Age of Legend, page 21
part #4 of Legends of the First Empire Series
Persephone looked at Brin, who looked at Moya, who said, “You’re culling drunk, aren’t you, Tressa? Whose bottle did you steal this time?”
Tressa ignored Moya. She had no chance with her. Instead, she kept her sights on Persephone; she was listening. “That door is connected to an underground passageway, and its entrance is near a swamp not far from here. So if we go there, we can pop out of the Fhrey door and save Suri.”
Nyphron rolled his eyes. The women all stared, but not even Moya looked angry now. What Tressa saw was far worse than anger or hate. Their faces were painted in pity.
In a sad, pathetic voice that made even Tressa question herself, she added, “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not making it up. Malcolm told me about it.”
Persephone slowly nodded, and said “Thank you, Tressa. I appreciate you coming and telling us.”
The gentle tone made Tressa want to cry. She couldn’t bear the thought of standing there, bawling in front of them. She turned and ran out.
Chapter Eighteen
The Mystery in the Garden
The world of the Fhrey is still such a puzzle to me, but now I know that much of it is a mystery to them, too. — The Book of Brin
Imaly was filled with an odd combination of dread and elation when she spotted him in the Garden, sitting on the same bench—the one directly across from the Door. She had come in search of the odd stranger who’d called himself Trilos, but part of her had hoped he wouldn’t be there, in the same way someone suffering a toothache hoped the healer might be busy elsewhere.
Over the years, Imaly had seen her share of oddities. She’d witnessed whirlwinds tearing trees up by their roots, the moon blocking out the sun, foxfire in the forest, a winter without snow, and the Shinara River frozen solid. But all those things paled in comparison to what had happened when she was three hundred years and fourteen days old. That was when the war with the Dherg had started. Five years later, Fenelyus of the tribe Eilywin began performing magic.
The war had been raging ever since Fane Ghika of the Asendwayr was murdered. Alon Rhist of the Instarya had become the new fane and fought as best he could against the iron weapons. Then he, too, was killed, and the Dherg marched unopposed with their massive army toward the Nidwalden and the Fhrey homeland. No one wanted the honor of being the last fane, and Fenelyus Mira was chosen without a challenger. Seven days after accepting the mantle of leadership, she stopped the army on the Plains of Mador. She managed this all by herself, single-handedly killing tens of thousands and creating a mountain in the process. No one questioned her methods. No one was even concerned. Fenelyus was the fane, and she had stopped the invasion. What was there to worry about?
The Umalyn leaders declared that she had been endowed by Ferrol with the gift of the Art in their time of need—just as Gylindora Fane had been given the horn. In Fenelyus’s case, she was able to teach others her gift, and her students became known as Miralyith, literally “Mira-followers.”
After that, Imaly saw daily miracles. The sick and injured were magically healed; trees were asked to grow in particular directions to accommodate buildings; rivers temporarily flowed backward to aid the transport of supplies; rain was scheduled and seasons tempered. Festivals were wondrous occasions adorned with magical decorations and lights. For a time, in the early centuries of Fane Fenelyus’s reign, it truly seemed as if Ferrol had blessed them. It took a while before certain people started espousing that some Fhrey were more blessed than others.
Fenelyus had saved the Fhrey from obliteration at the hands of King Mideon, rescuing them at the last moment. For this, she was revered as a hero, but she had also released a poison into their society that slowly ate away at its foundation. Fenelyus had saved the leaves but infected the roots.
Two major mysteries surrounded her. The first was how she had obtained the gift of magic, and the second was why she had failed to fully obliterate the Dherg. Both centered on the Garden and the Door. The official versions, as recounted by the Umalyn High Priest, said that Fenelyus was rewarded with the Art while kneeling before the Door and praying to Ferrol for guidance. Later, when she had crushed King Mideon and driven her enemy back to their last stronghold of Drumindor, she once more visited the Garden. There Ferrol asked her to show mercy toward the Dherg, which she did.
As a lifelong councilor in the Aquila, Imaly knew a lie when she heard one. These weren’t even good fabrications. They didn’t have to be. When people needed to believe in something, they made allowances.
Imaly’s problem was that she couldn’t bend so far or delude herself with fantasies. She was the great-granddaughter of Gylindora Fane, the Curator of the Aquila, the sentinel and watchdog for a fragile system that had preserved their way of life for millennia. Fenelyus had broken Fhrey society, and it was Imaly’s responsibility to fix it.
She viewed the Door as the epicenter where everything had started. Set in a rock wall that enclosed an area a bit larger than the Airenthenon, the Door appeared to be made of simple wood and ordinary hinges. The Umalyn priests said it was the gateway to the afterlife. Imaly didn’t believe that. She saw it as just a symbol. The Door most likely wasn’t even a real opening; it probably hung like a picture on a wall with nothing behind it. The idea of it was all that mattered. The Door represented the difference between the living and the dead and embodied how a person could be barred from paradise if they failed to follow the Law of Ferrol. This parable, for which the Door was a physical reminder, taught that defying society would result in exclusion and banishment. Chaos was kept at bay by logic, but for those unswayed by reason, there was fear.
All that was fine, perfect even, except that while the Door was a wonderful symbol, it overachieved its goal. Not only couldn’t the Door be opened, which made perfect sense both metaphorically and physically, it also couldn’t be harmed. No ax could cut it, no fire could burn it, and even the Art was useless against it. As a symbol, the Door was enduring, but as a door, it was disturbing.
So was the fellow who made a habit of sitting across from it.
It had been almost seven years, and yet he hadn’t changed. Trilos remained in the same shoddy clothes—or at least ones that were similarly shoddy. Imaly hadn’t paid that much attention to his attire the first time. In any case, he looked as unkempt as ever.
“May I?” she asked, indicating the open space next to him.
“Of course.” Trilos slid a tad to the side to grant her more room.
Imaly took a moment to gather her robe before sitting. “Thank you.”
Winter was coming, and the trees were shedding. Falling leaves blew by, swirling and dancing in the corners.
“Are you always here?” Imaly asked. She didn’t bother introducing herself or taking the time to mention they’d previously met. Their singular conversation had lasted for only a few minutes, but he’d known her then, so she expected he knew her now. Trilos the Door Watcher had known a great many things without being told. This was why she had sought him out.
“It’s what I do,” he said. Trilos didn’t bother to look at her. He kept his eyes on the Door, as if afraid he might miss something.
“But why?”
“Same reason you do what you do.” He sat forward, his elbows on his knees in a most undignified slouch. His hands were together, fingers absently folding and unfolding, interacting like a pair of mating crabs.
Mating crabs? Imaly found her analogy bizarre. She’d never seen crabs copulate. She’d rarely even seen them at all, but perhaps that was the reason she’d conjured that thought. The way they moved was strange, exotic, unnatural.
Still fascinated by his hands, she said, “I administer the Aquila and advise the fane on how best to rule his people in order to ensure our society remains safe. So why—”
“And is that why you’re here? To help your fane?” he asked, as if he didn’t believe her, as if he knew better.
Imaly gestured toward the Door before them. “I’m here as a worshipper of Ferrol, paying my respects to the Door, same as you.”
Trilos chuckled. Like his hands, the laughter was odd, off somehow. Once more, she had the impression that it was unnatural.
“Did I say something humorous?”
“Comedy exists when truths and lies masquerade as each other.” He leaned over, tilting his head slightly toward her as if they were old pals. The act made her want to recoil, but she held steady. Every muscle in her body tensed, but no one could see that. At least she didn’t think so. “Everything you said was a lie, even the part you thought was true—that’s what made it funny.”
She wished to ask more, to question him about his meditations on the mysteries of the Door. But more than anything she wanted to know about the disappearance of Mawyndulë—that was the real reason she’d sought him. She couldn’t, though, not now. He’d just accused her of both ignorance and lying. Ignoring the comment would suggest agreement. Denying it would be indefensible, as he had been completely correct. Admitting the falsehood would place her in a weakened position. Declaring piety before the Door should have been a perfect and unassailable shield, and yet here she was beaten by her own defense. They had barely entered into the conversation, and already he had the upper hand. Imaly had always considered herself a master of discourse and debate. At that moment, she felt as if she were a child at the adult table.
“She went in, you know,” Trilos said, inexplicably.
Freed by the unintelligible statement that blew the whole discussion off course, or at least from the direction she’d wanted it to take, Imaly asked, “I’m sorry, what?”
“Fenelyus went in that door.”
This time was Imaly’s turn to laugh. “No, she didn’t. I don’t even think that’s a real door.”
“Oh, I assure you, it is.”
“Then why can’t anyone open it?” she asked.
“It’s locked.”
Imaly chuckled at the simple but absurd statement. “No, it’s not. There’s no keyhole, no latch, no bar.”
“Not that kind of a lock.” He grinned at the door as if he and it shared a secret. “Because it’s not that kind of door.”
“So it’s a magic door then, is it?” Imaly’s tone was condescending as she tried to regain her footing in the conversation.
“Of course, but that’s nothing unusual. The sun rising each morning is magical, too.”
“That’s not magic. The rising of the sun is a natural occurrence.”
“What’s natural about a ball of light rising up out of nowhere to illuminate and heat the world then crossing the sky before falling back into nothing? And even more bizarrely, it’ll do it again the next day. The only reason you don’t see it as magical is because you’re used to it. If you hadn’t seen it happen, and do so every day since you were born, you’d think I was making the whole thing up. And when you saw it for the first time, you’d certainly believe it to be magic. The same could be said about snow or rain.” He took his eyes off the Door and looked up. “Everything that comes from the sky is magical, mysterious, and eternal.” Reaching down, he scraped up a bit of dirt, lifted it, and let it fall. The specks scattered in the wind. “That which comes from Elan is fleeting, doomed from birth. The problem lies in those things that have common ancestry in both. Those made of dirt and sky, the unwanted children of warring parents.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“Not originally, no. I’m from the east, but then everyone is. They just don’t know it. Everything started out there. Sadly, there isn’t much left anymore—neglectful tenants were left in charge and ruined the place.”
“Where were you before here?”
“For a long time, I was in prison.”
That’s not a surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why were you locked up?”
Imaly saw Trilos stumble. He paused, his eyes looking around in thought. Finally, he replied. “I honestly don’t know.” Then he looked at the door. “But I know who imprisoned me, and I intend to find him and repay the kindness.”
He’s insane or at the very least a fool. Imaly wondered why it had taken so long to figure that out. Staring at a piece of wood all day should have been a huge clue. Even Volhoric, for all his piety, didn’t do that. This understanding arrived with equal parts relief and disappointment. She needn’t be afraid or concerned about him watching her, something he had ominously mentioned at their other meeting. She also wouldn’t be able to learn anything useful from him.
She sighed and started to stand.
“You’re leaving? I thought you wanted to know where Mawyndulë is,” Trilos said. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”
Imaly sat back down as a dozen questions and hundreds of warnings popped into her head, but she focused on the opportunity presented. “Do you know?”
“He went to Avempartha. Just him and Treya.” Trilos laughed again. “That’s another farce. Another truth pretending to be a lie. Although that one is a very bitter joke. Cruelty is also a great source of humor. Everyone laughs when someone falls, don’t they? Poor Treya. It’s one of the many reasons I have so little sympathy for Lothian. He believes making Treya a servant to Mawyndulë was a virtuous act. He feels he was being kind.” Trilos shook his head. “He was being compassionate in the same way that a thief leaves behind a loaf of bread after stealing all else.”
Imaly had no idea what he was talking about. She thought she should, sensed there was a nugget of importance connected to that random comment, but this wasn’t why she’d come. “Why did Mawyndulë go to Avempartha?”
“To fetch a Rhune. He’s bringing her back to Daddy. Showing off his princely chops.”
While Trilos might not be entirely sane, he did appear to have access to a surprising amount of information. “Why would he do that?”
“The fane ordered him.” Trilos smiled at her. “There’s another joke, in that you have no idea what’s happening despite playing such a large role in it.”
“I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“Frustrating, isn’t it?” he said, still focused on the Door, his crab hands once more folding over each other. “Being the confused one, I mean.”
He was right, and pointing it out didn’t help. “Tell me what I did.”
“You told the fane about the message from the Rhunes, the offer of peace.”
Feeling a dash of fear that Trilos might know a bit too much, Imaly made a quick mental search of everyone who knew about her receiving the message from the Rhune leader. She recalled speaking of it openly when Lothian first returned from the Battle of Grandford. Anyone could have heard me.
Trilos continued, “This gave the fane the idea to use a pigeon to set a trap. He invited a Rhune to come as a representative to talk about peace, but Lothian doesn’t want that. He wants the secret.”
“Which is?”
“The Rhune that Mawyndulë has been sent to fetch knows how to make dragons, or what Lothian thinks are dragons. The fane intends to learn that from her.”
Imaly nodded. “I see.”
“I doubt that,” he said. He finally turned to look at her. “Or rather I suspect you’re seeing the wrong thing.”
“Which is?”
He smiled, but she didn’t know why. “You’re recognizing the obvious but failing to put the pieces together. You remind me a bit of my sister—the older one, not the younger.” He said this as if Imaly invited his family over for parties on a regular basis. “She was too smart for her own good and yet often fails to put together the simplest connections. But you’re both cunning and vicious, and that has served you two well.”
Imaly noted that he spoke of his sister—the older not the younger—in the past and present tenses, but given the whole of his statement, that was the least of her concerns.
“So, what is it I’m missing?” she asked.
“You don’t have enough pieces on the board to achieve your goal. You’re working with just enough to succeed, but plans never go as intended. You should anticipate setbacks. Complications always arise. You feel you’re doing the best you can, given your limited resources. But your best won’t be good enough. You’re going to need a second Miralyith, Imaly, or it isn’t going to work.”
He knows about Makareta! And what I plan to do with her. But that’s impossible! I haven’t told anyone!
“What you are ignorant of,” he said, “what you’re failing to realize, is that the other Miralyith doesn’t have to be a Fhrey.”
“Did you find Mawyndulë?” Makareta asked the moment Imaly returned home. “Is he okay?”
“You shouldn’t be so close to the door. What if I was someone else?” Imaly snapped, shutting the door quickly and loudly.
“I knew it was you; the Art told me.”
“You can’t use the Art!” she shouted.
Makareta was lounging on the settee, her mouse slippers abandoned on the floor. Three dirty teacups and a beach of crumbs littered the little table in front of her. “I didn’t use the Art!” The Miralyith child grew angry, placing a hand on the back of the settee and straightening up.
“You just said so.”
“No, you just don’t understand how the Art works.”
Imaly took the time to properly hang up her cloak, as it gave her something sensible to do besides screaming. “Enlighten me.”
“Using the Art is like talking, and yeah, if I did that, someone might hear. But another part is listening. You can’t notice someone listening. And why are you so mad right now?”
“I’m not!”
“The Art is telling me—”
“Oh, just stop it, will you!” Imaly, frustrated with the hook, threw her cloak across the room, shocking Makareta, who stared openmouthed. A moment of silence reigned as they both stared at the sprawled garment on the floor. “Okay, I’m a little worked up.”
“Why? Is Mawyndulë all right?” The degree of concern that spewed from Makareta surprised Imaly.
