What can a god do that I can’t?
Approaching the bronze gate to the Garden, Gryndal spotted Imaly. Sadly, she spotted him as well.
“Nice evening for a stroll, isn’t it?” she said with a flirtatious tone meant to lull him into a false sense of camaraderie. Even if Imaly had been young, thin, and beautiful, it wouldn’t have worked. Not that failure had ever been a deterrent for her. The brittle-haired Curator of the Aquila had always been a pain, but lately she seemed to relish nettling him.
“You embarrassed the fane this evening,” he said with his own disarming smile.
“Did I?” She looked down at the hem of her asica, scowling and still playing the innocent female. “The streets should be kept cleaner. My wardrobe is getting ruined.”
She clutched three scrolls, records of the meeting. As Curator, she not only presided over the Aquila but was responsible for keeping and preserving what had transpired. Why records were kept, Gryndal didn’t know, sentimentality perhaps.
“Don’t be coy. You know you did, and he didn’t appreciate it.”
Imaly looked up with an amused smile. “Lothian shouldn’t do foolish things. Then he wouldn’t be embarrassed by awkward questions.”
“And, likewise, foolish people shouldn’t ask awkward questions that will make the fane their enemy.” Gryndal stood straighter and slipped his hands into the sleeves of his asica in the fashion of the Umalyn priests. He felt it gave him a more intimidating, pious, not to mention learned, posture.
“I don’t worry about that. We in the Aquila have you as our champion now, don’t we?” She took a step closer. He wondered if she were merely proving she wasn’t afraid or actually trying to intimidate him, a mistake of epic proportions. “You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to us. We council members are a weak and cowardly bunch, ruled by self-preservation. Under stress, we’re likely to forget our oath of office and blurt out the names of those who applied to challenge. Given the outrage Lothian demonstrated when dealing with the Instarya leader, can there be any doubt about his reaction if he learned a fellow Miralyith and trusted adviser sought the throne?” She looked down at the scrolls. “I don’t think that’s ever happened before. Imagine his surprise.”
She leaned in close, stared into his eyes, and whispered, “It was a misstep petitioning as you did. You should have known we’d refuse.”
“Why is that?” Gryndal answered without moving. This was going to be an intimate conversation of whispers. He was tall, taller than average, but so was she, and the two faced off without blinking.
Imaly shrugged with a wary smile. “The rules were designed to give all tribes a chance to rule. Pitting two fellow tribesmen against each other, especially from a tribe that has ruled for so long, would suggest the Miralyith were circumventing the spirit of the law. We could be accused of favoritism, of admitting the future of Erivan will be one of continued Miralyith dominance.”
“Which it will. Nothing can change that. No other tribe can defeat us as long as we retain the secrets of the Art. So why—”
“Appearances are more important than reality. As distasteful as it is, I can’t deny that your tribe shows every sign of retaining control indefinitely. But unless you intend to rule by subjugation, it’s important the people believe they live in a society where anyone can become fane. Religion and tradition remain allies in a system that’s still perceived to be fair. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind seeing a division in the Miralyith and the trouble it would cause. Plus, watching two Artists battle in the arena would be quite entertaining. But as the Curator of the Aquila, I’m dedicated to protecting the Fhrey, even from themselves.”
She explained all this with a friendly smile as if they were best of friends. Maintaining an affable expression, she added, “Besides, we all know what you’d do if you sat on the Forest Throne, and none of us would ever let that happen.”
“Careful, your overconfidence is showing,” he told her. “I’m not done yet.”
She laughed. “You won’t live to see the Uli Vermar. You’re older than Lothian.”
“But that doesn’t mean a challenge won’t occur sooner. Alon Rhist was older than Ghika.”
“Yes, but Ghika was killed in the war.”
“As was Alon, and after only five years.” He feigned an innocent look.
Imaly narrowed her eyes. “We’re at peace, Gryndal. What’s more, there’s no nation capable of threatening us, so the…” Imaly paused, staring at him. “Fhrey can’t kill Fhrey, Gryndal. Only the fane has such power. Remember that.”
“Are you sure?” He inched in closer still until he could feel his breath bounce back, and he whispered, “There’s nothing that prevents it.”
“The Law of Ferrol will eject you from Fhrey society and the afterlife will be closed to you. Would you sacrifice eternity for the chance to be fane for just a few years?”
“I have a theory about that.” He put his cheek to hers and spoke into her ear. “The Umalyn tell me the only requirement for blowing the Horn of Gylindora is that the challenger must be of Fhrey blood. Nothing else. Ferrol wasn’t a stickler for piety or virtues. You could be a murderer, but as long as a single drop of Fhrey blood runs in your veins, the horn will sound for you. Then, if successful in the challenge, well, how could the fane of the Fhrey be excluded from the society he rules? And how could Ferrol’s chosen be denied absolution?”
Gryndal grinned as Imaly pulled back, her friendly smile gone at last. He enjoyed rocking her; he so rarely managed it. Now that Jerydd was permanently seated as the kel of Avempartha and Fenelyus was gone, Imaly was his only worthy adversary, and she wasn’t even a Miralyith. As a descendant of Gylindora Fane, leader of the Nilyndd tribe, and Curator of the Aquila, Imaly remained the only obstacle, other than Lothian, who stood in his way.
“That’s a lot to risk on a theory,” she said, her tone losing the playful lilt. “And a dangerous thing to admit.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest I was going to kill Lothian. You’re right; that would be too much to risk on a theory. But someone else might. Should that happen, if Lothian were to die prematurely, I’ll seek to blow the challenge horn again. And…” He let his smile fade. “I highly suggest you don’t stand in my way a second time.”
—
Gryndal waited until Imaly had disappeared around the Fountain of Alon before he passed through the bronze gate and entered the Garden. A few others strolled the pathways, but this was a place of reflection and meditation so it remained quiet—a world apart. Gryndal had spent days in there, practicing concentration and widening his inner eye. He learned to connect to the world with deeper, more powerful chords. He also spent a good deal of his time staring at the Door.
The entrance was so unassuming, so austere. It could have been a door to any ordinary house, but instead it provided the only entrance to The First Tree. No artistry adorned the threshold, no hinges or lock, not a sign or a clue. Plain and rectangular, the wooden Door didn’t sport a knob—just a rather crude latch. In all the centuries of daily pilgrimages, Gryndal had never been able to determine a way to open it. He’d knocked once as a boy; it was a rite of passage. The Umalyn frowned on the tradition, considered it disrespectful to their god, but even they tried to find a way in.