Mawyndulë’s body was still tense with apprehension. Unable to make sense of anything, he held still and replied, “Sure.”
“Good.” Lothian took a step around the chair. “And don’t put furniture in front of doors where people are walking.”
He’s not punishing me. He doesn’t know anything about the cloak, about the meetings. Terror dissolved into relief, instantly replaced with smug satisfaction. How could he? I’ve been too clever for him, for Vasek, for all of them. As his mind thawed, curiosity slipped in.
“Father?” The word came out flat, a poor note played badly from lack of practice. Now was Mawyndulë’s turn to be awkward.
The fane paused nevertheless.
“Since I won’t be there, could you at least tell me your plans for the war? It would save me the embarrassment of being the only one who doesn’t know.”
“What war?”
What war? Had his father gone senile? Or did he think Mawyndulë was too young to be trusted with such information?
“Aren’t you speaking to the Aquila about your plans to invade Rhulyn? I’d just like to know what you’re going to say.”
Lothian smiled, a strange, unfamiliar expression, not biting, cynical, nor condescending. There wasn’t even a hint of sarcasm; his father almost looked proud. “You are young and have so very much to learn. You have no idea how the world works, do you? There won’t be a war. The giant’s delivered the punishment already. We’ll need to increase the tensions between the clans to reduce their numbers, but there is no reason for more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the Grenmorians may not have been completely successful, but the message was sent and received. That town is now deserted.”
“But Gryndal’s murderer is still alive. Arion is as well…and Nyphron.”
“Yes, a great many are still alive, you included.”
Mawyndulë had no idea what was meant by that or why his father included him in a list of criminals. The old man really might be losing his mind. “We have to invade, wipe them out.”
“Who?”
Who? Mawyndulë physically and mentally blinked in disbelief. He’s doing this on purpose.
“The Rhunes! They have to be destroyed, all of them.”
“Why?”
Mawyndulë stood, staring in shock. “They killed Gryndal!” His voice gained volume from frustration. Maybe yelling louder would make his father understand. “They have to be punished. You can’t let them get away with this.”
His father’s face softened. “You don’t destroy an entire herd because one goat chews up an old boot. With the Grenmorians, I sent a message. Dahl Rhen is no more. They understand that defying me comes with a price, no matter how justified that defiance might appear. Arion surely understands how angry I am with her. In time, I am certain we’ll have to visit that further, but I’m content to let her stew.”
A boot! Did he just compare Gryndal to an old boot?
“But Vasek said the Rhunes were preparing for war.”
Lothian smiled again. “You paid attention. That’s good, but what you fail to see is that the Rhunes aren’t an enemy to be fought. They are more like elk or deer. And it’s silly to be concerned about going to war against simple animals. They have no weapons or any ability to access the Art. The only concern is a stampede, and that’s why we’ll increase our efforts to reduce their numbers.”
Mawyndulë was furious. So angry that he almost told his father about the Rhune who’d resisted Gryndal’s control. He’d purposely left that part out of his recounting because The Traitor had been adamant about telling the fane of the girl’s existence. He wasn’t going to play into Arion’s plan. Circumventing anything she wanted was Mawyndulë’s sacred duty.
He couldn’t comprehend why his father was being so ridiculous, but Lothian hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the arrogance of Arion or watched the filthy Rhune slice off Gryndal’s head. His father hadn’t witnessed the blood, or heard the sound the head made as it struck the turf—a ghastly hollow, impossibly normal thunk. Arguing with his father was pointless. He didn’t understand, and couldn’t.
Then a question popped into his head. “Then why are you addressing the Aquila if it isn’t about the war?”
“Something far more important has happened. It has nothing to do with you,” he said, and there was that smile again.
After his father left, Mawyndulë stared at the closed door and wondered what had just happened. More important, he wondered what was about to.
—
Banned from the Aquila, Mawyndulë had nothing to do. He’d spent more than half his life sitting in the chair his father had just complained about, either there or on the nearby bed. Mawyndulë wasn’t an outdoorsy person, and he’d never played sports or composed music, even though The Traitor often said he should. She also suggested painting. He’d dabbled with that a few times, but found it irritating. Still, since meeting Makareta, he’d seriously considered taking it up again. He thought he could do a few pictures and invite her to his room to see them, get her impression—one artist to another. Having her visit would make the irritation worth bearing. He imagined that if she were there, he’d never want to leave.
That day, however, it was just the chair, the chest, the table, the lamp, the wardrobe, and the bed, all poor company for a fine summer’s day. He decided to go out. Perhaps he’d get some paints at the market on the Greenway. He might even set up an easel somewhere and jump right into his new hobby. The problem was that he planned on going to the Gray Cloak meeting that evening. He didn’t want to have to come back, but he also didn’t want to carry the cloak around with him. What if someone saw?
It’s just a cloak.
He pulled a satchel out of his wardrobe and stuffed it in.
What a pain. Why have cloaks?
He slung the bag over a shoulder and went out. He spotted the dome of the Airenthenon on the far hill across the valley and wondered—briefly—what was happening. His father had the wrong impression of his son. Mawyndulë was delighted by his banishment. Not having to sit through another meeting was a gift. Resolving not to go anywhere near the Airenthenon, Mawyndulë decided to cut through the Garden. A pleasant walk, it would take him closer to the Rose Bridge. Far too early for the meeting, but he thought he might skip some stones, even go wading if he became hot enough. He’d only just entered the sunshine and already he felt uncomfortably warm.
Why is it that Ferrol made the world hot at times and cold at others?
If Mawyndulë had built the world, he’d have made it perfect. All year long, day and night the temperature would remain the same. No need for coats or cloaks—except as badges to secret societies. Mawyndulë thought about this and shook his head as he walked. Cloaks were stupid. They ought to wear rings instead. Mawyndulë made a mental note to bring that up at the meeting. He was certain rings were a great idea. She’d like that.
The guy was on the bench again, still in the dirty clothes, still staring at the Door.
People did that, Mawyndulë knew, the Umalyn especially. Priests of Ferrol sat and meditated on the Door for hours. On holy days, they came in flocks like migrating birds, all sitting there praying, clearing their minds, or asking for guidance. Maybe they just stared and thought about what they’d eat for their evening meal. Or perhaps they fantasized about someone they lusted after, or even plotted to exact revenge against a fellow priest. The Umalyn liked to act pious, but Mawyndulë figured everyone was selfish at heart. And priests probably more so than most.