Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  She must have noticed his expression because she added, “Right now, you’re a hero, and everyone will remember you that way. But if you stayed a member of the Aquila, well…familiarity erodes pedestals. Eventually you’d be on the wrong side of an argument—we all are at some point—and your legend would diminish. This way, Mawyndulë, Savior of the Aquila, will remain frozen in everyone’s minds, pristine and perfect. What more could a future fane want?”

  He smiled and sat down beside her. The old lady had a way of making things seem better. He felt bad about her arm, the way she clutched it. He pointed. “I can fix that for you.”

  Her eyes widened and she leaned back. “No, thank you.” She caught herself and took a breath. “I mean, that’s very generous, but I’m, well, I’m old-fashioned. I prefer to let nature take its course.”

  “You’re just scared.”

  She raised her brows, and with her good hand, Imaly indicated the devastation of the battlefield memorial around them. “Absolutely.”

  “I was offering to fix your arm, not challenging you to combat.”

  “And I wasn’t rebuking you, but I’m aware of the inherent complications that can result from taking shortcuts.”

  They looked down at the market. Only a few of the vendors had returned. Those that were brave enough to do so had little business. People had shifted most of their shopping to stands along the Greenway. Since the battle, Florella Plaza had become a haunted place fit only for ghosts. Mawyndulë’s sight was naturally pulled to a familiar spot where once stood a stand that sold outlandish paintings—melodramatic landscapes of the frontier created by those with imagination rather than firsthand knowledge.

  “Did they find her?” Imaly asked.

  Mawyndulë continued to stare at the empty square, at the sawdust and the rubble. “No. Not that I’ve heard.”

  “Have you looked?”

  “No.”

  “You liked her.”

  “A lot of people liked her. Then she went insane and tried to kill my father. That has a tendency to change things.”

  “But you still want to see her.”

  “She’s probably dead.” Saying the words was harder than he would have thought, and afterward he swallowed twice.

  “They never found a body?”

  He looked at Imaly then. “Miralyith don’t always leave bodies.”

  He anticipated awe or perhaps fear. Instead, Imaly appeared amused. “Such the expert in magical combat now, are we?”

  “I went to Rhulyn with Gryndal, was there when he dueled Arion.”

  That wiped the smile from her face, but once again, she failed to respond with the awe and fear he deserved. Imaly looked concerned in a maternal sort of way, worry creasing her brow. “Was it awful?”

  Mawyndulë nearly laughed. “It was amazing. Gryndal was such a master. I miss him.”

  Imaly didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “So, how’s the new tutor?”

  “What?”

  “Your father was just telling me about his desire for you to resume your studies. I thought you already had.”

  Mawyndulë was aghast.

  “I have to go.” He stood up.

  “Mawyndulë.” She raised a hand to stop him.

  He reached down and pulled her up.

  “Thank you.”

  Mawyndulë started to turn, but she held on to him.

  “No, I mean thank you for everything,” she said in a soft voice, and then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

  A month ago he would have recoiled. A month ago he would have scrubbed his face with a bristle brush. But a month ago he’d never served in the Aquila nor held up a building while a rebellion raged around him. A month ago he didn’t have the respect of one of the highest-ranking officials in the city. Now, as he trotted down the steps, he smiled.

  * * *

  —

  Mawyndulë stormed on to the east palace balcony where his father, Vasek, Vidar, and Taraneh were holding an impromptu meeting in the summer sun. The senior officer of the Lion Corps stood awkward and stiff, his helm under one arm, listening intently as Vasek droned on about something.

  “I’ve just learned I’m to have a new—” This was all Mawyndulë got out before he was blown onto his back.

  “Synne, that’s my son!” the fane barked, without nearly enough conviction or outrage to suit Mawyndulë. “I don’t think he’s here to kill me.”

  Mawyndulë lay moaning. The floor of the Talwara was tiled in marble, and he’d landed on one hip and an elbow.

  “Oh, get up, boy. She hit you with wind, not a bolt of lightning.”

  Mawyndulë crawled to his feet and sneered at Synne, who didn’t see. She’d lost interest, dismissed him as no one of importance. If he returned the blow, she’d fly off the balcony and into the Shinara River—if she was lucky. He considered it, even chose the sounds and movements that would be required to summon a good strong gust, but his father’s voice was already raised, and Mawyndulë had another, more pressing, issue. Still, he was embarrassed and more than a little angry to be knocked on his backside by a diminutive goblin-girl whom he hadn’t heard of until after the Gray Cloak Revolt. He also felt the fight to be unfair. He hadn’t heard the attack. Without a warning, there hadn’t been any time to defend himself. Thinking about it, he hadn’t heard her freeze Vasek either, and she’d been just behind Mawyndulë at the time.

  She’s fast. That’s all there is to it. The girl is fast—and apparently silent.

  “Call a general assembly of the Shahdi,” his father told Vasek. “And let Kasimer know I want to see him.”

  “Shahdi?” Mawyndulë said, coming to the balcony on the side that was opposite Synne. “Why assemble the general army? We have the Instarya.”

  “Alon Rhist was taken,” the fane said. “We’ll need to re-form the Spider Corps. It’s been too long since the Miralyith went to war.”

  “Alon Rhist was…” Mawyndulë was certain he hadn’t heard correctly, or that his father had misspoken. He sometimes did. Old people had dusty minds that didn’t always work right. They forgot where they put things, called people by the wrong names, and while they could remember an incident from a thousand years ago with perfect clarity, they had no idea what they had eaten for breakfast that morning. His father had once called him Treya, mixing him up with his servant, of all people.

  “Clean the wax from your ears, boy,” his father growled. “The Rhunes surrounded the fortress and took it.”

  “But that’s not possible. They’re just Rhunes,” Mawyndulë protested.

  “Rhunes led by Nyphron and Arion, I suspect.” The fane looked at Vasek.

  Vasek nodded. “Information is still coming in. What we know is that thousands of Rhunes, both Gula and Rhulyn, swept up from the south and surrounded Grandford. Within hours, the Instarya Guard surrendered.”

  “The Instarya don’t surrender,” Mawyndulë said. “Those people are fanatical about combat.”

  “You visited them once and now you’re the expert, are you?” His father shook his head.

  “Nyphron is the son of their tribal leader,” Taraneh said. “After all those years of isolation on the frontier, it’s possible the Instarya’s loyalty tipped more toward one of their own and away from your father.”

  The door at the end of the corridor opened with a bang and immediately slammed shut again. Cries of pain were followed by unintelligible cursing.

  “My fane?” Haderas called out.

  “Let them in, Synne,” the fane told her. An instant later, the door swung free.

  Haderas and Rigarus entered. One tall and the other short, the two were almost always together, usually drinking. Neither was Miralyith, so Mawyndulë knew no more about them than their faces and names.

  “You sent for us, my fane?” Haderas asked.
His voice was muffled as he rubbed his cheek where the door had hit it.

  “We have a problem,” the fane explained. “I ordered the Instarya to invade Rhulyn and destroy the Rhunes. Instead, Nyphron has yoked them into his service. And just like he did with the Gray Cloaks, he’s managed to seduce the Instarya to revolt against me. He’s taken control of Alon Rhist.”

  Both Fhrey returned blank faces as if they had only understood every other word. Since they weren’t Miralyith, Mawyndulë wasn’t surprised. His father would likely need to draw pictures.

  “What do you want us to do, my fane?” Haderas asked.

  “The son of my challenger has stolen my army. He has my fortress, and I suspect he’s bent on revenge. What do you think I want? We are going to war, you fools! I want an army of my own. Haderas, you’ll raise and command the Bear Legion, Rigarus, the Wolf.”

  Both Fhrey looked terrified.

  “Our people will be no match for the Instarya in combat,” Haderas said.

  “We aren’t certain the Instarya have agreed to break Ferrol’s Law,” Vasek added.

  “The Gray Cloaks had no such concerns,” the fane shot back, harshly enough to surprise even Vasek.

  His father’s adviser nodded, conceding the point, but added, “I just mean that, as warriors, they place a high value on entering Alysin. This may be enough to deter them.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” the fane said. “I am also reinstating the Spider Corps. Kasimer Del will lead them.” The fane waited for a response from Haderas and Rigarus. When none came, he added, “You and your troops will be mostly for show, support, and cleanup. The Spider Corps will do the heavy work.”

  They both nodded but looked even less confident than before.

  “This needs to be stopped, and quickly,” the fane said. “I want it over. There will be no half measures. No one is exempt. I want two thousand ready to march by spring.”

  “Two thousand?” Haderas looked shocked.

  “By spring?” Taraneh said.

  “Is that a problem?” the fane asked.

  Taraneh looked to Vasek with desperate eyes. “We left the defense of Erivan to the Instarya. We only have the Lion Corps and the Shahdi on this side of the Nidwalden. Even combined, they aren’t much of an army, and training new recruits takes time.”

  “You have until spring.”

  “What do we need an army for?” Mawyndulë said. “We are Miralyith.”

  “So, what would you do, boy? Wish them out of existence? You have that kind of power, do you?” His father was more than angry; he bordered on rage. “Can you snap your fingers and make thousands of people, people who are hundreds of miles away, vanish? Did your idol, Gryndal, teach you this miracle during your two-week jaunt to Rhulyn? The same trip where he got his head chopped off? I’m seeing a bit of a problem with your counsel!”

  Mawyndulë was so shocked by his father’s tone that he took two steps backward, bumping into Sile. His father had never spoken to him like that before. He rarely raised his voice, and Mawyndulë found himself frightened that Lothian might lose control and do something he wouldn’t regret until later—if then.

  The fane walked to the balcony and leaned on the railing. He stared down for several minutes. No one else moved or spoke. Mawyndulë imagined that even the songbirds went silent for fear of further angering the fane.

  At last, Lothian turned. “Taraneh.”

  “My fane.” The Fhrey snapped to attention.

  “You will make me a new army. The members of your Lion Corps will train the new recruits for the Bear and Wolf Legions. You will inform Minister Metis regarding your needs for weapons and armor. Let her know this is now her tribe’s top priority. By spring, I will have two thousand trained and equipped warriors ready to march west. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, my fane,” everyone replied.

  “With luck, they won’t be needed, but luck hasn’t been on my side recently.”

  The others filed out quickly, eager to get to work, or just happy to get away. Mawyndulë was left alone with his father, Sile, and Synne. He wished they would leave, too, but, of course, they wouldn’t. He hadn’t seen the fane’s double shadows leave his side since the Gray Cloak attack.

  “Why are you still here? What do you want?”

  Mawyndulë remembered about the news of the tutor, but it was trivial now. “I want to go,” he said before even thinking.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “With you. When the army is ready, you’ll be leading it, won’t you?”

  The fane narrowed his eyes and stared at his son as if Mawyndulë had changed colors or spun his head around in a complete circle. “Yes,” he replied. “How did you know that?”

  “Just makes sense. You sent Arion, and she failed. Sent Gryndal and me, and we failed. You sent the giants, and they failed. You want it done right this time.”

  His father was nodding.

  “I want to go.”

  “Why?”

  He considered explaining his desire for revenge for his idol’s death but then reconsidered. His father would most likely think he should be his son’s idol, so Mawyndulë took another tack. “The Fhrey don’t go to war often. If I’m to be fane one day, I should see it, understand it. Your mother took you to the Battle of Mador when you were young. That’s why you know how to deal with this. If I don’t go, if I miss the chance to experience battle, how will I know how to handle my own future conflicts?”

  His father studied him as if baffled by what he’d just heard. He glanced out the window, then back at his son. “Admirable. You do understand that if you were to stay here, and I were to be killed on the field of battle, you’d be fane—the youngest one ever—assuming you won against whomever blew the horn in challenge. Going with me is risky. You could die.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  “No—I can see that. I suppose you’re too young to worry about death. It’s not even a possibility in your mind, or if it is, you see your end as some heroic accomplishment and you would take pleasure in cementing your place in history.” Lothian rubbed his hands together, palm sliding against palm. “Getting older, Mawyndulë, is like climbing a mountain. The higher you go, the greater the view. From time to time, you look back. At such heights, you can see paths behind you: the trails you took and the ones you foolishly disregarded; the blind alleys you fortunately missed, purely out of chance rather than by some greater wisdom on your part. You also spot others following you, people making the same stupid decisions. From your elevated position, you witness their bad choices, the ones they can’t see because they aren’t standing where you are. You could shout down, attempt to warn them, but they rarely listen. They are too blinded by the indisputable fact that the path you followed got you where you are, to the place they want to be.”

  His father stared then, as if waiting for a reply, but Mawyndulë had no idea what his father had been babbling about. Maybe he wasn’t saying anything, dusty-minded after all. Older people just talked sometimes. Maybe hearing their own voice was reassuring to them somehow.

  “Yes, you can come,” the fane said at last, sounding disappointed. “You, too, can go to war.”

  Mawyndulë smiled.

  “But you’ll be precious little use to me without an education.”

  The smile vanished.

  “I’ve enrolled you at the Academy of the Art.”

  Thinking his father had appointed a new tutor was bad enough, but this…this was out of the question.

  “The academy?” Mawyndulë said, stunned. “But that’s for—I’m the prince. I don’t belong in a public school.”

  “That’s exactly where you belong.” The fane took a step toward his son. “You need a formal education in the Art, and tutors haven’t been working out well for you, or them.”

  “But at the academy?” Mawyndulë was hor
rified at being forced to practice, to take more stupid lessons, and this time in front of an audience. “How can I—your son—attend Art school? That’s so…wrong.”

  “Wrong? You do know about the academy, right?”

  Mawyndulë rolled his eyes. “I know it’s no place for the son of the fane.”

  Lothian laughed. “You are aware of how the school came to be?”

  Mawyndulë thought a moment. This was one of those things he felt he ought to know, but for some reason, he couldn’t recall if he’d ever learned that particular fact. By the way his father was acting, Mawyndulë had missed something important. He gave up. “No.”

  His father let out a small huff that Mawyndulë couldn’t translate. He didn’t sound upset, but he didn’t sound thrilled, either. If anything, the fane appeared mildly amused. “The school was founded by Pyridian.”

  Mawyndulë stared at his father, who stared back with enough expectation in his eyes to make Mawyndulë nervous.

  “Oh, by the face of Ferrol, you have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”

  Mawyndulë slowly shook his head. He didn’t like it that Sile and Synne were listening. Not that he cared about Sile; the giant didn’t look capable of understanding which object in the sky was the sun and which was the moon. Synne was another matter. Mawyndulë didn’t want to look stupid in front of her, and he felt he was doing just that. But what did it really matter if he didn’t know who founded the Miralyith Art Academy?

  “Mawyndulë,” the fane said, “the Art is ours.”

  Now he felt his father was just making fun of him. “I know it’s ours, but the Fhrey—”

  “No!” Lothian held up a hand to stop him. “Not the Fhrey—ours.” He pointed at himself and then at Mawyndulë. “Our family invented it. Your grandmother was the very first to use it. When she taught others, her lessons were always one on one or in small groups. The learning process was slow, random, inefficient. No one ever thought of formalizing the process until Pyridian came up with the idea. He built the academy using the Art, the same way Fenelyus created Avempartha. He taught a whole generation of Fhrey, trained them to teach, and appointed them as instructors in his school. Gryndal and Arion were both his students.”