to allow the Instarya to have a voice in this august body. He maintained the entire tribe’s banishment and killed their leader in a despicable manner. This was a message not just to the Instarya, but to all of us. The fane wanted to demonstrate that the spirit of Gylindora Fane was dead, her horn no longer needed to be blown, for only the Miralyith would sit on that woody throne from now on. Out of his arrogance, he elevated his tribe above all others, sowing mistrust and dissent. When the Rhunes discovered that the Miralyith were not gods, he sought to destroy them.” She sighed, bowed her head, and then lifted it to address those assembled. “Well, that didn’t work out so well, did it? Everyone here knows the pain of losing someone who died during Lothian’s needless war with the Rhunes. There was a time, not so long ago, when Death was a stranger, a rare and bewildering visitor. Now it lingers in every shadow, every song unsung, each silenced set of footsteps. We all sat here and listened as Fane Lothian told us how the death of Amidea would save us. Instead, she died in vain. She died for nothing, and the blood was on his own hands. Now our fane has ordered Miralyith families to be ripped apart. To create his dragons, he is forcing mothers to kill their children, husbands to execute their wives, and friends to kill friends. What kind of insanity condones the murder of the ones we love?
“The enemy that threatens to destroy us is not being held at bay on the banks of the Nidwalden. He sits on the Forest Throne.”
She sighed again and once more clasped her hands before her. “We can be foolhardy, or we can be as brave as a basket weaver.”
Imaly sat down, and a silence allowed the sound of the winter wind to enter the chamber.
Then Makareta stood up. “You’ll need a Miralyith to fight other Miralyith,” she said, “and everyone knows how I feel about the fane. I’ll do whatever is needed, but I don’t think I can handle Synne, Sile, and Lothian by myself.”
Imaly appeared to consider this, and Mawyndulë was lost in the surreality of the discussion.
They really mean to do it. This isn’t just speculation.
A figure Mawyndulë hadn’t noticed—apparently no one had—rose from where he sat in the balcony and stepped into the light near the rail. Like all of them, he wore a dark winter cloak, this one with silver trim. Reaching the rail, he drew back his hood.
At the sight of Vasek’s face, Mawyndulë’s breath caught in his throat.
We’re all dead! The Master of Secrets has finally found Makareta and with her a whole new nest of traitors.
Vasek made a subtle coughing sound to gain everyone’s attention. Heads turned. Mawyndulë expected there would be cries, maybe a few would try to flee, but he knew it would do them no good. Vasek was too smart for that. The Airenthenon would already be surrounded. Synne and who knew how many others would be waiting.
Mawyndulë remembered Vasek questioning him. “I was wondering if you’ve had contact with, or have heard about any resurgence of, the Gray Cloaks?”
Perhaps Vasek had suspected him this whole time and had been following his movements and Makareta’s.
To Mawyndulë’s surprise, no one attempted to flee. They didn’t even appear worried.
Shock, that’s what’s going on. It has to be.
“She’s right,” Vasek said. “Makareta will need help. Someone who can get close, someone the fane won’t expect—would never expect.” Vasek looked at him then. “The one to kill Lothian must be the prince.”
Heads turned to Mawyndulë, who sat lost in an unimaginable world. The whole of the Aquila were in on the conspiracy. Vasek, too.
Mawyndulë felt Makareta’s hand on his. It gave him strength. It gave him courage. He stood up, slowly feeling the weight of his heavy cloak. He didn’t know what he would say until the words came out. “He’s my father.”
“He’s a tyrant,” Vasek replied, his voice falling down from above with an unaccustomed emotion and surprising authority. “And he’ll bring forth the end of us all.”
Master of Secrets was a title Mawyndulë had always assumed meant that Vasek knew the private dealings of everyone else. While that might be true, the greater truth was that Vasek was the master of his own secrets.
“He’s also a Fhrey,” Mawyndulë said. “If I were to—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “If I did this, I would break Ferrol’s Law.”
He saw Imaly look to Volhoric, who stood with as much reluctance as Mawyndulë had.
“As high priest of the Umalyn tribe and spiritual leader of the peoples of Erivan, I can assure you that ending Lothian’s reign as fane will be sanctioned by Lord Ferrol. Through his actions, your father has abdicated his role as fane, broken his covenant with his people and our god. By murdering Amidea without just cause and forcing others to kill their loved ones, he has cast himself out of the protection afforded by Ferrol’s Law. You will not anger Ferrol by taking this action because in the eyes of our lord Ferrol, you will be executing an outlaw.”
“There you have it,” Hemon of the Gwydry proclaimed. “Ferrol’s blessing—not his wrath—will be upon you.”
Imaly spoke then, “This is a heroic act, and with Lothian removed, you would receive the throne. I propose that if you do this great service to our people, the least we can offer in return is to guarantee no challenger will be put forth. You will receive the throne unopposed. Do we all agree?”
Each of the senior councilors responded with a communal “Aye.”
Mawyndulë was still standing, still holding Makareta’s hand, still thinking.
“There is one more thing I should mention,” Imaly said casually from her seat, where she leaned on one of the arms, her legs crossed beneath her winter cloak. “A secret that I suspect even Vasek isn’t aware of because everyone else here has faithfully kept it for years, as is our charge under the law. I’ll break that covenant now because as Curator, I feel this situation warrants it, and because there’s no sense in protecting one who is already dead.”
She focused on Mawyndulë. “When your grandmother Fenelyus died, I as Curator and Volhoric as Conservator agreed that the Instarya leader Zephyron should be given the opportunity to challenge your father. We did this because we were uncomfortable that an entire tribe of the Fhrey was being denied a voice in this chamber, and thus a voice in the ear of their fane. We felt this was Ferrol’s will. The result wasn’t what we expected.”
“With all due respect,” Mawyndulë said, “I already know all this. I was there. I saw the fight.”
“True, but you don’t know what no one but the voting members knew.”
“Which was?”
“There was another applicant who was denied.”
Mawyndulë shook his head. “Who?”
“Gryndal of the Miralyith.”
Mawyndulë stared in disbelief. He wanted to say it was a lie, but he knew better because he remembered Gryndal’s words to him during their trip to Dahl Rhen: “I know it’s wrong for me to say this, but sometimes I honestly wish some tragedy might befall your father. Not anything fatal, of course, just something rendering him unable to rule so that you could take over. I know that sounds terrible, but I fear your father isn’t suited to guide us into the future. His rule will lead to disaster. Trust me, Mawyndulë, your father’s reign will threaten our whole way of life.”
Mawyndulë now saw that those words had not been idle musings. At the time Gryndal said them, he had already tried to challenge the fane.
“Ever wise, Gryndal spoke of the danger your father posed to our people,” Imaly said. “Sadly, this body did not fully appreciate his fears. If only we had listened. Instead, we chose to go with an Instarya challenger because there were concerns that continued rule by the Miralyith tribe would forever be the norm. So, we avoided pitting two members of the same tribe against each other. We didn’t want to give the impression to the other tribes that the challenge was obsolete. We were wrong. Our judgment was clouded, and we denied the candidate. As a result, our people have suffered. If you are willing to step forward, you can correct our error. I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say it is you who should rule. You proved your bravery when saving the Airenthenon; you were tested at the Battle of Grandford; and it is you who is the worthy successor of Fenelyus’s legacy. While Gryndal would have been a better choice than Lothian, it is you who has always been the best choice. We look to you, Mawyndulë, to save our people.”
The room erupted in applause and shouts of “hear, hear.” All the senior members were on their feet, expressing full-throated agreement.
“You won’t be alone,” Makareta said, squeezing his hand. “I’ll protect you from any threats from Lothian’s bodyguards. I’m already soulless, and I swear I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you.”
“So then . . .” Mawyndulë began while looking around, “it’s the—the unanimous will of the Aquila that I do this?”
Heads continued to nod, but Imaly shook her head. “No, it is not our will, Mawyndulë. We do not come to you with a decree, nor a petition, nor recommendation. This is no council of advice.” Imaly stood up, and with the effort that age required, she took hold of the arm of the chair and knelt in the center of the Airenthenon. As she did, the others followed her lead, each taking a knee.
“We—the Aquila,” Imaly said, “we plead to you for the good of our people, for our very survival. We beg you to save us.”
Everyone else had left the Airenthenon. The last brazier, the one behind Volhoric’s seat, was almost out, leaving Mawyndulë and Makareta in the single flicker of a lonesome flame. Mawyndulë didn’t want to leave. He would have to return to the palace, back to his father’s house, to the home of the fane he now planned to kill.
And I will have to leave Makareta.
Having reunited with her, he could no longer bear it when they were apart. He didn’t know how he could have been so oblivious to someone who was now as necessary as water and air.
How have I lived all these years without her?
The answer was obvious.
I didn’t.
He imagined this was how birds felt the first time they flew.
“Do you think I’ll make a good fane?” Mawyndulë asked.
They were still holding hands, huddled close against the cold, his arm around her waist, her head on his shoulder. Outside, the snowstorm still raged, wind gusting with a hurried violence. Yet in the Airenthenon, they were safely hidden and protected from the blowing snow, a pair of mice below the frost line.
“Think? No, I know. You’ll be a legend.” She pointed at the ceiling. “Your face will be up there.”
“Think so?”
“Absolutely. And it will be nice to see someone handsome on that ceiling for a change.” She giggled, a child’s laugh.
He rubbed the back of her fingers with his thumb, feeling how thin and delicate they were. “So, you think I’m handsome?”
“Of course. I thought you knew that.”
He shrugged. “I hoped. I wished.”
“Wish granted.” She threw up a hand as if tossing something invisible in the air.
“Can you do that? Grant wishes?”
She raised her head and looked at him with a serious, suggestive flash of her eyes. “Try me.”
Just then, the braziers blew out, leaving them in darkness. Mawyndulë leaned in and kissed her. He didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t think she would pull away, but she might. Still, a person who is about to commit regicide and patricide at the same time shouldn’t be afraid of stealing a kiss in the dark.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she pressed against him and tilted her head slightly so their noses didn’t collide. He felt her hands, hot and moist, pressing on either side of his head. Her palms warmed his cheeks, holding him there as her lips parted. It felt as if she stole his breath, that she was sucking the air from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to. His eyes were closed, his heart pounding when he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her close.
So much clothing lay between them, so many folds. She was in there somewhere. He felt with pressing fingers, which he used to explore in a manner as violent as the storm and soft as a sigh.
“You’re shaking,” she said after drawing her lips away, concern in her tone. “Are you cold?”
“Not even slightly.” He didn’t like that she knew he was trembling. That didn’t strike him as brave, so he said, “When I’m fane, I’ll pardon you. Reinstate you as a Fhrey.”
“I’m not sure a fane has that power but thank you. It means a great deal that you want to.”
“What’s it like? To be—to not be Fhrey?”
She looked sad for a moment. “We thought . . .” She paused and looked away. “The Gray Cloaks thought the loss of one’s soul was just superstition. But then, we also believed ourselves to be gods. We were young and foolish on both counts.”
“It’s real?”
Makareta nodded while pressing her lips tight, as if holding back a tempest of emotion. “I can feel it—this coldness, this horrible emptiness. It hit me a second after I killed Jinreal, a Gwydry who got in the way. I was fighting a member of the Lion Corps, a soldier who ducked at the last instant. I really didn’t expect to lose my soul, especially not from killing a Gwydry.”
Makareta started to cry.
He drew her tighter and kissed the wet of her cheeks and then her eyes. “I’ll make it better. I promise.”
“You realize we could die tomorrow. It’s actually a very real possibility. This could be the last night we have.”
She pushed farther away and rubbed her hands together, humming a simple Torsonic Chant. All twelve of the braziers came to life. The bronze urns burst into blue flames that licked upward like living things. Below the dome, the room was cast in a wondrous indigo glow.
Mawyndulë smiled and added white lights, firefly sparks that billowed and swirled. The light from them filled the chamber.
Wiping away her remaining tears, Makareta raised her brows mischievously and flicked one finger. A bird made of light appeared and flew in a circle around the chamber.
Mawyndulë found her weave and drew out a long, colorful tail that left shimmering sparks as the bird flew. For a moment, they were both that bird, intertwined and linked through the Art—both flying as one. The Airenthenon was no longer a dark and solemn place. It became a light show of warmth and humor.
“We shouldn’t,” he said, and loathed himself for saying it. “We’ll attract attention.”
“So?” she asked, that playful look turning blatantly wicked. “What are you afraid of?”
“What about the fane’s guards? What if they see the lights through the windows and come to investigate?”
Makareta laughed. “It’d be their worst night ever; don’t you think? Them with their spears, swords, and shields and us with everything else? Together we are venlyn.”
“Ven-lyn? Land of Hope? Is that a word?”
“It is now.” She nodded with that wonderful smile. “Venlyn is what we make together. A place where anything is possible, a sort of paradise. I may not be able to enter Phyre when I die, so we’ll make Alysin right here, right now. We are venlyn, what should have been and what will now always be.”
“What about Sile and Synne? What if they come to investigate?”
“I’ll kill them,” she said in a dull, flat tone, the words as cold and uncaring as the winter wind that could no longer reach them. “And if it was your father?”
“I’d do the same. I don’t want anything, anyone, to come between us. Tomorrow we both might die. But tonight—”
“Yes, for this one wonderful evening—we are venlyn.” She clapped her hands, and the entire Airenthenon transformed. Plants lush and flowered burst forth as spring surrounded Makareta and Mawyndulë. Vines snaked up the pillars. Birds sang and butterflies flew.
“It seems so real!” he said, amazement in his voice.
That wicked smile continued as she slipped off her cloak and began to untie her asica. “I’ll show you what’s true.”
