Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Good girl,” Suri said. “What a good girl you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Aftermath

  The seeds of unrest in Estramnadon were planted long before Grandford. By the sound of things, they had grown ripe and were harvested prior to our first real battle.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  Mawyndulë stood bewildered beneath the great painted dome of the Airenthenon. Outside, he heard explosions. The prince wasn’t alone. Huddled around the walls, the other members of the Aquila cowered in terror. The gallery had emptied. The Miralyith who had filled it joined with Gray Cloaks who had waited outside. That’s where the battle raged, on the front steps of the Airenthenon.

  They planned it.

  The Gray Cloaks were trying to kill the fane.

  Makareta planned to kill my father.

  Mawyndulë was still trying to make sense of how any of it could be real when he heard someone crying. Hemon of the Gwydry huddled beneath one of the stone benches, staring at him in horror. They all were. Even Imaly watched him with concern as she sat with her back propped against the wall where she had been so inelegantly tossed by Makareta. The Aquila’s Curator clutched one arm, and there was a patch of blood staining her forehead. Only an abrasion, a scrape, but it looked terrible. Mawyndulë hadn’t seen many wounds. Blood bothered him, and, once again, he remembered Gryndal’s beheading.

  Is that what they are doing to my father?

  Mawyndulë started toward the doors.

  He managed to take a total of two steps before the building began to shake. He staggered as the ground shifted, tilting and rocking. Hunks of plaster and stone broke free from the ceiling and fell, smashing with great bursts of white where they hit the marble floor. The fluted stones that formed the pillars of the colonnade moved, shifting out of alignment, making the dome itself slide. Larger parts of the ceiling fell, exploding on the floor—lethal hail.

  One of the councilors screamed as part of the gallery balcony collapsed. Mawyndulë thought the councilor had been hit, but only two tri-legged braziers were crushed.

  Mawyndulë was terrified.

  All around him was weeping, crashing, and blood. He had no idea what was happening and didn’t want to. What he wanted was to be back in the Talwara, in his room, on his bed, with Treya bringing him cider and tarts.

  As more of the ceiling came down, he thought to run out, but was too scared to move.

  I need to get out before—

  Another huge stone hit the floor, bursting only three feet away. Bits of debris pelted him.

  Horrified that another rock was on its way down, he reacted. Mawyndulë drew in power and pushed out. He felt for the building around him, grabbed it, seized every pillar and stone and held fast, binding each block and pebble, weaving a web of defense. All that marble was his shield, and he wasn’t letting it go anywhere.

  Outside, the world was a terror, filled with screams.

  Inside, Mawyndulë supported the roof, weathering a storm he’d rather not see.

  —

  The exterior of the Airenthenon had been blackened with scorch marks. On the east side, the steps were gone; nothing of them remained. One of the great trees—the old sacred ones that had shaded the square since the days of Gylindora Fane—had been severed in half. Cut clean, the great elm laid its leafy head and broken branches over the stalls of the marketplace.

  Standing on the steps outside the Airenthenon’s doors, Mawyndulë expected to see blood—lots of it. A grotesque splatter of red stained the market, but it was only paint. A war between Miralyith produced great carnage but little gore.

  A member of the royal guard found Mawyndulë after the battle and informed him that his father had survived. The fane and his troops had chased the last of the rebels through the streets of the city. In the distance, Mawyndulë heard the occasional shout.

  “What will you tell your father when he returns?” Imaly asked. The Curator stood beside him, both staring out at the changed landscape.

  “That I wasn’t involved.” He faced her. “I wasn’t, you know.”

  “Oh, I believe you, and I’m sure he will as well.”

  She was still clutching her wounded arm, cradling it across her stomach. She winced with pain, and he noticed that she limped each time she took a step with her right foot. The old Curator slowly moved down what was left of the western steps, one at a time, always taking the dip with her left foot. Mawyndulë took hold of her good arm, lending what support he could.

  They paused at the first landing, where the fountain miraculously continued to spout water, though the upper half of the stag was missing, leaving just a set of four spindly legs. Mawyndulë took that moment to look back at the Airenthenon. For the first time, he spotted the crack splitting the surface and leaving a horrific scar through the ancient pediment.

  “Would have been much worse if not for you,” Imaly said. She sported her own wound as the scrape on her head continued to seep blood that dripped down the side of her face. Some of her hair was matted to it, drying like glue. To Mawyndulë, Imaly appeared as a living personification of the ancient order; both had been assaulted, hurt, and scarred.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “It’s still up, isn’t it?” She turned and looked back, then nodded. “Yes, the Airenthenon is still there, just that crack. Don’t think it could have survived without help, do you? All that shaking, all those attacks. No, I think it would have been destroyed.”

  “I didn’t do it to preserve the Airenthenon.” It felt good to say so out loud. “I didn’t even do it to save you or anyone else.” He looked down. “I wish I had. I wish I could say I did it for some noble reason, to protect our heritage and the people cowering inside, but that’s not true.” He sighed and shook his head. “I did it to save myself. When the building started to come down, when it cracked, I was terrified. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m not very good with the Art.”

  He would never admit that to anyone, not even himself. He didn’t know why he told her, except maybe because she was the only one he could tell. More than anyone, Imaly seemed to understand him. To her, he wasn’t the prince, or a son, and not even a Miralyith. To Imaly, Mawyndulë was just a young Fhrey, well meaning but inexperienced. He told her because he needed someone to know.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  “Maybe? Oh, no, it’s true.” He nodded at her. “That’s what happened.”

  “I believe you, and I’m certain that’s even how you remember it, but that doesn’t mean it’s true. Not the whole truth.”

  “Of course it does.”

  Imaly gave him a wise smile. “Mawyndulë, you could have run out of the Airenthenon. Almost everyone else did. Why didn’t you? I’m not a Miralyith, but I imagine there were easier ways to protect yourself than preserving the entire structure of that building. That had to be more difficult than putting some sort of shield around just your body. You had a number of options, but you chose the one that preserved our great heritage and saved the lives of all those around you.” She took another painful step and then paused again. “A lot can be determined by the choices we make, even if the action is initiated by self-preservation. Many…no, most…of our choices are driven by fear: fear of death, fear of humiliation, fear of loneliness. But it’s how we respond to fear that matters. It’s what defines us. What makes us who we are. So maybe in your mind you acted selfishly, but I’m alive because of the choice you made. So I’ll remember it as an act of kindness and, yes, even bravery.”

  She nodded then, as if coming to a conclusion, and by the look in her eye, it was an important one. “There you have it. Two realities to choose from. In mine, you acted heroically, risking yourself to protect the lives of the entire Aquila. Yet you remember it as selfish because you’re uncomfortable with the idea of being a hero. You feel guilty, don’t you? You think you didn’t do enough and therefore don’t deserve an honorific for failure. Heroes, you are certain, don’t feel guilt. Personally, I li
ke my reality better, but you pick whichever you like. Just don’t share yours with anyone else.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You’re the prince. One day you’ll be fane. People prefer to see their leaders as renowned, something larger than themselves. This hierarchy makes society possible. It’s so much easier to humble oneself before greatness, to obey someone universally known to be superior in every way.

  “But…but…I don’t think I am, not really.”

  Imaly turned and smiled warmly at him. “That’s why you are. You’re a good person, Mawyndulë. You’ve been warped a bit by an insular life and the powerful influence of a few dominating people, but deep down you’re still a good, decent person. That’s why you feel guilt. It’s when you no longer feel that nagging sense of doubt, that pain of regret, that it’s truly over for you. But you aren’t there yet. You can still be salvaged.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “What do you plan to tell your father?”

  “The truth.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That I didn’t know anything about the rebellion. That I went to the meetings a few times where they got me drunk, but never told me what their plans were. That I was used.”

  Imaly shook her head. “No, don’t do that.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely not.” She took another step and winced.

  “We should get you to a doctor.”

  “It’s a broken leg. I’m not dying, and this is more important.”

  “What is?”

  She looked at him, peering into his eyes as if trying to find something hidden. “Mawyndulë, do you understand what just happened, and what will happen now?”

  “Some people…people I sorta knew…tried to murder my father.”

  “That’s one way to see it.”

  “How do you see it?”

  “Do you realize that except during the Uli Vermar, no Fhrey has ever attempted to harm a fane. Ever. Just as until today, there had never been violence inside the Airenthenon. Do you know why?”

  “Because it’s wrong?”

  “Because until today, it was unthinkable. The very foundation of our society is grounded in tradition, the observance of rules. Those rules have been challenged, and the result will be catastrophic.”

  “How so?”

  “Let me ask you this. What do you think your father will do now?”

  Mawyndulë had no idea. Like she said, what had happened was unthinkable. What his father would do was equally so. “I don’t know.”

  “He was just attacked by his own people, the Miralyith, those he trusted the most. They very nearly killed him, and did kill many of his friends. How do you think he feels? Angry?”

  Mawyndulë nodded.

  “Frightened?”

  He had a harder time with that one. He couldn’t imagine his father scared of anything.

  “How did you feel in the Airenthenon when the battle was just outside? You were scared. You just told me so. There you were, surrounded, while people around you died…no…were killed. No one, on either side, wanted to hurt you, and yet you were rightfully terrified. Imagine how the fane feels. They were trying to kill him, and like I said, most choices are caused by fear. The question is, will your father choose to hold the building together or save himself and let it rip apart? You could make the difference.”

  “Me?”

  Imaly hopped on one foot, and this caused a sharp grimace. “Let’s sit down.” She pointed to the fountain with the severed stag legs, and he helped her lower herself to the rim of the basin. In the water, he spotted a shoe.

  “A lot of people died today.”

  Mawyndulë nodded. He didn’t know about Makareta, but from the doorway of the Airenthenon, he had seen Aiden’s body. Rinald, Inga, and Flynn were also dead, and he’d seen faces of other Gray Cloaks who had died. Several of his father’s personal guard were dead, along with three of the seven members of the Aquila. There had also been bystanders who lost their lives in the square. Most of them had worked or shopped in the marketplace, as they had on any other day.

  “Your father needs to respond to this, for the sake of maintaining his authority to rule, but he’ll also want revenge…retribution against everyone who harbors any drop of dissent toward him. He won’t be satisfied until he has dug deep and found the source of this poison. What is that source, Mawyndulë, can you tell me? What was it that caused this?”

  “The Miralyith want more power.”

  She nodded. “A division between the tribes. Do you know why there is a fane? Why we have the Horn of Gylindora and the Uli Vermar? It’s because we used to war among ourselves. We are our own worst enemy. In ancient times, the tribes slaughtered one another until the coming of Caratacus, who brought Ferrol’s horn to Gylindora Fane. She was just a simple basket maker back then. She didn’t think she was a hero, either. The tribes had nearly annihilated one another through constant battles for dominance. Gylindora and Caratacus changed all that. They gathered those of like mind from all the tribes and came here. They built this place and established laws, unbreakable rules, to make certain such infighting would never happen again. These have protected us, served us well. Once in a generation, the ruling line can be challenged. Even then, the choice is made by single combat. Not by war, not by the death of thousands. We have peace…at least within this forest. But what now? What happens when the rules are broken? What does the fane do when he feels the old ways aren’t working anymore?”

  “He makes new ones.”

  “Yes.” Imaly rested her injured arm on her injured leg to brush a lock of hair back from her face. “He tightens his grip, punishes large portions of his people. Do you think this will make them love or hate him? Do you think the Miralyith will thank him? Or now that they have been shown that rules can be broken, will they try again? What if they do so with larger numbers and better planning? Mawyndulë, we are facing civil war. We are taking our first steps back to our old destructive ways. A path that will eventually lead to our destruction.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

  “You were there. You attended the meetings. You are at the fork in this path, and we need you now. More than we’ve ever needed anyone before. Your father will ultimately decide which way to go, but you have the power to influence that decision. To change history before it happens.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “You can tell your father that a large number of his people, of his own tribe, tried to kill him because they want more power, and that will send him down the path of civil war. Or…you can tell him they were manipulated. You can say the Gray Cloaks were controlled, coerced, and seduced by someone else…someone external. With your single pointed finger, you have the power to unite us all against a common enemy and preserve the Forest Throne, or we can turn to infighting, which will ultimately destroy us.”

  Mawyndulë thought of how Vidar had been set up, falsely accused of something he had no part in. He didn’t think he could do that to anyone. “I couldn’t lie about something like that.”

  “Are you sure? One little white lie to save your people? And it isn’t like I’m suggesting you accuse an innocent.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The one person the fane would believe.” She paused.

  Mawyndulë was frightened by who she would name. Will it be me?

  “Nyphron of the Instarya,” Imaly said.

  Relief washed over him. The moment she said the name, Mawyndulë knew it was the answer. An instant later he wondered if perhaps it might actually be true. How hard was it to believe that the outlaw, and maybe even The Traitor, would seek to destroy all of Fhrey society by pitting them against one another? Divide and conquer. Isn’t that a military axiom? And here it had nearly worked.

  “Once again, just like in the Airenthenon, we are threatened. What will you do? Save yourself, or stand and use your influence to protect your people and preserve our heritage? This is your
chance to be a hero, Mawyndulë. The salvation of our people is up to you.”

  —

  The itch was worse, almost maddening, and while harming the flora or fauna of the Garden was greatly frowned upon, Imaly resorted to breaking a slender twig. She snapped an offshoot free, sat down on one of the benches, and plunged the stick down inside the plaster cast that encased her leg. For several insane seconds she struggled desperately, and then in one glorious moment, she reached the itch. In that instant, she could have died happy. In ecstasy, she melted on the bench and wallowed there limp and lazy, the branch still sticking out of her cast.

  “Hello.”

  She opened her eyes. Before her stood a person she’d never seen before. He was so unkempt and disheveled that for a moment she couldn’t be certain if he was Fhrey. Though who else could he be, standing in the middle of the Garden in the very heart of Erivan.

  “Hello,” she replied.

  “May I join you?”

  She nodded, pulled herself together, straightened up, and scooted over to give him room to sit.

  “You don’t come here often,” he said. “I come every day, and I’ve never seen you.”

  “No, not often. I’m very busy, you see, and—”

  “Of course, being Curator is a very demanding position. You’re Imaly, yes?”

  The question was disconcerting. She wasn’t as prominent as some, even those in lesser positions, and yet it wasn’t unusual for a stranger to know who she was. Still, there was something unsettling about him knowing her, while she was clueless about who he was—or what he wanted.

  “Yes, that’s right, and you are?” she asked.

  “Trilos,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. That’s an excellent position to hold. Influential, yet in the shadows.”

  “And what is it that you do? What’s your occupation?”

  He smiled at her. “Mostly I sit here, look at the Door, and ponder mysteries.”

  “You’re Umalyn, then? A priest of Ferrol?”

  “No, I can’t say that I am.”

  She was about to ask which tribe he was from when he spoke first. “Things worked out quite well, wouldn’t you say?”