“Your father needs to respond to this, for the sake of maintaining his authority to rule, but he’ll also want revenge…retribution against everyone who harbors any drop of dissent toward him. He won’t be satisfied until he has dug deep and found the source of this poison. What is that source, Mawyndulë, can you tell me? What was it that caused this?”
“The Miralyith want more power.”
She nodded. “A division between the tribes. Do you know why there is a fane? Why we have the Horn of Gylindora and the Uli Vermar? It’s because we used to war among ourselves. We are our own worst enemy. In ancient times, the tribes slaughtered one another until the coming of Caratacus, who brought Ferrol’s horn to Gylindora Fane. She was just a simple basket maker back then. She didn’t think she was a hero, either. The tribes had nearly annihilated one another through constant battles for dominance. Gylindora and Caratacus changed all that. They gathered those of like mind from all the tribes and came here. They built this place and established laws, unbreakable rules, to make certain such infighting would never happen again. These have protected us, served us well. Once in a generation, the ruling line can be challenged. Even then, the choice is made by single combat. Not by war, not by the death of thousands. We have peace…at least within this forest. But what now? What happens when the rules are broken? What does the fane do when he feels the old ways aren’t working anymore?”
“He makes new ones.”
“Yes.” Imaly rested her injured arm on her injured leg to brush a lock of hair back from her face. “He tightens his grip, punishes large portions of his people. Do you think this will make them love or hate him? Do you think the Miralyith will thank him? Or now that they have been shown that rules can be broken, will they try again? What if they do so with larger numbers and better planning? Mawyndulë, we are facing civil war. We are taking our first steps back to our old destructive ways. A path that will eventually lead to our destruction.”
“I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“You were there. You attended the meetings. You are at the fork in this path, and we need you now. More than we’ve ever needed anyone before. Your father will ultimately decide which way to go, but you have the power to influence that decision. To change history before it happens.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“You can tell your father that a large number of his people, of his own tribe, tried to kill him because they want more power, and that will send him down the path of civil war. Or…you can tell him they were manipulated. You can say the Gray Cloaks were controlled, coerced, and seduced by someone else…someone external. With your single pointed finger, you have the power to unite us all against a common enemy and preserve the Forest Throne, or we can turn to infighting, which will ultimately destroy us.”
Mawyndulë thought of how Vidar had been set up, falsely accused of something he had no part in. He didn’t think he could do that to anyone. “I couldn’t lie about something like that.”
“Are you sure? One little white lie to save your people? And it isn’t like I’m suggesting you accuse an innocent.”
“Who, then?”
“The one person the fane would believe.” She paused.
Mawyndulë was frightened by who she would name. Will it be me?
“Nyphron of the Instarya,” Imaly said.
Relief washed over him. The moment she said the name, Mawyndulë knew it was the answer. An instant later he wondered if perhaps it might actually be true. How hard was it to believe that the outlaw, and maybe even The Traitor, would seek to destroy all of Fhrey society by pitting them against one another? Divide and conquer. Isn’t that a military axiom? And here it had nearly worked.
“Once again, just like in the Airenthenon, we are threatened. What will you do? Save yourself, or stand and use your influence to protect your people and preserve our heritage? This is your chance to be a hero, Mawyndulë. The salvation of our people is up to you.”
—
The itch was worse, almost maddening, and while harming the flora or fauna of the Garden was greatly frowned upon, Imaly resorted to breaking a slender twig. She snapped an offshoot free, sat down on one of the benches, and plunged the stick down inside the plaster cast that encased her leg. For several insane seconds she struggled desperately, and then in one glorious moment, she reached the itch. In that instant, she could have died happy. In ecstasy, she melted on the bench and wallowed there limp and lazy, the branch still sticking out of her cast.
“Hello.”
She opened her eyes. Before her stood a person she’d never seen before. He was so unkempt and disheveled that for a moment she couldn’t be certain if he was Fhrey. Though who else could he be, standing in the middle of the Garden in the very heart of Erivan.
“Hello,” she replied.
“May I join you?”
She nodded, pulled herself together, straightened up, and scooted over to give him room to sit.
“You don’t come here often,” he said. “I come every day, and I’ve never seen you.”
“No, not often. I’m very busy, you see, and—”
“Of course, being Curator is a very demanding position. You’re Imaly, yes?”
The question was disconcerting. She wasn’t as prominent as some, even those in lesser positions, and yet it wasn’t unusual for a stranger to know who she was. Still, there was something unsettling about him knowing her, while she was clueless about who he was—or what he wanted.
“Yes, that’s right, and you are?” she asked.
“Trilos,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. That’s an excellent position to hold. Influential, yet in the shadows.”
“And what is it that you do? What’s your occupation?”
He smiled at her. “Mostly I sit here, look at the Door, and ponder mysteries.”
“You’re Umalyn, then? A priest of Ferrol?”
“No, I can’t say that I am.”
She was about to ask which tribe he was from when he spoke first. “Things worked out quite well, wouldn’t you say?”
“Things?”
“I was concerned Erivan might slip into old habits. I was certain the Miralyith were going to start eating their own for a while.”
Not Miralyith at least.
“But that doesn’t look like it will happen. Not now, not after the prince told his father the whole thing was orchestrated by Nyphron. It appears the fane will take his rage out on the rebel, his Galantians, and the Rhunes who support and harbor him. I’ve heard he’s set plans in motion to build an army. The first time that’s happened since the Dherg War. I don’t think he trusts the Instarya to handle such matters. I do have a question, though. One that I’m surprised hasn’t crossed Lothian’s mind.”
“And that is?”
“How did he do it?”
“How did who do what?”
“Nyphron. By all accounts, he is hundreds of leagues away, just him and a handful of Galantians, living in rough, remote, places with the natives. How did he manage to cause a Miralyith insurrection?”
“Many of those killed—those who called themselves the Gray Cloaks—were, as I’ve heard the tale, friends of Nyphron. Apparently he planned this whole thing out in advance, setting it up when he and his father were allowed back for the Uli Vermar.”