All of them so easily amused by silly things, like children, Gryndal thought. No, not children. He’d thought of other Fhrey that way when he’d graduated from the Estramnadon Academy of the Art, but they’d dropped lower in his estimation since then. Now it was his fellow Miralyith who were the children, Lothian being a prime example. The rest were industrious little beavers that were busily building their dams and scurrying in the sun.
“What did they do to her?” the fane asked.
“Bludgeoned her in the head with a rock.”
Lothian halted again, his eyes wide in astonishment. “No! Are you serious?”
“I saw it myself this morning,” Gryndal explained. “A Rhune crept up when she wasn’t looking. Got in behind her shield.”
“Saw it?” Lothian stared at him, baffled. “That’s clairvoyance. You can do that?”
Gryndal began walking again, forcing the fane into a trot to catch up. “I certainly didn’t just return from a trip west.”
“Your abilities never fail to amaze me, Gryndal. I’m grateful you’re on my side.”
Gryndal allowed himself a smile this time. Lothian was blind in more ways than simply magical sight.
“So what happened? Is she all right? Will she live?”
“My observation of her progress revealed that Arion entered a Rhune village and spoke to Nyphron. The conversation didn’t look to have gone well, since she had used the Art to subdue him and his Galantians. Then, a Rhune bashed her over the head with a rock. I saw a great deal of blood where she lay in the dirt.”
“Blood? Lay in the dirt?” Lothian’s face hardened. “She is the teacher of my son. Handpicked and beloved by my mother!”
Gryndal struggled to keep from smiling—Lothian had never liked Arion. The fane had expressed jealousy on several occasions before his ascension. He worried that Fenelyus cared more for Arion than for her own son. And the tutor’s self-righteous, reproving attitude was too much like his mother’s. At times like these, Gryndal wished for a peer, for someone he could talk to and share such luscious moments. If only Imaly weren’t the enemy. Perhaps he would tell Trilos, though he might not fully comprehend the sublime humor and beauty of the moment. Trilos cared only about the Door.
Noticing that Lothian was slowing down, both physically and mentally as emotions drained him, Gryndal blew across the hot coals. “If Fane Fenelyus were alive…”
“Oh! My mother would have incinerated the entire frontier. How dare they touch her beloved Arion! Everyone remembers my mother as this sage, peaceful leader, but—do you remember how she was in the war?”
“Better than you, I suspect. You were only what…?” Gryndal made a twirling motion with a finger, trying to recall the exact age. Several passersby cringed at the action and quickly moved away.
“I was young, but I remember,” the fane said. “I recall there was once a plain where a mountain now stands. She could be so cruel. She did it on purpose, you know.”
“It was war.”
“There is war, and then there’s what she did to the Dherg. She could have burned them or rained down hailstones, but no, neither would have been ample punishment. They have such an affinity for the land, and she knew it would crush their spirits as well as their bodies to have rock and stone rise against them. Everyone speaks of her empathy and how she allowed the Dherg to live. But I was there at the battle when she met the Dherg army on the Plains of Mador. She had only recently received the Art, and none of us knew what she was capable of. The vile moles with their iron blades and armor had crushed every force we’d sent against them. I’m not proud to say I was scared. My mother might have been, too, since the Dherg had killed the last two fanes before her. In the end, I was more frightened of her than I had been of them. More than a hundred thousand were crushed and buried beneath a snowcapped monument to her power and ruthlessness.”
“And you are your mother’s son.” They finished their walk across the plaza and arrived at the palace, where the gate was promptly opened.
They were inside the grounds now, away from uninvited ears, and it was time to add fuel to the fire.
“What will you do, my fane?”
“I want this rebellion crushed. And I want those responsible made an example.”
“A wise course, but I fear Petragar might not be up to the task.”
“Petragar isn’t up to the task of strapping on his sandals.”
Gryndal nodded. “In hindsight, I think you might have made a mistake sending Arion. She’s too kindhearted for this sort of thing.”
“She only knew my mother in the later years, after she’d softened. I need someone who isn’t afraid to use the necessary force to ensure obedience.” Lothian stopped and turned. “What about you?”
“Me?” Gryndal worked hard to present the perfect marriage between surprise and flattery.
“Yes.” The fane smiled. “You’d be perfect.”
“Sadly, I’m afraid I’d suffer the same fate as Arion if I can’t retaliate against—”
Lothian waved his hand. “I’ll grant you power to act in my stead. You will have absolute authority to do whatever is necessary to bring the traitors to heel. Order must be restored.”
“Does that include executing those Fhrey who are disobedient?” Gryndal wanted to be clear on this point, and the moment he said the word execute, he saw Lothian hesitate. “I’d hate to die bleeding in the dirt like Arion.”
“She’s dead?”
“She had her head crushed with a large rock and collapsed. I can’t imagine she survived, given the amount of blood I saw. And I just don’t want to be—”
Lothian’s face darkened, his mouth flattening into a level line. At that moment, Gryndal could see the family resemblance with Fenelyus. “You are hereby granted the authority to carry out my will. I furthermore extend to you the right to use deadly force if you feel such is necessary to restore order on the frontier. This right will be in effect until your return.”
One down. One more to go.
“I’ll gladly do your will, my fane, but I’m also tutoring your son, and…” Gryndal shook his head. “No. I don’t suppose that would be advisable.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Just that Mawyndulë has lived such a sheltered life, and if…no…never mind. It would be too dangerous.”
“You’re thinking of taking him with you? That’s a wonderful idea. He has been coddled too much, isolated in our corner of civility. He should see the world and learn of its blemishes, discover firsthand the realities of power. My mother took me with her to the Battles of Mador and Cradock’s Keep. I learned more in those two trips than I had in centuries. No, you’re right, Mawyndulë should go.”
“If I’m taking the prince, it might be wise to bring a contingent of soldiers—just in case.”
“Of course. Draw what you need from my personal guard. Just remember, Gryndal, I want this to be over. I don’t care how you do it, but I want it done.”
“You can count on me, my fane. I’ll bring the thunder.”
—
Gryndal left the fane and headed uphill toward the spiritual heart of Fhrey society. The highest point in the city was a fitting place for the Garden; all great things should be raised higher than lesser entities. He believed that with all his heart. It made perfect sense. Problems arose when that axiom was challenged. When the weak tried to yoke the strong and fools attempted to restrain genius, that was when the world suffered. A natural order dictated right from wrong, just as it caused water to run downhill. Gryndal refrained from assigning that design to a god—even Ferrol, whom he had revered for the first thousand years of his life. He’d also idolized his father and the fane, but that, too, had been when he was a child. As he grew older, the distinctions between himself and others had diminished. His father was nothing special, and he couldn’t respect someone lesser than himself. The same was true of the fane. In her last years, Fenelyus had grown feeble, and Lothian wasn’t half the Miralyith his mother had been. Recently, Gryndal noticed even Ferrol’s stature dwindling.