“Your father will hear about this, but that should be the least of your worries,” Vidar said, and Mawyndulë realized who the shadow in his dream had been—a more frightening version of the senior councilor with fangs and claws. “You’ve tarnished not only your reputation in this esteemed body, but mine as well.”
Vidar stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Listen, you little shite, your father might not care about the impression you make, but I refuse to be embarrassed by your behavior. While we are in this chamber, you do what I say, and that means paying attention and minding your manners.”
Mawyndulë was stunned, but not so much so that he would assume a subservient role from a lesser Miralyith. He was the prince after all. “Why should I?”
Vidar smiled then, and when he did, the senior councilor really did look like the thing from the nightmare. “Politics, my boy. You might be Lothian’s son, but trust me, I can ruin you. I’ll make everyone in this city hate you, including your own father.”
“And when I become fane, I’ll have you executed.”
“I’m twenty-seven hundred years old, boy. I won’t live long enough to give you the satisfaction. You, on the other hand, will have to live with the soiled reputation for the rest of your long life. Think about that the next time your actions could make a fool of me.”
Mawyndulë hadn’t been trying to embarrass the senior councilor, but at that moment, he preferred that Vidar thought he had. The old fool walked out, leaving Mawyndulë under the great dome of Caratacus and Gylindora—the basket weaver.
When Mawyndulë turned to leave, he realized he hadn’t been completely alone. Imaly was still seated in her center chair, watching him, her old fish eyes peering in a sickening fashion.
“That didn’t go so well, did it?” she said, her hands clasped in her lap. She hadn’t spoken loudly, but the dome amplified her voice as if she were a Miralyith using a sound-enhancing weave.
Mawyndulë shook his head.
“Vidar is an ass,” she said so plainly that it stunned him. “Some aspire to these seats to better serve their fellow Fhrey. Some feel called, others obligated. People like Vidar do it for the prestige and the respect the position usually bestows. But he doesn’t understand that respect isn’t something you get from a position, or even from past achievements. Respect has to be earned, and re-earned, with every single person you meet. Vidar never learned that lesson, and as a result, he has never found the regard he so dearly craves, even from a pup like you. It gnaws at him, this feeling that he should be bowed to when he’s laughed at instead.”
“I didn’t do it to make people laugh at him. I just fell asleep and had a nightmare.”
“Doesn’t matter. In his mind, you did it on purpose, and people have been laughing at him his whole life. They haven’t, of course, any more than you intentionally tried to embarrass him. But like all of us, he sees what he looks for, and after twenty-seven hundred years he has certain expectations.”
She got up and walked toward him. As she did, she glanced up toward the gallery behind Mawyndulë’s head. He quickly spun, thinking Makareta might be there, that she might have come back in, but the rows were still empty.
Imaly smiled at him. “Mawyndulë,” she said gently, kindly, “you’re young. I know you don’t think you are, but you’re still very much a child. Don’t take what I’m about to say the wrong way. This isn’t about you personally. I think anyone under a thousand shouldn’t be allowed outside without a guardian.” She chuckled. “You need to be more guarded. You’re the prince. You will inherit the Forest Throne, and if you survive the challenge, you will be fane. There are many people who would like to harness the power you will one day wield.”
“Apparently not Vidar.”
“Like I said, Vidar is an ass, but he’s only an ass.”
His grin grew wider. He liked it when she berated Vidar.
“There are others far more ambitious, far more sinister than he. Just remember that the one you see isn’t nearly so dangerous as the ones you can’t.”
She looked up at the gallery once more then walked out, leaving him alone beneath the steady gaze of Caratacus and Gylindora.
—
Mawyndulë arrived early at the Rose Bridge and sat on a big rock at the top of the bank, near where the span met the ground. He liked it there, perched high like a hawk on a cliff’s edge. Sitting in the twilight, he could see the water of the Shinara flowing by.
He rarely spent time alone. In his youth, there was a staff that saw to his needs: maids, nurses, cooks, entertainers. The older he became the smaller the staff, but he would still have had a tutor if the last one hadn’t turned traitor and Gryndal hadn’t died. He expected his father to appoint a new instructor, but he hadn’t yet. The lack suited Mawyndulë just fine. He’d never liked lessons and enjoyed the free time, time to be alone, time to think, time to live.
A yellowed leaf floated along the river like a tiny boat, spinning in the breeze, gliding over the ripples as if weightless. Watching it, Mawyndulë felt certain there was a greater truth in that otherwise insignificant leaf, perhaps because it was insignificant. Everyone knew mountains and skies were majestic, and worthy of observance, but no one ever bothered to look at a leaf. Yet there was a beauty there, a simple purity. Billions of them torn free from their homes and scattered by the wind, yet each—like the one on the river—was unique, its path different from any other. What an adventure it must be having, riding the water to lands unknown. He spotted more leaves, some greener than others, traveling downstream as well. Watching them pass, Mawyndulë felt wiser, more profound, because he alone appreciated the value of a leaf drifting on a stream.
People began to arrive just after dark. That was the point. The meeting was meant to be secret. He hadn’t fully understood that the first time, but things made more sense now. The other tribes were suspicious of the Miralyith and looking for excuses to revolt. An open meeting of so many Miralyith would be seen as a threat.
He didn’t recognize anyone at first, just nameless faces who hauled in wine and set out blankets. Many had baskets of food to share. Mawyndulë remained on his perch. Few noticed; when someone did, he smiled and they smiled back. Most sat and talked softly among themselves, and for a brief moment Mawyndulë saw them as the leaves on the river, all unique, all adrift on powerful currents they were helpless to control. And in that instant he realized that if this were true, he, too, must be a leaf.
The thought evaporated with the arrival of Makareta.
She didn’t come with Aiden as he’d expected. She was with two others whom he didn’t recognize. Maybe he’d seen them the previous week, but a lot of his memory of that night was fuzzy. When she spotted him, she grinned. He hoped she would come up to his ledge, hoped that he might have her all to himself, but pivoting on her left heel, she turned and waved for him to come down. By the time he had, she was holding out a cup of wine.
“You came back,” she said with a giddy, childish bounce that made him happy.
“I said I would.”
“Orlene, Tandur, this is Mawyndulë, son of Fane Lothian.”
Orlene was older, taller than Makareta. She actually wore her cloak and had the hood up, giving her a mysterious allure. Tandur held his cloak draped over one arm, and while his head was Miralyith-bald, he had a patch of neatly trimmed beard on his chin and just under his lower lip.