“I’m listening,” he told her, and he meant it.
Makareta nodded, took a shaky breath, and began. “Seven years ago, I fell in with a group of foolish kids who had an insane idea of assassinating the fane. We were going to save Erivan for the Miralyith. I was wrong. Erivan isn’t just the Miralyith. There are seven tribes, and they all deserve a voice. They all deserve respect. That’s how Ferrol meant it to be, but your father is standing in the way. And he’s made a mess of this war. The most recent rumor is that he intends to force Miralyith to kill their loved ones to make dragons.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“If Lothian remains fane much longer, even if he manages to defeat the Rhunes, there won’t be an Erivan left to save. He’s destroying all that’s good about our society in order to win a war that he started. He’s lost the heart of the people. No one has faith in him anymore. You’re in the palace, so maybe you don’t hear, but I’m out here in the shadows, listening. I can tell you that our people are undecided about who is the greater threat, the Rhunes or your father. That lottery he ran was horrible. What an awful way to choose a sacrifice, and it was for nothing—he botched the weave, and now he’ll try again and hope for success.”
“He didn’t understand how it worked. Now he does.”
“And you believe that?”
Mawyndulë nodded. “Not because he told me, but because it makes sense. The weave requires enormous power, the sort of burst you can get from anguish, fear, and the release at death, but it has to be doubled by the anguish of killing a loved one. All that energy needs to be channeled, funneled into the weave. My father didn’t know the Gwydry, so he couldn’t generate enough power.”
Makareta nodded thoughtfully, and as she did, he saw concern followed by resolve.
“What?” he asked.
“Years ago, I was wrong to try to kill the fane, but times have changed. I can see that now.”
“What are you saying? Are you—”
“Mawyn, how badly does your father want to make dragons?”
“It’s all he thinks about.”
“What’s stopping him? Why aren’t there ten dragons out there?”
Mawyndulë considered this for a moment. He had thought it was because his father was a coward, that he didn’t want to be the one to perform the sacrifices. Except . . .
Your father isn’t a coward, you know . . . It’s just that Lothian doesn’t really love anyone. You shouldn’t feel bad. It’s not your fault. It’s his deficiency, not yours.
Mawyndulë wasn’t prone to believing strangers on a bench, but it felt true. His father couldn’t make a dragon because he couldn’t touch Troth.
“I suppose my father—I guess he just can’t—I don’t think he cares that much about anyone.”
“See, I think you’re wrong. I think he does,” Makareta said. “The only question is . . . what happens when he realizes that he isn’t too old to have another heir?”
The thought had never crossed Mawyndulë’s mind, and he still struggled to grasp what she was suggesting. When the pieces finally fell into place, he shook his head. “You have me confused with my brother Pyridian, the son my father loved. Killing me wouldn’t be a big enough sacrifice.”
“Neither was Amidea, and she’s dead. I don’t trust your father, and I don’t think you are safe with him around.” She paused, and then with trepidation she added. “Mawyn, I’m going to try to kill your father again. For you and for all our people, and this time I’m asking for your help.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Hole
Endless, pointless, careless, needless—Nifrel should not be a name for one of the realms of the afterlife. Instead, it should be the word we use to define conflict for conflict’s sake. — The Book of Brin
Brin walked between Tressa and Moya as the army traveled through the dark tunnel. Thousands of heads bobbed in the dim light, and twice that many feet struck the floor, a sound that echoed and was as ominous as a drumroll. Brin had seen Rhunes, Fhrey, and even a few Grenmorians among the many Belgriclungreians. Each of them carried weapons and were dressed in elaborate armor as if they were going to some grand celebration. Brin felt safe, even though she knew she shouldn’t. She’d seen what happened to even the most impressive of armies when they reached the field of battle. She knew what was out there, what they were marching toward. All the tall warriors in the world couldn’t protect her from that. Brin knew this, yet as she traveled through the underground, she did feel confident.
It’s probably the armor.
All six of them wore metal now. Brin had expected that the pile of glittering bronze Roan had handed her would be heavy and restrictive, but once she got it on, she felt lighter and freer than ever before. More than that, she felt stronger—and she glowed. They all did to some degree, but Brin was the brightest.
“How do you do that?” Moya asked, squinting slightly as she looked over. “It’s not the armor, is it?”
“No,” Roan said from behind. “Not really.”
All six of them were bunched together in the center of the marching column. Beatrice had insisted they be protected above all else, and her father had agreed.
“The armor only enhances and amplifies,” Roan explained. “The light is the visual representation of your spirit.”
Moya nodded toward the Keeper. “So, what’s with all the light? Are you saying Brin has a dazzling spirit or something?”
“Innocence,” Beatrice called back. She walked in front of them between Rain and a man who wore a sword slung on his back. “She shines so brightly because innocence is not something found in Nifrel. It’s how Fen knew Brin didn’t belong. Even before the armor, you must have noticed the way she glowed. The girl is pure light.”
“I’m not that innocent,” Brin said, defending herself. “I’ve seen some stuff. I’ve done some things.”
“Kill anyone?” Beatrice asked.
“Ah . . .” Brin almost laughed, but stopped herself when she realized Beatrice wasn’t joking. “No.”
“Just about everyone here has. In Nifrel—well, we all have memories we want to forget—shadows that stifle the light.”
“Wait a minute.” Moya shielded her eyes as she spoke. “That light is really bright. Exactly how innocent are you, Brin?”
“About as unsullied as they come, I would think,” Beatrice replied.
“Brin . . . ?” Moya said. “You and Tesh—you, ah . . . the two of you have been seeing each other for years. It isn’t possible that you and he have never . . . you know?”
Brin didn’t answer.
Moya’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”
Brin looked uncomfortable.
“And Tesh was okay with that?”
Brin frowned and shook her head. “Wasn’t me. It was him. He insisted we wait so we wouldn’t have children before the end of the war. He didn’t want to leave me a widow with little ones to care for.”
“War never got in my way when it came to having a family,” said the man walking next to Beatrice with the sword lashed to his back. “War is like snow in winter. Yeah, it makes everything harder, but it’s always gonna be there. Can’t stop living just because of a few flakes.”