“Keenig?”
“Their version of a fane, I believe. A single leader who’ll unite all the clans under one banner. It’s possible they’re making plans for war.”
“War?” The fane chuckled. “With whom? With us, you mean?”
“I believe so.”
Several at the table laughed, none more heartily than the commander of the Lion Corps, who, when he was able, added, “Of all the nerve.”
Vasek didn’t laugh or smile. “There are a great many of them, my fane. And they sent messengers to the High Spear Valley as well. It could prove serious if the Gula-Rhunes join forces with the Rhulyn clans of the south.”
“Unlikely,” Lothian said. “We’ve taught them to hate, trained them to slaughter one another.” He waved his hand in dismissal. “We’ll have the Instarya instigate another conflict. That should douse any would-be flame. Things will settle back down then.”
Mawyndulë couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. He’d been excluded from the plans for the giant attack—The Punishment, as his father had called it—which hadn’t punished anyone. He couldn’t continue to sit idly by while fools blathered so. The prince pushed to his feet, slapped the little desk with the untouched water pitcher, and said, “Settle back down? Are you hearing yourselves? We need to slaughter them all!”
“Mawyndulë!” his father snapped. “You don’t have a voice at these proceedings.”
“I’m a councilor of the Aquila.”
“A junior councilor, and as you might have noticed, there aren’t any senior councilors in attendance.”
“But I should have a voice. I’m the only one making sense, and it’s the same thing Gryndal would say—”
“First Minister Gryndal isn’t here,” Vasek interrupted. “And no one knows what he may or may not have—”
“He’s not here because they murdered him! And that’s why they must die. All of them!”
“You are excused,” his father told Mawyndulë with a sharp voice.
“But I—”
“Out. Now!”
Mawyndulë left, but before he did, he overturned the desk, shattering the pitcher and the glasses. Childish, but then they were acting like children, too, and it felt good to break something.
—
Mawyndulë wasn’t planning on going to the Rose Bridge. He told himself that even as he ducked into the Garden, avoiding the evening crowds in Florella Plaza. He would come out on the north side of the city, which would put him in easy reach of the bridge—just in case he changed his mind. All he really wanted was to get out of the Talwara and away from his father. He thought the fane might go looking for him after the meeting, and Mawyndulë decided he’d rather not be found.
I might go after all. Wouldn’t mind seeing Makareta again. I’m already in the area.
Mawyndulë had liked talking to her. She didn’t seem like a genius or anything, but in some ways that made her even more appealing. Nearly everyone knew more than him, or acted as if they did just because they were centuries older. Mawyndulë liked that Makareta didn’t put on airs. In a way, that made her smarter—or at least more genuine.
While walking through the Garden, Mawyndulë considered the design and decided the rocks were a little too perfectly placed and the shrubs too neat. He supposed the intent was to fool visitors about a pristine origin. History held that it had been designed by Gylindora Fane and Caratacus, and then built by the founders of the Eilywin tribe. He would have preferred to see the Garden more natural, which meant messy and haphazard.
The longer he studied his surroundings, the more certain he became that Gylindora had everything wrong. What did she know anyway? Yes, she had been the first fane, but she wasn’t there when life sprouted on Elan. Mawyndulë was convinced the cradle of life had been in utter disarray. People always expected order, they liked believing in symmetry and equity, but no such things existed without applying force. His father likely felt he was being evenhanded by dismissing his son in the council chambers rather than hearing his extremely valuable advice. If life were fair, his father would see the righteousness of his son’s wisdom. With his father’s realization would come remorse, and justice would be served. That would be fair, but the world didn’t work that way, nor was it pretty or perfect.
As he approached the Door, Mawyndulë slowed. Not that he wanted to savor the moment, or to show reverence or respect. He did so because the Door scared him.
Mawyndulë had heard about children daring one another to knock on it, a rite of passage. But he hadn’t known any kids when growing up. There were never too many to begin with, which made him think the rumor wasn’t true. He’d only approached the Door once, on his twenty-fifth birthday. The Umalyn High Priest had pressed Mawyndulë’s palm against its surface and declared him a true Son of Ferrol. The rough wood had felt like a dead tree. No—not a tree—a dead person. Remembering it now, Mawyndulë imagined his hand on the face of a corpse, and a chill raced up his back.
Supposedly, paradise lay on the far side of the Door, the place where everyone went upon death. So what would happen if it opened when I was standing too near? Would it suck me in like a whirlpool? Would I die when crossing the threshold? Maybe it isn’t paradise. Maybe it’s something else. Something so not-paradise that it had to be locked away.
Mawyndulë worked his way to the circle that surrounded the Door. The Garden was designed to bring everyone to the center, so he couldn’t avoid it entirely, but he kept to the outside ring, skirting the area around the benches. The sun was down, and only a faint gray light remained. The dimness made the Door appear that much more ominous. When he was young, Mawyndulë had had nightmares about being there alone at night. In his dream, someone was always knocking. As he drew closer, he realized the sound came from the Door’s other side. He’d struggle to keep himself from reaching out, a battle perpetually lost. Even as he extended his hand, Mawyndulë tried to convince himself it wouldn’t matter, because the Door couldn’t be opened. But of course he was wrong. He always woke before seeing what horror was on the other side, and maybe that was worse—the not knowing.
As Mawyndulë went around, he spotted a person sitting on one of the benches. During the day, that wasn’t unusual, but after dark it was downright creepy. The guy wore a dirty brown robe, stained and tattered. He had dark hair and the ghost of a beard.
Not a Miralyith.
The figure sat leaning forward, staring at the Door. Mawyndulë didn’t pause; he kept moving and slipped by. The fellow on the bench never looked up; he didn’t move a muscle.
Maybe Mawyndulë would go to the Rose Bridge after all. He was curious about the meeting and who attended. Perhaps they were a bunch of nuts who turned their backs on Ferrol and worshipped the moon or something crazy like that. He wondered how many would be there—he’d prefer just Makareta. As much as he hoped that might be, he knew it wouldn’t happen. She didn’t seem like the type to stand alone under a bridge at night, but hadn’t he already determined she wasn’t too intelligent? Odd for a Miralyith, but he supposed not all the gifted could be smart. The creative ones could be pretty dumb, actually—Arion, for example.