“Vermin?” the prince asked.
“Rhunes,” Gryndal replied.
Mawyndulë had seen Rhunes only in paintings. Renowned artists who spent time in Avrlyn had filled the Talwara and the Airenthenon with frescoes. Most were dramatic, sweeping landscapes of the frontier at sunset or sunrise. Others featured impossibly tall mountains and unimaginably fierce rivers. In several, there were images of Rhunes, docile figures wrapped in blankets beside dwindling fires. But some depictions cast them as ferocious savages. While not nearly as frightening as the Dherg, ghazel, Grenmorians, or dragons, they were still scary with their wild eyes and crude weapons.
Mawyndulë was excited by the prospect of seeing an actual Rhune. Since learning about the trip to Avrlyn, he had compiled a mental checklist of things he wanted to see: bears, mountain lions, ghazel, Mount Mador, giants, the sea, the tower of Avempartha, Rhunes, the Great Urum River, Dherg, and dragons. The last two were actually at the top of the list, ghazel at the bottom. The sinister creatures had always scared Mawyndulë as a child, and the prospect of meeting a real one revealed that the fear hadn’t completely disappeared. So far he’d crossed only the mountain and the tower off his list.
Gryndal was nodding. “Yes, Rhunes. One of their villages, I imagine. Petragar was able to accomplish something at least.”
All Mawyndulë saw was a mound of dirt on top of which lay blackened timbers.
“I do apologize for dragging you out here to this rat-infested cellar, my prince,” Gryndal said. “But your father feels you need to suffer indignities to build character. I don’t agree. Such things are remnants of a bygone era—a time before the Art. The Miralyith have no need for such foolishness. We don’t require an understanding of those below us any more than we need to experience life as a snail or ant. It’s this notion that we are still related to them that hinders us from achieving our full potential. The only reason we are not yet recognized as a pantheon of gods is because we can’t manage to allow ourselves to accept the reality that we already are. The absurdity is obvious when you consider how insane it would be to think of ourselves as equal to animals. Can you imagine believing yourself to be merely the most successful tribe of goats or cows?”
Mawyndulë chuckled at the thought of a cow telling him to juggle.
Gryndal nodded. “You see what I mean? It makes no sense. The Miralyith simply cannot be compared to lesser forms of life. We command the four winds to do our bidding. Does a Rhune do that?” He paused a moment and then, fixing Mawyndulë with one of his hard stares to indicate he was about to provide the point of a lesson, added, “Does an Instarya, Asendwayr, or Umalyn do that? Come with me, my prince.” Gryndal urged his horse off the road toward the scorched rubble. Turning, he said, “You guards wait here.”
Mawyndulë’s father had sent twenty Fhrey from his personal staff to provide protection. None were Miralyith, which meant his father had sent cows to guard a god. That thought made Mawyndulë smile as he looked at Hyvin. The captain of the guard smiled back, mistaking Mawyndulë’s expression as approval, appreciation, or perhaps even friendship. In truth, he was imagining Hyvin as a cow with drooping udders.
Mawyndulë followed Gryndal, the two trotting until they were amid the burnt ruins, which smelled unpleasantly of smoke.
“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” Gryndal asked in a serious tone.
Mawyndulë nodded despite his uncertainty. He thought Gryndal was saying that Miralyith were better than everyone else, something he already knew. But he also suspected he was missing a larger point that his new tutor was making. Mawyndulë often felt that way. What he couldn’t determine was whether he was ignorant or if people pretended they were smarter just to make him feel stupid. Arion often made him feel inadequate. Juggling rocks and playing with strings were things she claimed had benefits he couldn’t yet understand.
Was this her way of pointing out I’m dumb?
But it could be that these things had no greater point, and she was just making a fool out of the fane’s son. Arion probably had gone home each night and laughed with friends, telling them what idiocies she’d forced the prince to do. When Gryndal had explained that Arion might be dead, Mawyndulë hadn’t felt the least bit sad.
“See, I knew you would understand what I’m talking about,” Gryndal said. “You’re smarter than your father. You can see what he can’t. The fane is hopelessly mired in a fraudulent past. He can’t possibly envision a future different from what he’s used to because he lacks imagination. Do you know the single most important attribute for greatness in the Art?”
Mawyndulë shook his head even though he remembered Arion saying it was control. Something told him Gryndal was looking for a different answer.
“Imagination,” Gryndal said. “The ability to think creatively. We call it the Art for that exact reason. Imagination is power. And I can see great power in you, Mawyndulë. Great power. You won’t be limited by traditions and foolish laws invented thousands of years ago by Fhrey who couldn’t conceive of the power we wield today. Do you think Gylindora Fane would have agreed to the restrictions she placed on herself and all subsequent Fhrey if she had the power we do? She was a product of her time, and back then the laws were necessary. Intertribal warfare was rampant and threatened to destroy us as a people. But can you honestly imagine any other tribe, or even all the tribes combined, successfully mounting an attack against the Miralyith?”
Mawyndulë shook his head. After seeing what his father had done to the leader of the Instarya and having seen Mount Mador with his own eyes, he knew the power of his clan was indisputable.
“That’s why the laws must change or, more precisely, why others must learn that such rules no longer—and never actually did—apply to the Miralyith. Gods have no such boundaries. You see that, don’t you?”
Mawyndulë nodded again.
Gryndal smiled, and then a sad look stole over the tutor’s face.
“What’s wrong?”
Gryndal shook his head. “It’s just so tragic.”
“What is?”
“That your father rules instead of you,” he said, and then gave a wistful sigh. “If you were fane…”
“I will be fane one day.”
Gryndal looked at him with a sympathetic smile. “Your father isn’t that old. He’s just over twenty-one hundred. He could rule another thousand years. In the meantime, you might have an accident. You could die on this very trip. Such a sad ending when we need your wisdom so badly.”
“Together we might change his mind,” Mawyndulë said. “Show him Ferrol has ordained the Miralyith as superior to all other Fhrey.”
“I’ve tried, believe me. My efforts were counterproductive. I convinced him to make an example of Zephyron, but afterward he regretted what happened in the arena, and if anything it has moderated his feelings toward ordinary Fhrey. The fane…well…it’s like trying to persuade a rock to fly. He simply doesn’t know how,” Gryndal said.
Mawyndulë laughed, and Gryndal laughed with him.
They rode in silence through the blackened ruins. Even after days on the trail, Mawyndulë still wasn’t comfortable in the saddle. He didn’t know why they had to ride—the soldiers didn’t. They walked behind them in double rows. Gryndal had insisted on the horses, but they were merely trading sore feet for a sore seat. Sitting on the animal scared him. There wasn’t anything to hold on to except some flimsy hair on the thing’s neck. Nothing would keep him on its back if the animal bolted. Three times the horse had stumbled or jerked unexpectedly. Each time he’d nearly screamed. The only good thing about being on the horse was the added height. He could see farther and was well above the soldiers, which he liked. Most of them were taller than he was, but they had to look up at him when he was mounted.