Roan was right. There had to be a better way.
Suri turned to Brin. “Show me how to sing what is on the table tablet.”
“Suri,” Arion said. “There’s no power.”
“The one who made Balgargarath found power in here, I just have to discover where it’s hiding.” She faced Brin again. “Teach me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Makareta
Everyone thinks their adversary has an easier time than they do. They believe that all their opponent’s schemes work out exactly as expected, while their own plans constantly suffer setbacks. It is a funny notion, especially since you can’t have an adversary without being one.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
As Mawyndulë and Makareta walked into the Airenthenon together, he knew this would be the greatest moment of his life. Despite being the crown prince, his life up until that point was a disappointing one. He’d never done anything noteworthy, and aside from his one ill-fated trip to Rhulyn, he’d never gone anywhere. No laws prevented him from leaving the palace, but he felt the disapproval when he did.
His father rarely left the Talwara. As fane, people came to him. Monthly visits to the Temple of Ferrol were acceptable, but mingling in the marketplace wasn’t. Mawyndulë’s life mirrored his father’s, and most days were spent in his room. Everyone thought he was meditating, developing his Art. He did that, but mostly he did nothing. He spent hours lying on his bed daydreaming, which was a challenge as he had so little raw material to work with. His fantasies had become more specific over the last few weeks, but that day—that glorious afternoon—several became reality.
Gryndal had been the senior councilor for the Miralyith, and for years, Mawyndulë had longed to imitate his hero. But with Vidar as his tyrannical master, he’d grown to hate the dull sessions. Yet that day, just like in one of his wonderful dreams, Vidar was simply gone. Convicted of treason, his former master had been locked away. In his place walked Mawyndulë, with the beautiful Makareta by his side. His father hadn’t questioned her appointment. Vidar’s sentencing was distracting the fane so thoroughly that he didn’t seem to care who was picked. For once, everything was working the way it should. The old had been wiped away, and this was a new start. Yes, the start of a new life, a better life. Mawyndulë imagined he was entering the Airenthenon again for the first time. It certainly felt that way.
Not until they had taken their seats—when he sat in the senior councilor’s place—did he feel the guilt.
You don’t think Vidar is really a traitor, do you?
Mawyndulë had avoided asking questions about Vidar’s fate, mainly because he didn’t want to know what his father planned to do, but also partly out of concern that Lothian or Vasek might grow suspicious. The fane had already been watching him. Vasek tells me you keep mostly to yourself. But they didn’t know about the Gray Cloaks.
What if they did? What if Vasek discovers Vidar wasn’t a traitor after all? And worse yet, what if he finds out I knew but didn’t say anything? He would certainly be in trouble, which he felt was completely unfair. After all, he hadn’t done anything. He was more innocent than Vidar, who, in a way, deserved his punishment. And what could I have done? Told my father everything? Then Makareta and Aiden would be locked up, possibly killed. He couldn’t let that happen, not to her.
The whole matter was in the past. He wasn’t certain why he was even thinking about it. He’d made his choice, and it was a sound one. Vidar was old, while he and Makareta had their whole lives ahead. If someone needed to be sacrificed, let it be the dusty, bitter old Fhrey.
The speaker beat the staff on the tile and called the session of the Aquila to order.
Hemon, senior councilor of the Gwydry, was the first to speak, saying something about a shortage of indigo resulting in a lack of blue dyes. Mawyndulë tuned her out after the first three sentences, focusing instead on Makareta’s thighs. Since it was a warm summer’s day, she wore a short asica, and seated on the benches as they were, the hem of her garment inched up well above her knees. Her right thigh touched his left—bare skin to bare skin. She didn’t seem to notice, but to Mawyndulë it was as if he’d stepped off a cliff. His stomach rose and hovered somewhere just below his throat. Breathing was difficult. Filled with a nervous energy, he squeezed his hands into fists. Closing his eyes, Mawyndulë tried to calm himself. But that only brought forth random images of the two of them together.
Arion—The Traitor—used to say he had a great imagination, and she would laud the ability as an advantage in the practice of the Art, but it could also be a torment. He couldn’t turn it off. He saw them together on his bed, in that quiet place where he was always alone, her presence transforming his prison into paradise. He imagined them lying side by side, facing each other, talking. She was still wearing the short asica, her bare thighs close to his, and he would reach down and feel her smooth skin. She would smile, sigh contentedly, and in that exhale would be an invitation.
Opening his eyes, Mawyndulë bit his lip, trying to slow his heart and relax his breathing.
His daydreams had never been this powerful before, but his fantasies were also never this close to becoming a reality. He’d already decided to make his feelings known to Makareta. After the meeting, he planned to walk with her down by the river to the eastern glade. If she protested, he would insist. He could do that now that he was senior, and she junior, councilor. A bench sat near the water and despite the lovely view, few people ever went there. They would be alone.
He wondered if he should ask first or just kiss her. He was likely to fumble the words, but how many ways could he screw up a kiss? After that, what need would there be for words? She might slap him, might think he was too forward, too presumptuous. But he was the prince, the heir to the Forest Throne, and the senior councilor for the ruling tribe in the Aquila; he should be confident, strong, assertive. Asking for permission might appear weak, might disappoint her. It hardly felt romantic or dashing to explain in painful detail how he had trouble breathing at the sight of her bare thighs.
He couldn’t help staring. Her legs were beautiful. Perfect. Not too thick or thin, and smooth without any blemishes, not a freckle or pimple. Touching her would be—
He was still staring at her legs when she stood up.
“I would like to propose a motion that henceforth the Aquila be divided into two houses.” Makareta spoke to the assembly in a loud, clear voice. “An upper house, to be composed entirely of Miralyith, and a lower house to represent the remaining tribes, which will be presided over by a Miralyith administrator. The lower house will submit suggestions to the upper house, who’ll be tasked with considering if any proposal warrants being passed on to the fane. In addition, the upper house will create and submit its own advice for our leader. In this way, the lesser tribes will retain their voice in government, but it will no longer be a hindrance to the progress of our society.”
When Makareta stopped speaking the Airenthenon was silent. Everyone stared, first at her, then at him.
Mawyndulë was paralyzed. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. He would never have dreamed of making such a blatant statement on his first day. She hadn’t even discussed it with him. What was she thinking? She just stood up and spoke.