“Yes, yes, I see. You’ve proved me wrong. That’s wonderful. Now, if you’d actually juggle the stones, I’d appreciate that even more.”
“It’s stupid, and I don’t see what this has to do with the Art.” He hummed, and with a tension-filled flick of his fingers the stones rose and chased one another in a circle like a wheel spinning in the air. “Why should I use my hands when I can already do this with the Art? Your lessons make no sense.”
“Yes, you’re very clever, but that isn’t today’s lesson,” she said.
Arion picked up a wineglass from a nearby table. She’d been enjoying the light, delicate ambrosia while waiting for the prince. The glass was empty except for a dry red ring at the bottom.
“Catch,” she said, and tossed it at Mawyndulë.
“What?” Panic flashed across his face. The prince reached out with his control hand, and the crystal goblet bounced off his fingers. He tried to make a grab with the other, almost had it, but the glass slipped away, as did the stones. Everything struck marble. The stones clattered; the glass shattered.
“Hmm,” Arion mused, tapping her upper lip. “Something seems to have gone wrong there, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, you threw a glass at me!”
“Imagine if it had been a knife, a javelin, or a ball of fire. And instead of stones, what if those rocks were people’s lives?” She looked down at the mess at his feet. “Perhaps if you had learned how to concentrate on more than one thing at a time, they wouldn’t all be dead right now.”
“Arion,” the boy said, looking down. “They aren’t people; they’re stones.”
“Lucky for you, or should I say lucky for them? Now pick up those poor dead bodies and try again.”
“And the glass? That was—”
Arion coughed, and the eight large pieces, seventeen shards, and two thousand three hundred and seventy-four grains of powdered dust leapt off the floor and reassembled themselves into a glass, sitting on the table, perfectly restored. Even the residue stain remained.
“Whoa.” Mawyndulë stared at the goblet. “How did you do that?”
“By paying attention when others were teaching me and not questioning their methods.”
The prince contemplated this. His eyes shifted between the glass and the stones while he rubbed the stubble on his head. Like all Miralyith, Mawyndulë shaved his head, but it had been a few days, and a dark shadow was forming. Arion couldn’t understand how he could allow that. She couldn’t go two days without shaving. It didn’t feel clean.
As Mawyndulë bent to pick up the stones, the doors of the Grand Entrance burst open and boomed as they banged against the walls. Arion didn’t need to look to know who it was. Gryndal’s aversion to touching doors bordered on obsession. He avoided touching most things, preferring to cultivate lavish fingernails long enough to curl. Instead, he used the Art to punch doors open and always overdid it. Arion knew the excessive force wasn’t due to a lack of skill or control, just one of Gryndal’s many idiosyncrasies. His issue with doors was among the least peculiar.
Gryndal didn’t offer so much as a glance in their direction as he marched across the hall. The jingling of tiny chains draped between piercings in his ears, cheeks, and nose accompanied each step. A long golden cape flowed in his wake. Arion rolled her eyes. Gryndal was using the Art to summon a breeze to make his mantle billow. He maintained a second weave to enhance its color, which was brighter than any dye could achieve. Mawyndulë had a different reaction. He watched the First Minister with wide-eyed eagerness.
As Gryndal passed them without breaking his stride, he barked out, “You. Follow.”
“Do you think he means you or me?” Mawyndulë asked Arion, unable to contain his excitement.
“I suppose we should find out. Go on. You won’t be able to concentrate now, anyway.”
The boy sprinted after the First Minister, toward the throne room. Arion bent down, picked up the rocks, and placed them in her satchel. Although ordinary, the stones were the same ones she’d learned with. Arion kept few keepsakes, but these were three of her most prized. She had hoped they would somehow make things easier with the prince by instilling the same sense of wonder in him as mastering them had in her. So far things weren’t going as she’d hoped.
When she looked up, Mawyndulë was already out of sight. Arion sighed. Gryndal was a tough act to compete against. As the winner of the Grantheum Art Tournament each year as far back as anyone could recall, he was the idol of every Miralyith. Arion was in the minority; she couldn’t say she cared for him. Although Fenelyus hadn’t mentioned anything, Arion suspected that the old fane had shared Arion’s opinion.
I wonder what she would have made of Trilos.
Who, or what, he was remained a puzzle. She hadn’t seen him since that one meeting, and even though she inquired about him everywhere she went, no one had heard of anyone by that name. Her failed efforts to unmask the stranger deepened the mystery to the point that she almost doubted the encounter altogether.
—
Arion caught up to the pair outside the throne room. Even Gryndal didn’t dare blast open that door, but she was surprised he had waited for her.
“Your flawless magnificence, I have news,” Gryndal said to the closed doors, and a moment later they opened. Gryndal entered, his cape whipping like the tail of a cat nervous about getting it caught. Arion and Mawyndulë followed.
The throne room was precisely that—a room for the throne. The chamber needed to be massive because the Forest Throne consisted of six extremely old and intertwined trees of different varieties—each representing one of the six original tribes of the Fhrey. A mass of roots formed the room’s floor, and the ceiling was an impenetrable canopy of branches and leaves. The fane’s “chair” predated everything except the Door. The Forest Throne was the second oldest thing in Erivan and perhaps the world. The room, the whole palace, had come later.
“Your Majesty, a bird has arrived with confirmation from Alon Rhist on the matter of Nyphron and his Galantians,” Gryndal said. He and Mawyndulë stood at the foot of the Forest Throne, where Fane Lothian sat listening. “They have indeed refused to obey your edict and assaulted Petragar before escaping to the wilderness of Rhulyn.”
“How is Petragar? Did they kill him?” the fane asked.
The Fhrey’s supreme ruler—and divinely chosen voice of the god Ferrol—sat with one leg over the tendril arm of the magnificent throne, absently strumming a seven-string vellor. The Great Chamber wasn’t designed for music, and the soft notes were lost to the expanse, making weak, wistful sounds. Fane Lothian wore a green robe and the familiar gold-cast circlet of leaves, the same one that had graced Fenelyus’s head for as long as Arion had lived. Seeing it on his bald head, she conceded Fenelyus’s argument that hair had its beauty.
“No,” Gryndal reported. “Petragar is alive but seriously injured.”
“So where are they now?”
“Unknown. I don’t expect they’ll return to Alon Rhist. Not on their own, that is. They’ll have to be brought to justice.”
Lothian sighed. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”