—
Mawyndulë had been told about his first and, until that day, only visit to the Airenthenon. He had no memory of the occasion, seeing as how he was an infant at the time. The council chamber, while open to the public, wasn’t for children. And as far as the world of the Fhrey was concerned, he’d only recently crossed the line into adulthood by reaching the age of twenty-five. Before entering the Aquila, Mawyndulë had expected something truly wonderful, but after arriving, he couldn’t say he was impressed.
The hall wasn’t overly large, nor unusually grand, nor particularly breathtaking. He imagined some might think so—those who hadn’t grown up in the palace—but for Mawyndulë, the meeting chamber was a disappointment. The place was little more than a simple stone room with meager adornment except for the ghastly frescoes of Gylindora Fane and Caratacus painted on the underside of the dome. The two wore almost-smiles as they looked down on everyone from thrones of intertwined birchwood. Gylindora wasn’t pretty. Mawyndulë didn’t understand why anyone would create a painting and make her unattractive. He wondered if she had been alive when they painted it, and if so what became of the artists after she saw the fresco. Her famed adviser, Caratacus, wasn’t terribly handsome, either, which made Mawyndulë wonder if all the Fhrey from those days were homely.
The rest of the chamber was a semicircle with three rows of tiered benches capable of seating twenty or thirty people. Mawyndulë was surprised at how small the space was but also curious at the number of seats. If there were only six councilors and their junior counterparts, why were there more than twelve seats? This led Mawyndulë to wonder who else was present. Not everyone wore purple and white, which identified the senior and junior members. Maybe some councilors had others on their staff. He considered asking Vidar about it, but remembered the smirk the old Fhrey had given him after his last question, and he refused to provide any further entertainment.
In the center of the room sat a large chair. Like everything else inside the Airenthenon, it was carved of stone, but it was also endowed with lush gold cushions. That must be where his father would sit, if he were there. He wasn’t. Fane Lothian was still at the tower of Avempartha. Mawyndulë didn’t know the details of his father’s visit. Maybe Vidar did, but, again, the prince refused to ask.
An old woman approached the gold-cushioned chair and took a seat. Like Gylindora Fane, she, too, was homely. She had a wide, flat face, thin lips, brittle hair, and eyes just a tad too big—like a bulbous-eyed fish. The woman was tall and stocky, with wide shoulders and masculine hands. He didn’t like her, could tell that even from such a distance. She was odd, different. Ladies shouldn’t be so strapping. She sat with too much confidence, too much authority. She wasn’t fane, not even related, and yet she looked back at the gathering crowd of purple and white like a teacher waiting for a class to assemble. Mawyndulë was tired of teachers and tutors. This looked like another one, and he didn’t care for her in the least.
Vidar directed him to a bench, where they seated themselves. The stone was cold and hard, and the back support too straight, forcing him to sit more upright than he was used to.
“Is that the Curator?” Mawyndulë asked grudgingly, figuring if he guessed correctly it would deny Vidar the upper hand and prevent the insidious grin.
Vidar didn’t even look at him, but whispered, “Yes, that’s Imaly Fane, mind yourself around her.”
“Fane?” Mawyndulë ventured, without even realizing he had added yet another question.
“Imaly is a direct descendant of Gylindora Fane.” Vidar paused, then looked at him. “You do know Gylindora was the first fane, yes?”
Mawyndulë rolled his eyes as dramatically as he could. “I know that,” he said, stretching out each word to properly demonstrate his annoyance.
Vidar did grin derisively at him then.
“This fifth meeting of the Aquila in the Age of Lothian is hereby called to order,” someone said in a deep voice, and Mawyndulë leaned forward to peer down. The speaker was a tall, thin fellow holding a huge staff. “May our lord Ferrol grant us wisdom.”
“His Greatness, Fane Lothian, will not be with us today, as he is still dealing with issues at Avempartha,” Imaly said. She remained sitting, addressing the audience with legs crossed at the knee. The top foot bounced slightly under the long folds of her asica. “His son, however, is here, and I’d like everyone to please welcome our newest member, Prince Mawyndulë—junior councilor for the Miralyith.”
Everyone, including Imaly, began applauding.
“Stand up,” Vidar said sternly.
Mawyndulë pushed hurriedly to his feet, so quickly he nearly fell headlong over the rail. This brought a scowl and shake of Vidar’s head.
One more reason to hate you, Mawyndulë thought. He did, however, like the applause. Something about the dome made the clapping of just twenty-some people sound rich, full, and satisfying. He was smiling before he knew it, a broad, tooth-filled grin. He’d never been applauded before. People always clapped when Mawyndulë was with his father, but never just for him. The sound, and all the smiling eyes, made him feel buoyant in a way he’d never experienced before.
The moment was over all too soon. The clapping stopped, and Vidar tugged on Mawyndulë’s sleeve as if he didn’t trust the prince to know enough to resume his seat.
All the faces turned back to the Curator then—all but one.
She sat in the third tier—the row where those not dressed in purple and white were relegated. Young, and displaying the immaculately bald head of a Miralyith, she continued to smile at him long after the others had turned their attention back to Imaly. Mawyndulë looked away, feeling uncomfortable. He wasn’t accustomed to being stared at; he wasn’t accustomed to being seen. He’d spent most of his life in the Talwara alone with servants, who were far too busy to pay attention to him.
At first, he thought the girl was about his age, but then he decided she was probably older; almost everyone was. Births were so rare that they were greeted with citywide celebrations.
“…resulting in a surplus of acorns and mint tea,” Imaly was saying, but Mawyndulë hadn’t been listening. He was still thinking about the girl in the third tier.
Is she still looking? It felt like it. Funny how he could almost feel the stare, like an itch on the side of his face, making his cheek hot. He had to look. He performed the most modest of glances.
She was still focused on him. Her big, wide eyes were as cute as a kitten’s. And at that moment, she was biting her lower lip in a manner that made his stomach feel odd, sort of light and fluttery.
Mawyndulë heard a humph. Vidar was scowling at him and took that moment to fold his arms in a severe manner.
Mawyndulë looked back toward the center of the room, to the chair, which was now empty. Imaly was walking in slow thoughtful steps before the spectators.
“…no, I’m afraid not,” she said as if answering someone’s question, and she may have been. Mawyndulë, who’d entered the Airenthenon with noble intentions of listening closely to the concerns of the day, found himself lost in deafening thoughts about the girl in the third tier. At least he was until he heard Imaly say, “…former First Minister Gryndal.”