The knock was a formality and shockingly short. An instant later, the door burst open. Synne entered quickly, locking eyes with him. Aggressive, cold, deadly, she was an unsheathed weapon. Behind her, Sile entered, his massive hands shoving Treya into the room.
Treya looked as scared as that time she had dropped the fishbowl. She had just finished cleaning it, and the sides had been wet, causing it to slip and burst against the floor. Water and glass had exploded, the fish skipping across the tile, flopping and slapping. Back then, Treya must have expected to die; she’d had that kind of look on her face. She displayed the same expression now.
Vasek came in last. The Master of Secrets appeared to be there as a witness, and he slipped to the side, standing between Mawyndulë’s wardrobe and the washbasin. Of the three invaders, Vasek alone appeared regretful. But then, Mawyndulë had always believed that except for Imaly, Vasek must be the smartest Fhrey in Estramnadon. No matter what happened next, Vasek knew that Mawyndulë would never forgive the intrusion. That expression of remorse, false or not, might save him when Mawyndulë sat on the Forest Throne.
“What is the meaning of this?” Mawyndulë asked with conviction. He knew why they were there, and he was willing to play his part in the charade. He stood up to make a better showing.
“Your servant was found stealing from the fane,” Synne said, in a furious tone, passionate enough to be insulting.
She actually thinks I’m clueless.
“Claims she’s innocent,” Synne added.
“I didn’t do it,” Treya told him. “I don’t know how it got in my bag!”
Treya wasn’t acting. She didn’t know anything about the alleged offense, and she was so terrified that tears welled.
“What was it?” He was careful to phrase his response so as to not presume a crime had occurred.
No point in making this easy.
“Your father’s gold candlestick from the reception hall,” Synne responded rapidly. Her language was no different from her use of the Art. One was often a reflection of the other. Personalities came out in both.
Candlestick? Seriously? Is that the best you could come up with?
Mawyndulë struggled not to roll his eyes.
Do they expect me to believe she’s got some sort of illegal merchant operation out in the plaza? Or maybe I’m supposed to think she’ll set it out on her little nightstand and gawk at the grandeur? It would make more sense to accuse her of stealing the candles themselves; at least they can be lit and would be of some worth to her.
“Please, Your Highness, please Mawyn, tell them I would never do such a thing.” While Treya had been his servant since Mawyndulë was an infant, she didn’t look old. Neither did she look young. She was lost in that nondescript nether space of time between the two, but at that moment, she looked ancient. As Sile’s massive fingers gripped her with judgmental tightness, Treya’s eyes revealed lines of worry he’d never seen before. That she used his name—that she used a shortened familiar—showed the depth of her fear. Treya was clueless about the game, but not about the stakes. “Please tell them that I’ve been a loyal servant. That I’ve never disappointed you.”
Mawyndulë thought of the shattered goldfish bowl, and his eyes unconsciously tracked to the tile on which it had fallen.
“We caught her leaving with the candlestick in her bag,” Synne said. “The fane has decreed that she is to be put to death . . . unless you intercede on her behalf.”
“Oh, holy Ferrol!” Treya wailed.
Mawyndulë showed no surprise or concern. He did frown in disappointment at Treya’s outburst, then looked squarely at Synne and asked, “Why would I do that?”
This caught all of them off guard, and Mawyndulë struggled to forbid his lips from smiling. He had a secret place in his heart for making a fool of Synne. She thought herself so quick, so clever.
“Why what?” Synne asked, losing a good deal of her intimidation to puzzlement.
Mawyndulë shook his head in a show of ambivalence as he plopped down on his bed and hooked fingers behind his head. “Honestly, Synne. I thought you were quicker than this. Let me explain it in small words for you. Why have you come to me about this? If she is guilty and my father has ordered her execution, why haven’t you obeyed? Why come to me?”
Vasek stepped forward then. “I suspect your father is concerned that since Treya raised you, her execution might be upsetting. As he doesn’t wish to make his son unhappy, he is willing to mitigate the sentence should this be the case.”
Doesn’t want to make me unhappy? Vasek might not be as smart as I thought.
“It is not.” Mawyndulë turned to his side and set his attention back to his goldfish, tapping the glass.
Treya’s lips were quivering, tears running down her cheeks. “For the love of Ferrol, Mawyn, I’m your—” She stopped herself, hands covering her mouth, eyes bulging, pleading.
“Are you sure?” Vasek asked him.
Mawyndulë shot him an appalled look. “Usually, you hear people when they speak, Vasek. Apparently, Synne is growing slow and you deaf.”
“But Treya is . . .” Synne made an uncharacteristic verbal stumble. She hesitated, eyes shifting between Treya and Mawyndulë. “She’s the closest person you have to a mother.”
“Are you trying to insult me, Synne? Treya is a servant—a Gwydry. We have others, I trust? After you melt off her flesh, or whatever you plan to do, be sure to find me a suitable replacement—one that doesn’t steal. Can you manage that?”
Synne glared. She looked downright irritated.
Treya broke down in sobs.
Mawyndulë responded by looking back at the fish and reached out once more to tap the glass with his finger.
The four remained in the room for another round of heartbeats.
“Is there something else?” he asked with irritation.
“No, Your Highness,” Synne said.
They withdrew, taking a sobbing Treya with them. When the door closed, Mawyndulë fell on his back. He felt exhausted. More than drained, he felt sick. He hadn’t liked seeing Treya like that. He wanted to believe he’d just saved her life, but they could still kill her. Vasek might insist on it just to cover up the lie. Then he could claim ignorance of the sham, a poor assertion for a Master of Secrets.
Despite Mawyndulë’s best efforts, it was possible she would still die and do so thinking he didn’t care. That would be regrettable, but it was better than the alternative. He didn’t know if he thought well enough of Treya to provide the adequate power to touch the deep chords required to make a dragon, but he didn’t want to find out.
They won’t kill her, he assured himself. There would be no point. She’s safe. She’s safe.
He told himself that over and over as he lay on his bed, crumpling up the covers in tight fists.
Synne was right, Treya was like a . . .
Mawyndulë sat up.
Why did they assume I would be upset? Why try this with me? And why use her?
Mawyndulë looked to where Treya had stood. He remembered her covering her mouth with her hands, stifling words that never came out.
Mawyndulë saw him sitting on the bench in the Garden across from the Door. The same person he’d spoken to years ago was back, or maybe he’d never left. Mawyndulë wouldn’t know; the prince couldn’t remember the last time he had been in that part of the Garden. It might have been years. Mawyndulë was almost certain this was the same fellow. There couldn’t be two like him in Estramnadon. Only priests braved cold weather to sit and contemplate the Door, and priests were always clean. The fellow on the bench had wild, unkempt hair and a dirty cloak. Not a winter wrap, either, but a thin summer cape.