“We believe our culture is on the cusp of a new era. It’s been nearly twelve thousand years since Estramnadon was founded, since Gylindora Fane and Caratacus led us here and established our society. Did you know Gylindora was a Nilyndd…a crafter?”
Does he think I’m an idiot?
“Of course he knows that,” Makareta said with enough disdain to put a genuine smile on Mawyndulë’s face.
Aiden looked annoyed, or maybe it was embarrassment at being corrected in front of the prince. “Okay, but did you know she used to make baskets?”
Mawyndulë was pleased to see just as much surprise on Makareta’s face.
“Ah-hah!” Aiden declared victory. “I thought so. Most people don’t know that, but it’s true. That was her craft, making baskets from river grass. Can you imagine? A fane. A basket weaver! Life was very different then. So much of our society was established in a time before…well…before the Art for one. I think it goes without saying that if the Miralyith had been one of the original founding tribes, Gylindora wouldn’t have been our first fane. Am I right?”
Mawyndulë found himself nodding as he took another sip of wine. At first glance, he hadn’t liked Aiden. He didn’t care for anyone taller than himself, and Aiden’s habit of repeating Am I right? was certainly annoying. But most of all he didn’t like that Aiden had given Makareta a cup of wine. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Perhaps they were just friends, but it bothered Mawyndulë all the same.
He couldn’t argue, however, with Aiden’s high opinion of Miralyith. What he had said was as comfortable as old slippers. Mawyndulë had thought the same for years. And while he knew Gylindora had been of the Nilyndd tribe, he’d never heard about the basket-weaving thing. That was pathetic, but also exactly what he would’ve expected.
“What your father did to that Instarya leader in the Carfreign changed everything. It showed that not even the warrior tribe can hope to challenge us for dominance. And the way he played with him? That was awesome. When Lothian finally obliterated Zephyron like a toy, that really sent a message. All the other tribes now know the truth about the Miralyith. We aren’t just a stronger tribe; we’re a different people altogether. A higher sort of being.”
“Gryndal used to say the Miralyith were the new gods,” Mawyndulë said.
Aiden grinned. “Did Gryndal tell you he was part of our group?”
Mawyndulë was stunned.
“The founding member, actually. A genius.” Aiden’s grin faded to a sickened look. “I can’t believe what happened to him. To be killed like that…by a Rhune.”
“Mawyndulë was there, weren’t you?” Makareta said.
He nodded and finished the last of his wine—a large mouthful—and he found himself wishing there was more.
“That must have been horrible,” she said, shortening the distance between them.
Mawyndulë didn’t like people standing too close, but Makareta was an exception. He also liked that she was now nearer to him than to Aiden.
“Everyone heard how you tried to kill the Rhune. You were summoning fire, yes?” she asked.
Mawyndulë nodded.
“A perfect choice,” Aiden said. “I would’ve tried the same.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Makareta said reproachfully. “Neither one of us would. We would’ve been struck stupid, paralyzed at the sight of Gryndal’s headless body. We wouldn’t have been able to think, much less do anything.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t, but I certainly would have,” Aiden said, sounding angry and perhaps a little hurt.
Mawyndulë didn’t want to gloat, but he couldn’t help smiling.
“I don’t think you know what you would or wouldn’t have done,” Makareta said. “The last time, and I bet the only time, you saw anyone die, much less witnessed anyone being killed, was that Instarya leader in the arena. He wasn’t Miralyith, not one of our people, but I still cried.”
“That’s you,” Aiden said. “I didn’t cry. I laughed.”
Mawyndulë hadn’t laughed or cried. After seeing what his father had done to Zephyron, Mawyndulë left the stands, went behind the support pillar near the service gate, and vomited. He worked hard to avoid thinking about the challenge, and he’d pushed away the memories of the day Gryndal died. Mawyndulë had tried to erase the dual visions of blood and gore, especially the horror when the First Minister’s head came free and fell. There had been so much blood. He thought he could still taste the vomit on his tongue.
“You’re such the hero, aren’t you?” Makareta told Aiden.
Aiden’s expression soured. “I’m just saying that fire was a good choice. That’s all.”
“Well, I agree with that,” Makareta conceded. Taking Mawyndulë’s empty cup, she handed him her full one.
“Maybe,” Mawyndulë said. “Won’t ever know because The Traitor stopped me.” He refused to refer to Arion by name anymore. His old tutor would forever be known as The Traitor.
All three shook their heads in disgust. “Bitch,” they said in unison.
Such a perfect harmony made them all smile, and in that shared moment, Mawyndulë felt at one with the universe. Everything made sense in a way it never had before. It all felt good and right. He liked the wine—the way it tasted and how it made him feel. The floating carnival lights and the people playing with water were wonderful. He liked the silly robes, the hidden secret fellowship, and the atmosphere provided by the dark underside of the bridge. Mawyndulë even decided he liked Aiden. But more than anything else, he liked Makareta. He liked her a lot.
“This is fun,” Mawyndulë said, and took another sip of wine, surprised that his new cup was already mostly empty.
“Does that mean you’ll come back?” Makareta asked.
“If I do, can I have a cloak?”
“Only members get those. Would you like to join?”
Mawyndulë decided with barely a thought. What was there to think about? These were the most sensible people he’d ever met. They were smart, welcoming, and more like a family than anything he’d experienced in the Talwara. And then there was Makareta. Mawyndulë licked the wine from his lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
“I’d love to,” he said. “You’re my kind of people.”
CHAPTER TEN
Something to Believe In
We were the same age, but I do not recall seeing him in Tirre. I have been told that he was little more than an animal then, an abandoned boy surviving the aftermath in the shadows and tall grass. No one could have guessed what he would become. I know I did not.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The tent still leaked.
Raithe watched water fall from sagging cloth where overhead pools had formed, three of them, and each one dripped. He wasn’t complaining—quite the opposite. He was amazed that pieces of stretched cloth could keep the area mostly dry after four solid days of rain.
Clan Rhen had settled along the northern wall of Dahl Tirre. The stacked-stone barrier ringing the village had provided shelter from the wind, which blew in endlessly from the sea. The open field afforded plenty of room to spread out, and after the villagers unloaded the carts, they dug a series of fire pits and stored the supplies. Water had been pulled from Tirre’s well, originally a source of tension with the locals who insisted the newcomers needed to wait each day until all the Tirreans were finished. Despite this, everything had worked out fairly well until the rain.