Alone, he descended the steps to the ancient interlocking stones of Florella Plaza. Artists displayed examples of their work: statues of animals, glass sculptures as delicate as moths’ wings, and breathtaking paintings of the sweeping frontier. A group of landscapes near the Fountain of Lon caught Mawyndulë’s attention, and he went over to examine a particularly large image.
The painting depicted a dramatic view of Mount Mador, caught in the light of a setting sun. The image was bold, passionate, emotionally stirring—and also a lie. Mawyndulë had stood at the same vantage point as the artist. He’d seen the view, and the pinnacle didn’t look anything like the picture. There were no bright oranges and deep purples, no gold ridges on the slopes. And while the mountain was large and impressive, it wasn’t that big. Not to mention, the clouds didn’t swirl so dramatically. Everything was embellished for effect. Looking at it, Mawyndulë thought the artist managed the opposite of their intention. The lurid colors and exaggerated size cheapened the truth, replacing grandeur with garishness.
“Hello.” He heard a soft voice and turned.
His muscles froze and rooted him in place. He was face-to-face with the girl from the third tier. She stood within arm’s length, smiling at him, and just as pretty up close. Prettier even.
“That’s mine.” She pointed at the painting. “Do you like it?”
He nodded, his mind searching for his voice. “Yes…much…ah very much. It’s…it’s wonderful. Amazing really.”
Her smile grew bigger and brighter.
Mawyndulë’s heart began to gallop. He could feel it throbbing and worried it might be noticed under the layers of his asica.
“I wasn’t actually there,” she admitted. “I borrowed from other paintings.”
“I was,” he said.
“I know. Did it look like this? Do you think I captured it?”
“Absolutely. Better than absolutely. Better than perfect. You improved on perfection. Really.” Mawyndulë tried not to listen to himself. He knew he was babbling. His fingers trembled, and he was starting to sweat.
Again she smiled, and his stomach became buoyant, feeling the way it did when he went swimming. Actually, no—more than that—he felt a tad nauseous, but in an impossibly pleasant way.
“I’m Makareta.”
“I’m Mawyndulë.”
She laughed a short, light sound. “Of course you are. Everyone knows you.” Her smile disappeared, and a worry wrinkle appeared over her eyes. “Is it okay for me to talk to you? I mean, is that allowed?”
He didn’t know what she meant.
“I wouldn’t have, except you were looking at my painting. I thought…” She turned away with troubled eyes. “Maybe I should just stop talking now.”
“Why wouldn’t it be all right?”
Her brows went up. “You’re the fane’s son, and a council member of the Aquila, an important person. I’m…well…I’m nobody.”
Mawyndulë was stunned that such an amazing girl as Makareta—a Miralyith—could see herself as a nobody, but he did like that she considered him too important to speak to.
“You’re Miralyith, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“Then how could you be nobody?”
“I’m not important, not like you. I’m just—”
“All Miralyith are important.”
She smiled again. He liked making her smile, and he managed it so easily. Up close, she was dazzling. He would’ve likened her blue eyes to pools of water, or fiery gems, or the endless skies, if any of those things had been remotely as beautiful.
“You sound like friends of mine,” she said. “They go on and on about how the Miralyith are the chosen ones of Ferrol. The Blessed Ones, they call us. Why else would Ferrol give us such gifts? They chide me when I struggle to accept my own position, my birthright.”
“These friends sound very wise.”
“A lot of Miralyith our age feel that way. Would you like to meet them? We’re having a gathering next week on the first night of the new moon, under the Rose Bridge in the north end of the city.”
“Under the bridge? Why there?”
She paused and looked around them. Lowering her voice, she said, “Not everyone would appreciate the things we talk about.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Come and find out.” She looked down at her feet a moment, then back up at him. “If nothing else, it would be nice seeing you again.”
Mawyndulë couldn’t argue with that. He gave her a nonchalant shrug, but in his mind, he was already making plans to find the bridge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Road to Tirre
So I had this idea. A crazy one—or so I thought at the time. I did not have a clue what I was doing. No one else did, either. That is how it was at the beginning, and maybe it always is like that at the start of great things.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Roan checked the carts as she had every morning, afternoon, and night since they set out from Dahl Rhen. She crawled underneath each broad wooden bed and looked at where the axle passed through the wheels to make certain it wasn’t shearing. The long wooden poles had developed deep, splintered grooves, and the weight was taking a toll, but they were still holding up. Persephone had packed the carts solid. All the grain, slabs of smoked meat, barrels of water and beer, tools, weapons, wool, and even the stone figure of Mari bounced along, riding in style. Roan prayed the carts would last the trip. It’d be her fault if they didn’t. The stress made eating impossible, and walking all day without food made her dizzy.
The procession had stopped, and the midday meal was being prepared. All around, people were gathered in small groups. Roan wasn’t a social person. She’d spent most of her life trapped in a little roundhouse with Iver, who didn’t let her go out and punished her for speaking with others. She’d learned early, and painfully, that it wasn’t wise to defy him. So, while Roan found most everything in the world intriguing, she shunned people. Now that Iver was dead, this was more out of habit than need, but old ways were familiar ways—safe ways—and Roan had become an expert at hiding from the world.
Still, the dwarfs fascinated her. Their metal shirts, fashioned from hundreds of tiny rings, were amazing. And the things they know! They’d called what she’d built wheels and carts—giving names to her ideas as if they had known what was in her head before she did. One of them had helped her build the axles, another new word. He called himself Rain. He was the one who brought her copper and tin that he’d dug down to—something she’d never thought of doing. And with it, he suggested making something he called bushings, reinforcements on the axles to protect the area of rubbing to prevent the wooden poles from being sawed in half.
Sawed was another new word, derived from the remarkable metal tool that could smoothly cut through wood. Roan couldn’t count the number of ideas that little device was birthing inside her head. If Roan were a god with a divine anvil she’d make dozens of saws, but she didn’t even have a workbench anymore. She didn’t have anything. Iver’s home had been mostly destroyed, and what had remained had been left behind.