Age of Death

by Age of Death (retail) (epub)

  “Get in here, you damn fool,” Volhoric growled, beckoning the leader of the Gwydry with his arms and making the loose sleeves of his asica flap.

  Hermon rushed forward, nodded to each of them, then pulled off his cloak and moved to the bench. He picked up Imaly’s discarded garment and put it neatly on top of Nanagal’s before adding his own to the pile.

  “He’s utterly insane now, isn’t he?” Nanagal said, his eyes shifting from one to the next, even landing on Gylindora’s vault, including the old fane in their number. “And I’m not sure I like meeting here anymore. It’s too obvious. If Vasek finds us, what explanation can we offer?”

  “That’s not a problem,” Imaly said. “Besides, we need to be able to speak openly, and this is the best place for that.”

  Imaly liked to believe that Gylindora would have been on their side, wanted to think Caratacus would have agreed, but there was no way of knowing. In a way, the original fane and her wizard sidekick were at fault for this mess. They had constructed the system the Aquila were trapped beneath.

  “We have to do it,” Volhoric said then. His words sounded like the conclusion to a private argument he’d been holding with himself. “We have to.” This last bit had the tone of pleading, and he said it while looking at Imaly.

  As if it’s all up to me. Is that right, you old bastard? Will you say it was all my doing when Synne and Sile come for you? Will you proclaim, “It was all her fault! She corrupted us!”

  The tomb of Gylindora wasn’t too far off Florella Plaza. They all had to walk past the withering remains of those once majestic trees. Like the black spot in the Carfreign, the severed stumps had been left as a fitting memorial to all those who had died in the Gray Cloak Rebellion.

  That’s how Lothian had framed it in his speech to the Aquila so many years ago. Let us never forget the brave and loyal defenders of Erivan who lost their lives to the evils of defying the truth of Ferrol.

  The truth of Ferrol had been a thinly veiled synonym for the rule of the Miralyith. The stumps in the plaza weren’t a memorial to the defenders of the faith, but rather a reminder for any who might think of challenging Lothian again. He’d gruesomely executed the Gray Cloak survivors.

  All but one, Imaly thought.

  “Lothian doesn’t really expect us to supply him with a list of names, does he?” Osla asked. “I don’t know many Miralyith—and none so well as to be able to point out which people in their lives they love dearly.”

  “At least it is restricted to the Miralyith,” Hermon said. “In a way, that feels like justice.”

  “Does it?” Imaly retorted. “No Miralyith will die. Only those of us whom the Miralyith love. That’s how it works. And what if they don’t love any single person enough? Will they be required to kill more than one? And how many? A handful? A score? Will it take a hundred acquaintances to generate the needed power to create one drag—”

  “Why isn’t it a problem if Vasek finds us?” Nanagal asked.

  “What’s that?” Imaly struggled to see the leader of the crafter’s tribe, as he was in the shadows, outside the ring of light where the eternal flame burned upon the altar.

  “Vasek,” he explained, “you said if he finds us it wouldn’t be an issue. He’s Lothian’s eyes and ears, so I think that would be a very big problem. Are you keeping secrets from us, Imaly?” Nanagal asked with surprising bluntness.

  “Of course I am. I keep secrets from everyone. Sometimes, when I forget where I put my shoes, I suspect I’m keeping secrets from myself. That’s the way this has to be done, for the protection of everyone. You have to trust me—and you do. Otherwise, none of you would be here.” She stared each of them down. “I have a plan that could save us, but it requires the death of Lothian.”

  “As we feared, it has come down to breaking Ferrol’s Law,” Volhoric said.

  “Yes.”

  A silence followed.

  “Who will do it?” Volhoric asked.

  “Leave that to me,” Imaly replied.

  “One of your many secrets?” Nanagal asked.

  “The list is long, my dear.”

  “And what of his son?” Volhoric asked. “Mawyndulë will inherit the throne should Lothian die. We would be trading one Miralyith for another.”

  “My plan accounts for the prince as well. As Conservator of the Horn of Gylindora Fane”—Imaly put extra emphasis on the name she shared, to leverage every advantage she had—“I need you, Volhoric, to play your part. I must know that you’ll present the horn and hand it over when I request it.”

  The High Priest nodded and said, “I swear it.”

  If all went according to plan, this would be their final meeting before she jumped off the cliff, dragging everyone else with her. Imaly gestured toward the others. “And all of you must do your parts. Each must agree to grant me the right to challenge.”

  “No one can hope to beat a Miralyith in combat,” Hermon stated. “Least of all—and no disrespect intended—an elderly female Nilyndd.”

  “That’s assuming there will be a challenge, which won’t be the case.” Imaly saw the bewilderment on their faces but told herself not to explain. The less they knew, the better. Conspiracies worked best when they were a conspiracy of one. “The wonderful part is that none of you will have broken a single law.”

  “What about you?” Nanagal asked. “Will you be able to say the same?”

  “A few moral ones, certainly.” Imaly turned and placed both hands on the stone that contained the first fane’s remains. “In return, I hope to ensure the survival of our people, our culture, and our legacy. I think that’s a fair trade.”

  “And if things do not go according to plan?” Hermon asked.

  Imaly turned back. “Then we’ll live under the heel of an insane fane who will force his people to kill their loved ones. Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that. So, do you agree or not?”

  Each nodded in turn.

  “Good. Now, as duly appointed Curator of the Aquila, I hereby call this quorum to session. All those in favor of granting me, Imaly Fane, granddaughter of Gylindora Fane, the Right of Challenge in the event of Fane Lothian’s death and the end of the Sixth Uli Vermar, please indicate so by responding ‘aye.’ ”

  As he often did, Mawyndulë watched his goldfish swim back and forth in the bowl at the side of his bed. He’d never named it, referring to it as fish when he referenced it at all. The only person he ever discussed the fish with was Treya, his personal servant. He’d remind her to feed the fish or clean the bowl. Truth was, he didn’t feel right naming the goldfish. Who was he to give something else a name? He was glad now that he hadn’t. A name would have suggested a degree of value, a hint of fondness. These days, such attachments were dangerous.

  The knock was a formality and shockingly short. An instant later, the door burst open. Synne entered quickly, locking eyes with him. Aggressive, cold, deadly, she was an unsheathed weapon. Behind her, Sile entered, his massive hands shoving Treya into the room.

  Treya looked as scared as that time she had dropped the fishbowl. She had just finished cleaning it, and the sides had been wet, causing it to slip and burst against the floor. Water and glass had exploded, the fish skipping across the tile, flopping and slapping. Back then, Treya must have expected to die; she’d had that kind of look on her face. She displayed the same expression now.

  Vasek came in last. The Master of Secrets appeared to be there as a witness, and he slipped to the side, standing between Mawyndulë’s wardrobe and the washbasin. Of the three invaders, Vasek alone appeared regretful. But then, Mawyndulë had always believed that except for Imaly, Vasek must be the smartest Fhrey in Estramnadon. No matter what happened next, Vasek knew that Mawyndulë would never forgive the intrusion. That expression of remorse, false or not, might save him when Mawyndulë sat on the Forest Throne.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Mawyndulë asked with conviction. He knew why they were there, and he was willing to play his part in the charade. He stoo
d up to make a better showing.

  “Your servant was found stealing from the fane,” Synne said, in a furious tone, passionate enough to be insulting.

  She actually thinks I’m clueless.

  “Claims she’s innocent,” Synne added.

  “I didn’t do it,” Treya told him. “I don’t know how it got in my bag!”

  Treya wasn’t acting. She didn’t know anything about the alleged offense, and she was so terrified that tears welled.

  “What was it?” He was careful to phrase his response so as to not presume a crime had occurred.

  No point in making this easy.

  “Your father’s gold candlestick from the reception hall,” Synne responded rapidly. Her language was no different from her use of the Art. One was often a reflection of the other. Personalities came out in both.

  Candlestick? Seriously? Is that the best you could come up with?

  Mawyndulë struggled not to roll his eyes.

  Do they expect me to believe she’s got some sort of illegal merchant operation out in the plaza? Or maybe I’m supposed to think she’ll set it out on her little nightstand and gawk at the grandeur? It would make more sense to accuse her of stealing the candles themselves; at least they can be lit and would be of some worth to her.

  “Please, Your Highness, please Mawyn, tell them I would never do such a thing.” While Treya had been his servant since Mawyndulë was an infant, she didn’t look old. Neither did she look young. She was lost in that nondescript nether space of time between the two, but at that moment, she looked ancient. As Sile’s massive fingers gripped her with judgmental tightness, Treya’s eyes revealed lines of worry he’d never seen before. That she used his name—that she used a shortened familiar—showed the depth of her fear. Treya was clueless about the game, but not about the stakes. “Please tell them that I’ve been a loyal servant. That I’ve never disappointed you.”

  Mawyndulë thought of the shattered goldfish bowl, and his eyes unconsciously tracked to the tile on which it had fallen.

  “We caught her leaving with the candlestick in her bag,” Synne said. “The fane has decreed that she is to be put to death . . . unless you intercede on her behalf.”

  “Oh, holy Ferrol!” Treya wailed.

  Mawyndulë showed no surprise or concern. He did frown in disappointment at Treya’s outburst, then looked squarely at Synne and asked, “Why would I do that?”

  This caught all of them off guard, and Mawyndulë struggled to forbid his lips from smiling. He had a secret place in his heart for making a fool of Synne. She thought herself so quick, so clever.

  “Why what?” Synne asked, losing a good deal of her intimidation to puzzlement.

  Mawyndulë shook his head in a show of ambivalence as he plopped down on his bed and hooked fingers behind his head. “Honestly, Synne. I thought you were quicker than this. Let me explain it in small words for you. Why have you come to me about this? If she is guilty and my father has ordered her execution, why haven’t you obeyed? Why come to me?”

  Vasek stepped forward then. “I suspect your father is concerned that since Treya raised you, her execution might be upsetting. As he doesn’t wish to make his son unhappy, he is willing to mitigate the sentence should this be the case.”

  Doesn’t want to make me unhappy? Vasek might not be as smart as I thought.

  “It is not.” Mawyndulë turned to his side and set his attention back to his goldfish, tapping the glass.

  Treya’s lips were quivering, tears running down her cheeks. “For the love of Ferrol, Mawyn, I’m your—” She stopped herself, hands covering her mouth, eyes bulging, pleading.

  “Are you sure?” Vasek asked him.

  Mawyndulë shot him an appalled look. “Usually, you hear people when they speak, Vasek. Apparently, Synne is growing slow and you deaf.”

  “But Treya is . . .” Synne made an uncharacteristic verbal stumble. She hesitated, eyes shifting between Treya and Mawyndulë. “She’s the closest person you have to a mother.”

  “Are you trying to insult me, Synne? Treya is a servant—a Gwydry. We have others, I trust? After you melt off her flesh, or whatever you plan to do, be sure to find me a suitable replacement—one that doesn’t steal. Can you manage that?”

  Synne glared. She looked downright irritated.

  Treya broke down in sobs.

  Mawyndulë responded by looking back at the fish and reached out once more to tap the glass with his finger.

  The four remained in the room for another round of heartbeats.

  “Is there something else?” he asked with irritation.

  “No, Your Highness,” Synne said.

  They withdrew, taking a sobbing Treya with them. When the door closed, Mawyndulë fell on his back. He felt exhausted. More than drained, he felt sick. He hadn’t liked seeing Treya like that. He wanted to believe he’d just saved her life, but they could still kill her. Vasek might insist on it just to cover up the lie. Then he could claim ignorance of the sham, a poor assertion for a Master of Secrets.

  Despite Mawyndulë’s best efforts, it was possible she would still die and do so thinking he didn’t care. That would be regrettable, but it was better than the alternative. He didn’t know if he thought well enough of Treya to provide the adequate power to touch the deep chords required to make a dragon, but he didn’t want to find out.

  They won’t kill her, he assured himself. There would be no point. She’s safe. She’s safe.

  He told himself that over and over as he lay on his bed, crumpling up the covers in tight fists.

  Synne was right, Treya was like a . . .

  Mawyndulë sat up.

  Why did they assume I would be upset? Why try this with me? And why use her?

  Mawyndulë looked to where Treya had stood. He remembered her covering her mouth with her hands, stifling words that never came out.

  Mawyndulë saw him sitting on the bench in the Garden across from the Door. The same person he’d spoken to years ago was back, or maybe he’d never left. Mawyndulë wouldn’t know; the prince couldn’t remember the last time he had been in that part of the Garden. It might have been years. Mawyndulë was almost certain this was the same fellow. There couldn’t be two like him in Estramnadon. Only priests braved cold weather to sit and contemplate the Door, and priests were always clean. The fellow on the bench had wild, unkempt hair and a dirty cloak. Not a winter wrap, either, but a thin summer cape.

  Fresh from his run-in with Synne and Vasek, Mawyndulë had chosen to take a walk. That way, if they killed Treya, he wouldn’t hear the screams. He didn’t usually go out in the cold. Took him ages just to find his heavy cloak, and after stepping outside and being hit by that first blast of wind, he decided to make his outing a quick circuit through the Garden, past the Airenthenon, around Florella Plaza, and then back to the palace. The trip would take him less than an hour, but even that seemed too adventurous.

  He was having second thoughts, slowing down as he passed the Door, thinking that perhaps he could stomach the screams better than he could weather the cold, when the dirty fellow on the bench spoke.

  “They won’t kill her.”

  “Excuse me?” Mawyndulë asked. He did stop then, annoyed that this person felt it appropriate to speak to—

  “Your father isn’t a coward, you know.”

  “I’m sorry?” He wasn’t, but Mawyndulë had no idea what this fellow in the disgusting clothes was talking about. It had sounded like an insult, and Mawyndulë’s mood ramped up from annoyed to irritated and was now rolling quickly toward anger. “Who the—”

  “It isn’t that your father is trying to avoid the burden of killing the people he loves—that’s not it at all. It’s just that Lothian doesn’t really love anyone. You shouldn’t feel bad. It’s not your fault. It’s his deficiency, not yours. As for companions, a long—but not immortal—life span makes it so that Fhrey drop in and out of one another’s lives. Not unlike dandelion tufts on a passing breeze. Passion is short-lived
. After a while, you see affection for what it is—or what you believe it to be—a weakness. Losing people is painful. For you, they don’t have to die. You just lose interest and move on. That sort of thing becomes old fast. Less invested is less lost—and there is always a loss. Such deficits stack up over centuries. Scabs and calluses form, numbing you to the simple joys you once knew. After a few thousand years, you start to wonder if you were ever really happy. Probably not, you assume while safe in a cocoon, feeling nothing and afraid of everything. Of course, you’re still young, still passionate, but you’ll learn—learn far better than anyone.”

  Despite himself, Mawyndulë approached the stranger on the snowy bench. “You spoke to me once before. I remember the conversation now. You spouted some nonsense about hate and revenge. Who are you?” Mawyndulë said, folding his arms in a clear show of disapproval.

  The fellow before him either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the prince’s reproof. Apparently, he didn’t care about a lot of things, like the fact that winter had arrived or that bathing was a virtue.

  “You don’t want to know,” the fellow continued. “You don’t actually care. You really just want me to leave you alone. You merely came out here for a walk, just wanted to get clear of the palace for a while. That’s how life works. As you walk through it, you can’t see the big moments coming at you. Don’t notice them until they’ve gone by. We always see them from the back, never from the front, which presents a distorted perspective. Everything looks different from behind in that wonderful reflective afterglow. Afterward, things consistently appear bigger, more obvious, and we think, How could I not have seen that? But the moments that change our lives are indistinguishable from everything else because they aren’t significant—until they are. Do you understand?”

  “No!” Mawyndulë shouted at him. “But you’re right about not wanting to talk to you.” He had turned and started walking away when something hit him in the back. He spun to see the fellow on the bench grinning. Something was on the ground. It was small and red and lying on top of the thin coating of snow at his feet.