“I do hope you’ll be making the plight of the Instarya one of your top priorities,” she went on. “How go your plans in that regard?”
This was the first official meeting of the Aquila, the high council of Erivan, since Lothian’s victory. Its intended purpose was to be an uneventful opportunity for handshakes and back-slapping, a social gathering with no agenda, debates, or demands. Yet that didn’t stop Imaly from straying from the program. She’d always been an irritant, but since her election to Curator she’d graduated to a genuine problem, one of the many Gryndal had marked for disappearance after he replaced Lothian.
“Well enough,” the fane replied from his chair in the center of the chamber.
“Well enough?” Imaly asked, standing obnoxiously straight and appearing five times more regal than Lothian.
“Proper planning takes time and consideration. Nothing happens overnight. If that’s what you’re thinking, you will be disappointed.”
“Actually, that’s not at all what I’m thinking.”
Gryndal didn’t know how she did it, but at that point Imaly managed to stand even straighter. Being a direct descendant of the Fhrey’s first ruler, Gylindora Fane, Imaly possessed an unerring stately demeanor, which, thankfully, wasn’t complemented by beauty. The Curator was large for a female, endowed with brutish shoulders, thick fingers, gathering jowls, and a square jaw. Her voice was equally harsh but also loud, clear, and commanding—the exact opposite of the fane’s. Although she was nothing to look at and certainly had no future in any choir, she possessed one of the shrewdest minds in the council, making Gryndal pay attention whenever she spoke.
“I was thinking,” Imaly said, “that you have no plans at all, nor will you be setting the matter as a priority at any time in the near future. Like those who have come before you, you’re content to maintain the status quo.”
“This is the first day of the new council, Imaly. I’m here to learn names, not set policy.”
“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Forgive me. Would you like to begin by learning the name of the Instarya senior council? I know I would.” She went through the drama of looking around. “Where is the Instarya senior council? Oh, that’s right, we don’t have one. Their seat was replaced by the Miralyith some two thousand years ago, wasn’t it? Makes it easier to ignore them that way.”
Lothian glanced at Gryndal, who said nothing and wouldn’t speak up. Imaly knew that, too. Everyone in the Aquila knew it. The council had Gryndal on a chain—for now. Plans were in motion to break those links. In the meantime, he was making lists.
“As I said,” Lothian resumed, raising his voice and adding a hint of displeasure, “today I’m not here to set policy.”
“No, of course not. Why would you? There’s certainly no rush. The Dherg menace was vanquished, what, a thousand years ago? What difference will another thousand years make? Still, I have to wonder…Why are the Instarya still out there? And why only them? Is it so the rest of us will forget they even exist? Or is the warrior tribe no longer wanted? After all, if they returned, where would we put them? With no more wars or battles to fight, would they be content to lay down their swords and pick up hammers or lutes? Do you expect them to enter the priesthood? Awkward, uncomfortable issues are often pushed to the back of the line, dropped in some dirty basket and shelved indefinitely. Given enough time, such things begin to stink.”
She raised a finger to her chin, thoughtfully. “Which brings me to my next question. What of Zephyron’s son? I have reports from Alon Rhist that Nyphron and a handful of followers are in open revolt. Is this what you mean by well enough?”
“It is going well enough to suit your fane,” Lothian said, leaning forward in his chair. “Or are you suggesting that isn’t well enough for you?”
Imaly hesitated.
The pause was so long that even Gryndal sat up to watch. Imaly was too smart not to back down. The fane had raised the stakes beyond her means, and she was just making a good show to save face. She continued to wait, impressing Gryndal with her fortitude. Someone coughed. Sandals scraped on the stone and parchments shuffled.
“Of course not,” Imaly replied at length. “As I said, I merely wished to offer my congratulations.” She made a modest bow and sat down.
If not for the Law of Ferrol, Gryndal would have reduced Imaly to a black spot ages ago, yet he couldn’t deny that at least on this day she’d unwittingly helped him. The fane would be seething over this embarrassment when Gryndal broke the news of Arion’s capture.
—
The other counselors kept their distance as Fane Lothian and First Minister Gryndal descended the broad steps of the Airenthenon to Florella Plaza. Imaly had shaken the beehive, and no one wanted to get stung. Gryndal alone played the role of beekeeper.
“I thought you handled yourself well in there,” Gryndal said. “Imaly can be—”
“You’d best have good news from the frontier,” Lothian told him, lifting the hem of his asica as he descended the steps.
“I’m afraid not,” Gryndal replied. He made no effort to cushion the news with his tone. Imaly had set the spark to kindling; now he would gently blow on the embers. “Things have worsened.”
“Worsened? How could they be worse? The council already fears Alon Rhist is on the verge of revolution.”
“Arion has been taken captive.”
“What? By whom?” Lothian stopped on the bottom step to glare at him. Several of the council members slowed their retreat, looking over their shoulders.
“Nyphron and his Rhunes.”
“His Rhunes? What do you mean his Rhunes?”
Lothian had a wonderful tic that twitched the right side of his upper lip whenever he was irritated. As puppets went, Gryndal couldn’t have asked for a more accommodating one. But Gryndal wasn’t interested in a puppet.
“It would appear Nyphron is in open revolt and has set himself up as a protector of the barbarians. He and his Galantians have taken refuge in a Rhune dahl. When Arion arrived to extradite Nyphron, she was captured.”
“Captured?” The fane stared at him incredulously. “How can they capture her? She’s Miralyith!”
Gryndal suppressed a smile that threatened to tug up the corners of his mouth. His efforts resulted in a grimace, which Lothian appeared to interpret as disgust for the crime. “But, she’s not the fane.”
The march of withdrawing counselors came to a complete stop as everyone within hearing paused to listen. Gryndal began walking again, urging the fane away from the steps and farther into the plaza. He wasn’t concerned about them overhearing. Listening to the conversation might even be good, but eventually he’d lead the fane to the heart of the matter, and he’d rather be alone for that.
Lothian followed as expected. He always did.
“Arion was at a disadvantage, because Nyphron has forsaken the laws of his ancestors and embraced the wickedness of the barbarians.”
As part of the ceremonial opening of the first council meeting under the new fane, the plaza was filled with celebrating craftspeople and entertainers. A thin crowd ebbed and flowed around artisan stands while dancers followed musicians; storytellers gathered flocks with promises of thrills and adventure.