“Everyone,” Imaly said, standing as usual in the center of the ring. She extended an arm in their direction. “Allow me to introduce the new, and apparently very eager, junior councilor for the Miralyith. Makareta is so unfamiliar with her task, she’s not aware that junior councilors have no voice in the Aquila.”
“I’m aware of the old rules, Imaly. It is you who are ignorant of the new rules.”
Imaly looked at Mawyndulë, then back at Makareta, and sighed. “You’re embarrassing yourself, dear. Not to mention the shame you are bringing to your senior councilor and your tribe. I hope it is an embarrassment you will learn from.”
“As you are of the Nilyndd, Imaly, it is you who must understand your place in the new order. You should be quiet and listen to your superiors.”
A gasp rose from the other councilors.
Imaly’s brows rose. She focused squarely on him and said, “Mawyndulë, as senior councilor, please muzzle this whelp of yours, or I will be forced to find you both in contempt.”
Mawyndulë cringed in embarrassment; given another second he would have stopped Makareta. He would have told her to sit down and be quiet. Only that second never came.
“Whelp?” Makareta exclaimed. She made a motion with her hand, one that Mawyndulë recognized but couldn’t believe he was seeing. The Art was never used in the Airenthenon, even Gryndal—
Imaly flew across the chamber, slamming into the far wall where she collapsed to the floor.
“How dare you speak to a Miralyith with such irreverence.”
“Makareta!” Mawyndulë shouted in shock.
She ignored him and faced the rest of the assembly. “The days of equality are over. We Miralyith are your betters. This fact can’t be changed any more than you can alter the rising of the sun. The gods are divine, and we now join them. You will bow before us, or be muzzled like any ill-behaved animal.”
“Makareta, sit down,” Mawyndulë whispered, even as he realized things had already progressed beyond her merely resuming her seat.
Across the chamber, Imaly was still on the ground. She was moving, thank Ferrol. She was still alive.
The chamber exploded with angry shouts.
“How dare you!” Cintra of the Asendwayr yelled.
“Blasphemy!” Volhoric declared.
Mawyndulë was lost. Between hurried breaths, his wonderful daydream had shifted to his worst nightmare. The transition left him dazed, struggling to catch up, to make sense of it all, and thinking was very nearly impossible. All the councilors, seniors and their juniors, as well as the spectators—of which there were far more than usual—were on their feet, stomping and yelling. He heard the chant of “Miralyith, Miralyith!” coming from the gallery.
What’s happening?
“Today is a new beginning,” Makareta said, using the Art to amplify her voice so that it boomed. “Today the Miralyith take our rightful place in the pantheon of gods.”
“The fane will not allow this! This…this…this…” Nanagal shouted, unable to locate a single word that could encompass his outrage.
“Your new fane sits beside me,” Makareta said, placing a hand on his shoulder. A touch that for once brought no sense of delight. “And he agrees with me.”
“What are you talking about?” Mawyndulë said. “I’m not the fane.”
Makareta finally turned to face him and smiled. “In a few minutes you will be.”
“I don’t understand. What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”
“For us.” She touched his cheek. “For all the Miralyith, and for you.”
“Okay, back up, what are you doing for me?”
“This was all your idea. You’re a genius.”
Maybe he was dreaming. None of this could be real. Wasn’t that always the way? Nightmares start out as pretty little dreams, and then before you know it, Imaly is thrown across the room and the world falls apart. “Stop talking and make sense, will you?”
Makareta giggled. In another time and place—in his bedroom perhaps—that might have been cute, but surrounded by an angry mob, she just sounded mad.
“Explain what’s going on!” He was shouting to be heard over the growing din.
She nodded. “We’re just following through on your suggestion. Well, not precisely, but you provided the stepping-stones.”
The councilors were struggling to flee the Airenthenon, but the doors appeared to be locked. Someone threw a clay cup that shattered on the wall near the steps. The ceremonial guards, whom Mawyndulë had previously believed to have the most boring duty in the world, attempted to restore order, but they were tossed aside in the same manner Imaly had been.
“Makareta, please. Make sense,” he begged.
“You told us that Vasek had taken precautions against the actions of an assassin, or even a full-scale attack on the Talwara. That was helpful. Aiden and I had been planning variations on both, but you saved the day. The solution was simple once you pointed out our mistakes.”
The councilors were pounding on the doors. Some were openly crying. In the gallery above, Mawyndulë heard howls of laughter from a dozen spectators. Among them, he recognized Inga and Flynn.
“What solution?”
“It’s far too risky to kill the fane in his palace. But he can’t plan for the unexpected, for chaos. Even Vasek couldn’t anticipate that we would lure him here.”
Kill the fane? Kill my father?
He stared at Makareta, his mind unable to get past those three words.
She must have seen something in his face, because hers softened, and a sad smile appeared. “You do understand that your father must die. He’s far too weak. I know it’s not his fault, but we can’t wait for a natural death. That would take too long. His biggest deficiency is being a product of his time, growing up when the tribes were considered equal. But that era has passed, and we can’t wait for the throne to pass to you. This generation…our generation…will see the ascension of the Miralyith, and the world will be a very different place…a better place.”
“Makareta, please. You can’t.”
Again, she laughed. “Don’t worry. Everything will be fine. We don’t need to fear the wrath of Ferrol. Not us, not the Miralyith. The laws of one god can’t apply to other gods. And that’s what we are now. I know it doesn’t feel that way just yet, but wait until we have our own worshippers. Then it will all make sense.”
Worshippers?
Mawyndulë couldn’t think anymore. His brain locked up and he just sat down.
“The fane is coming!” someone from the gallery called and Mawyndulë thought it sounded like Aiden.
“Have to go,” Makareta said. Then she paused, pivoted on her left heel, and bent down to pat his hand. “We understand if you don’t want to join us for this part.”
With that, she left him on the bench beneath the dome where Gylindora Fane and Caratacus stared down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Challenge
The Gula-Rhunes are a lot like rattlesnakes. Both enjoy lying in the sun, and both make a lot of noise before a fight. The difference is that the Gula are bigger, they are meaner, and sometimes you can reason with a snake.