Nanagal removed, neatly folded, and carefully laid his cloak on the bench. “Is anyone else sweating? My clothes are soaked. Another hour in that room with the fane and I swear I would have melted into my shoes. I kept thinking of Zephyron, you know?”
Imaly didn’t nod, but she had most certainly been thinking of Lothian’s prior challenger, not to mention the Gray Cloaks who’d had the misfortune of surviving their uprising.
“I doubt any serious effort went into cleaning that spot in the Carfreign Arena,” Nanagal said. “I think Lothian wants it to remain. Wants us—wants everyone—to see it.”
Hermon arrived next. He paused for a second near the entrance, halfway between the light of day and the darkness inside. He stared at them as if waiting for permission to enter.
“Get in here, you damn fool,” Volhoric growled, beckoning the leader of the Gwydry with his arms and making the loose sleeves of his asica flap.
Hermon rushed forward, nodded to each of them, then pulled off his cloak and moved to the bench. He picked up Imaly’s discarded garment and put it neatly on top of Nanagal’s before adding his own to the pile.
“He’s utterly insane now, isn’t he?” Nanagal said, his eyes shifting from one to the next, even landing on Gylindora’s vault, including the old fane in their number. “And I’m not sure I like meeting here anymore. It’s too obvious. If Vasek finds us, what explanation can we offer?”
“That’s not a problem,” Imaly said. “Besides, we need to be able to speak openly, and this is the best place for that.”
Imaly liked to believe that Gylindora would have been on their side, wanted to think Caratacus would have agreed, but there was no way of knowing. In a way, the original fane and her wizard sidekick were at fault for this mess. They had constructed the system the Aquila were trapped beneath.
“We have to do it,” Volhoric said then. His words sounded like the conclusion to a private argument he’d been holding with himself. “We have to.” This last bit had the tone of pleading, and he said it while looking at Imaly.
As if it’s all up to me. Is that right, you old bastard? Will you say it was all my doing when Synne and Sile come for you? Will you proclaim, “It was all her fault! She corrupted us!”
The tomb of Gylindora wasn’t too far off Florella Plaza. They all had to walk past the withering remains of those once majestic trees. Like the black spot in the Carfreign, the severed stumps had been left as a fitting memorial to all those who had died in the Gray Cloak Rebellion.
That’s how Lothian had framed it in his speech to the Aquila so many years ago. Let us never forget the brave and loyal defenders of Erivan who lost their lives to the evils of defying the truth of Ferrol.
The truth of Ferrol had been a thinly veiled synonym for the rule of the Miralyith. The stumps in the plaza weren’t a memorial to the defenders of the faith, but rather a reminder for any who might think of challenging Lothian again. He’d gruesomely executed the Gray Cloak survivors.
All but one, Imaly thought.
“Lothian doesn’t really expect us to supply him with a list of names, does he?” Osla asked. “I don’t know many Miralyith—and none so well as to be able to point out which people in their lives they love dearly.”
“At least it is restricted to the Miralyith,” Hermon said. “In a way, that feels like justice.”
“Does it?” Imaly retorted. “No Miralyith will die. Only those of us whom the Miralyith love. That’s how it works. And what if they don’t love any single person enough? Will they be required to kill more than one? And how many? A handful? A score? Will it take a hundred acquaintances to generate the needed power to create one drag—”
“Why isn’t it a problem if Vasek finds us?” Nanagal asked.
“What’s that?” Imaly struggled to see the leader of the crafter’s tribe, as he was in the shadows, outside the ring of light where the eternal flame burned upon the altar.
“Vasek,” he explained, “you said if he finds us it wouldn’t be an issue. He’s Lothian’s eyes and ears, so I think that would be a very big problem. Are you keeping secrets from us, Imaly?” Nanagal asked with surprising bluntness.
“Of course I am. I keep secrets from everyone. Sometimes, when I forget where I put my shoes, I suspect I’m keeping secrets from myself. That’s the way this has to be done, for the protection of everyone. You have to trust me—and you do. Otherwise, none of you would be here.” She stared each of them down. “I have a plan that could save us, but it requires the death of Lothian.”
“As we feared, it has come down to breaking Ferrol’s Law,” Volhoric said.
“Yes.”
A silence followed.
“Who will do it?” Volhoric asked.
“Leave that to me,” Imaly replied.
“One of your many secrets?” Nanagal asked.
“The list is long, my dear.”
“And what of his son?” Volhoric asked. “Mawyndulë will inherit the throne should Lothian die. We would be trading one Miralyith for another.”
“My plan accounts for the prince as well. As Conservator of the Horn of Gylindora Fane”—Imaly put extra emphasis on the name she shared, to leverage every advantage she had—“I need you, Volhoric, to play your part. I must know that you’ll present the horn and hand it over when I request it.”
The High Priest nodded and said, “I swear it.”
If all went according to plan, this would be their final meeting before she jumped off the cliff, dragging everyone else with her. Imaly gestured toward the others. “And all of you must do your parts. Each must agree to grant me the right to challenge.”
“No one can hope to beat a Miralyith in combat,” Hermon stated. “Least of all—and no disrespect intended—an elderly female Nilyndd.”
“That’s assuming there will be a challenge, which won’t be the case.” Imaly saw the bewilderment on their faces but told herself not to explain. The less they knew, the better. Conspiracies worked best when they were a conspiracy of one. “The wonderful part is that none of you will have broken a single law.”
“What about you?” Nanagal asked. “Will you be able to say the same?”
“A few moral ones, certainly.” Imaly turned and placed both hands on the stone that contained the first fane’s remains. “In return, I hope to ensure the survival of our people, our culture, and our legacy. I think that’s a fair trade.”
“And if things do not go according to plan?” Hermon asked.
Imaly turned back. “Then we’ll live under the heel of an insane fane who will force his people to kill their loved ones. Let’s pray it doesn’t come to that. So, do you agree or not?”
Each nodded in turn.
“Good. Now, as duly appointed Curator of the Aquila, I hereby call this quorum to session. All those in favor of granting me, Imaly Fane, granddaughter of Gylindora Fane, the Right of Challenge in the event of Fane Lothian’s death and the end of the Sixth Uli Vermar, please indicate so by responding ‘aye.’ ”
As he often did, Mawyndulë watched his goldfish swim back and forth in the bowl at the side of his bed. He’d never named it, referring to it as fish when he referenced it at all. The only person he ever discussed the fish with was Treya, his personal servant. He’d remind her to feed the fish or clean the bowl. Truth was, he didn’t feel right naming the goldfish. Who was he to give something else a name? He was glad now that he hadn’t. A name would have suggested a degree of value, a hint of fondness. These days, such attachments were dangerous.