“What?”
He shifted uncomfortably.
“Tell me!” she shouted.
“They’re . . . dead.”
Persephone felt as if her heart had stopped, as if time did as well.
“That’s not possible. Can’t be. It can’t. They only went to look—just to scout, nothing else. They didn’t go to fight.”
“You’re right. There was no skirmish. They drowned.”
Persephone was frantically shaking her head. “All of them? No . . . no . . .”
Oh dear Mari, not them, too. How many more have to die?
“But . . .” Malcolm paused, then added with a measured smile, “it’s okay.”
She wasn’t certain she had heard him correctly, but his face—that weak smile—was backing up his words. No, not words, word. “By the will of Elan, how can that be okay?”
“Because”—Malcolm straightened up and squared his shoulders—“there’s a good chance they’ll come back.”
She stared at him. This time she had no trouble looking into his eyes. “Are you insane?”
He shook his head and held up his hands to calm her, or at least fend her off. “It, ah . . . won’t be easy. In fact, it’s going to be a lot harder now than I first expected.”
“You knew they would go?” The understanding dawned on her hard enough to shorten her breath. “You planned it.” She began shaking her head. “This isn’t my fault—it’s yours!”
“Yes.” He nodded. “All of it is, but it’s not over yet. Allow me to explain where they went. You see, Persephone, I sent them to—”
“Their deaths. You killed them!”
“True.” He held up a finger. “But I’m sending help.”
Chapter Three
Masters of Secrets
Education is never without cost; all the truly valuable lessons leave a scar. — The Book of Brin
All of the dead fanes had their own crypts, decorated with images illustrating their many achievements. Those hallowed halls were not only eternal resting places but tributes to the leaders’ greatness as well. Each one was a marvel of architecture, and members of the Eilywin tribe had spared no expense in their construction. All five burial chambers stood in a place of honor just off Florella Plaza in the center of Estramnadon, so every Fhrey could easily visit and be suitably awed and inspired.
Few ever came.
This lack of devotion saddened Imaly, providing further proof that the Fhrey society was a structure with a crumbling foundation and, as a result, was on the verge of collapse. Yet the seldom-visited crypts also provided a much-needed resource—a convenient, deserted sanctuary.
“Why are we here?” Nanagal asked as Imaly closed the door to the mausoleum that housed Gylindora Fane, sealing them in.
“Nanagal, you’re an Eilywin,” Imaly said brightly. “Could you please build another fire in that brazier in the corner? It’s rather dim in here, wouldn’t you agree?”
“One doesn’t build a fire. It just needs to be lit.”
“Oh yes, how clever of you. Well, can you do that then, dear? You’re tall enough to reach the brazier.” She smiled at him.
“You didn’t answer Nanagal’s question, Imaly,” Hermon stated. Stocky and unusually hairy for a Fhrey, he had failed to shave that day, and his face had a shadow. “Are we going to commune with the dead? Try to speak to your great-grandmother?” He looked at Volhoric. “Is such a thing sanctioned by Ferrol?”
“Absolutely not,” the high priest replied with folded arms.
“We aren’t here for any such nonsense,” Imaly said hotly. “For Ferrol’s sake, we’re in my ancestor’s tomb. Show a little respect, won’t you?”
“Then, why?” Hermon asked.
“We are holding a meeting.”
The brazier ignited, and the interior of the crypt brightened. A flickering yellow glow played to remarkable effect off the gold and silver gilding. The rear of the vault became visible and with it the sarcophagus of Gylindora. The stone image on the lid looked nothing like her. Too stiff, it lacked any real artistry and failed to capture the true essence of the first fane.
“A meeting?” Nanagal questioned, letting go of the fire starter that swayed from its cord. “You might not be aware of this, but we have a perfectly fine meeting place just down the street. It’s called the Airenthenon—nice place, pillars, benches—built for exactly this kind of assembly.”
“No, not this kind,” Imaly assured.
Almost all the other senior tribal leaders were in attendance: Nanagal of the Eilywin, Osla of the Asendwayr, Hermon of the Gwydry, and Volhoric of the Umalyn. Despite the absence of Vidar of the Miralyith, they had enough councilors for a quorum. And even though the members of the Aquila were not meeting in the Airenthenon, their decisions would be binding.
“I’ve asked you here because this august body may be the only thing that stands between our society and complete annihilation. I need to assess your opinions about Fane Lothian and his ability to rule—your true opinions.”
“And you found it necessary to seek that out here?” Osla asked. Having only recently joined the Aquila, she rarely spoke, and Imaly found it interesting that she was the first to respond. Those who were more experienced waited.
“Yes,” Imaly said. “What we do in the Airenthenon is public knowledge. What we say here stays here.” These last two words she said with enough bite to suggest a threat.
“What exactly do you want to know?” Nanagal asked with all the tonality of non-commitment. Nanagal was no fool, but he didn’t care for hypotheticals. He preferred everything laid out, clear and irrevocable.
“How many of you approve of the fane’s performance since he took the throne?”
No one spoke.
“I agree with you,” Imaly declared. “Since his ascension, we have suffered a Miralyith rebellion that nearly destroyed the Airenthenon, an open revolt of the Instarya tribe, and a war that may very well destroy our entire civilization. And he’s only been fane for a few years, a mere heartbeat in the full reign of a fane. None of this was necessary or inevitable, and all of it was the direct result of his actions or the lack thereof.”
Imaly brushed the front of her asica to smooth out a wrinkle and give them time to savor the aroma of the meal she had set before them. “And why has his reign been such a failure? Because Lothian does not seek our counsel. Since taking the throne, he has rarely graced the Airenthenon with his presence except to deliver edicts, ultimatums, or sweeping declarations. This is not how it is supposed to be. The Aquila was formed to assist our leader, to help guide decisions utilizing our combined wisdom. But Lothian wishes no such assistance, wants no insight. His performance thus far has demonstrated his poor judgment.”
“What are you getting at, Imaly?” Again, it was Osla who asked—being the only one who truly didn’t understand.
“Why, nothing—yet. I am merely asking a question. But perhaps I should rephrase it, so let me put forth the following: If it were possible to have a different fane, would you want one?”