Age of Myth (27 page)

“Yes.” The fane smiled. “You'd be perfect.”

“Sadly, I'm afraid I'd suffer the same fate as Arion if I can't retaliate against—”

Lothian waved his hand. “I'll grant you power to act in my stead. You will have absolute authority to do whatever is necessary to bring the traitors to heel. Order must be restored.”

“Does that include
executing
those Fhrey who are disobedient?” Gryndal wanted to be clear on this point, and the moment he said the word
execute,
he saw Lothian hesitate. “I'd hate to die bleeding in the dirt like Arion.”

“She's dead?”

“She had her head crushed with a large rock and collapsed. I can't imagine she survived, given the amount of blood I saw. And I just don't want to be—”

Lothian's face darkened, his mouth flattening into a level line. At that moment, Gryndal could see the family resemblance with Fenelyus. “You are hereby granted the authority to carry out my will. I furthermore extend to you the right to use deadly force if you feel such is necessary to restore order on the frontier. This right will be in effect until your return.”

One down. One more to go.

“I'll gladly do your will, my fane, but I'm also tutoring your son, and…” Gryndal shook his head. “No. I don't suppose that would be advisable.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Just that Mawyndulë has lived such a sheltered life, and if…no…never mind. It would be too dangerous.”

“You're thinking of taking him with you? That's a wonderful idea. He
has
been coddled too much, isolated in our corner of civility. He should see the world and learn of its blemishes, discover firsthand the realities of power. My mother took me with her to the Battles of Mador and Cradock's Keep. I learned more in those two trips than I had in centuries. No, you're right, Mawyndulë should go.”

“If I'm taking the prince, it might be wise to bring a contingent of soldiers—just in case.”

“Of course. Draw what you need from my personal guard. Just remember, Gryndal, I want this to be over. I don't care how you do it, but I want it done.”

“You can count on me, my fane. I'll bring the thunder.”

Gryndal left the fane and headed uphill toward the spiritual heart of Fhrey society. The highest point in the city was a fitting place for the Garden; all great things should be raised higher than lesser entities. He believed that with all his heart. It made perfect sense. Problems arose when that axiom was challenged. When the weak tried to yoke the strong and fools attempted to restrain genius, that was when the world suffered. A natural order dictated right from wrong, just as it caused water to run downhill. Gryndal refrained from assigning that design to a god—even Ferrol, whom he had revered for the first thousand years of his life. He'd also idolized his father and the fane, but that, too, had been when he was a child. As he grew older, the distinctions between himself and others had diminished. His father was nothing special, and he couldn't respect someone lesser than himself. The same was true of the fane. In her last years, Fenelyus had grown feeble, and Lothian wasn't half the Miralyith his mother had been. Recently, Gryndal noticed even Ferrol's stature dwindling.

What can a god do that I can't?

Approaching the bronze gate to the Garden, Gryndal spotted Imaly. Sadly, she spotted him as well.

“Nice evening for a stroll, isn't it?” she said with a flirtatious tone meant to lull him into a false sense of camaraderie. Even if Imaly had been young, thin, and beautiful, it wouldn't have worked. Not that failure had ever been a deterrent for her. The brittle-haired Curator of the Aquila had always been a pain, but lately she seemed to relish nettling him.

“You embarrassed the fane this evening,” he said with his own disarming smile.

“Did I?” She looked down at the hem of her asica, scowling and still playing the innocent female. “The streets should be kept cleaner. My wardrobe is getting ruined.”

She clutched three scrolls, records of the meeting. As Curator, she not only presided over the Aquila but was responsible for keeping and preserving what had transpired. Why records were kept, Gryndal didn't know, sentimentality perhaps.

“Don't be coy. You know you did, and he didn't appreciate it.”

Imaly looked up with an amused smile. “Lothian shouldn't do foolish things. Then he wouldn't be embarrassed by awkward questions.”

“And, likewise, foolish people shouldn't ask awkward questions that will make the fane their enemy.” Gryndal stood straighter and slipped his hands into the sleeves of his asica in the fashion of the Umalyn priests. He felt it gave him a more intimidating, pious, not to mention learned, posture.

“I don't worry about that. We in the Aquila have you as our champion now, don't we?” She took a step closer. He wondered if she were merely proving she wasn't afraid or actually trying to intimidate him, a mistake of epic proportions. “You wouldn't let anything bad happen to us. We council members are a weak and cowardly bunch, ruled by self-preservation. Under stress, we're likely to forget our oath of office and blurt out the names of those who applied to challenge. Given the outrage Lothian demonstrated when dealing with the Instarya leader, can there be any doubt about his reaction if he learned a fellow Miralyith and trusted adviser sought the throne?” She looked down at the scrolls. “I don't think that's ever happened before. Imagine his surprise.”

She leaned in close, stared into his eyes, and whispered, “It was a misstep petitioning as you did. You should have known we'd refuse.”

“Why
is
that?” Gryndal answered without moving. This was going to be an intimate conversation of whispers. He was tall, taller than average, but so was she, and the two faced off without blinking.

Imaly shrugged with a wary smile. “The rules were designed to give all tribes a chance to rule. Pitting two fellow tribesmen against each other, especially from a tribe that has ruled for so long, would suggest the Miralyith were circumventing the spirit of the law. We could be accused of favoritism, of admitting the future of Erivan will be one of continued Miralyith dominance.”

“Which it will. Nothing can change that. No other tribe can defeat us as long as we retain the secrets of the Art. So why—”

“Appearances are more important than reality. As distasteful as it is, I can't deny that your tribe shows every sign of retaining control indefinitely. But unless you intend to rule by subjugation, it's important the people believe they live in a society where anyone can become fane. Religion and tradition remain allies in a system that's still perceived to be fair. Truth be told, I wouldn't mind seeing a division in the Miralyith and the trouble it would cause. Plus, watching two Artists battle in the arena would be quite entertaining. But as the Curator of the Aquila, I'm dedicated to protecting the Fhrey, even from themselves.”

She explained all this with a friendly smile as if they were best of friends. Maintaining an affable expression, she added, “Besides, we all know what you'd do if you sat on the Forest Throne, and none of us would ever let that happen.”

“Careful, your overconfidence is showing,” he told her. “I'm not done yet.”

She laughed. “You won't live to see the Uli Vermar. You're older than Lothian.”

“But that doesn't mean a challenge won't occur sooner. Alon Rhist was older than Ghika.”

“Yes, but Ghika was killed in the war.”

“As was Alon, and after only five years.” He feigned an innocent look.

Imaly narrowed her eyes. “We're at peace, Gryndal. What's more, there's no nation capable of threatening us, so the…” Imaly paused, staring at him. “Fhrey can't kill Fhrey, Gryndal. Only the fane has such power. Remember that.”

“Are you sure?” He inched in closer still until he could feel his breath bounce back, and he whispered, “There's nothing that prevents it.”

“The Law of Ferrol will eject you from Fhrey society and the afterlife will be closed to you. Would you sacrifice eternity for the chance to be fane for just a few years?”

“I have a theory about that.” He put his cheek to hers and spoke into her ear. “The Umalyn tell me the only requirement for blowing the Horn of Gylindora is that the challenger must be of Fhrey blood. Nothing else. Ferrol wasn't a stickler for piety or virtues. You could be a murderer, but as long as a single drop of Fhrey blood runs in your veins, the horn will sound for you. Then, if successful in the challenge, well, how could the fane of the Fhrey be excluded from the society he rules? And how could Ferrol's chosen be denied absolution?”

Gryndal grinned as Imaly pulled back, her friendly smile gone at last. He enjoyed rocking her; he so rarely managed it. Now that Jerydd was permanently seated as the kel of Avempartha and Fenelyus was gone, Imaly was his only worthy adversary, and she wasn't even a Miralyith. As a descendant of Gylindora Fane, leader of the Nilyndd tribe, and Curator of the Aquila, Imaly remained the only obstacle, other than Lothian, who stood in his way.

“That's a lot to risk on a theory,” she said, her tone losing the playful lilt. “And a dangerous thing to admit.”

“I didn't mean to suggest
I
was going to kill Lothian. You're right; that would be too much to risk on a theory. But someone else might. Should that happen, if Lothian were to die prematurely, I'll seek to blow the challenge horn again. And…” He let his smile fade. “I highly suggest you don't stand in my way a second time.”

Gryndal waited until Imaly had disappeared around the Fountain of Alon before he passed through the bronze gate and entered the Garden. A few others strolled the pathways, but this was a place of reflection and meditation so it remained quiet—a world apart. Gryndal had spent days in there, practicing concentration and widening his inner eye. He learned to connect to the world with deeper, more powerful chords. He also spent a good deal of his time staring at the Door.

The entrance was so unassuming, so austere. It could have been a door to any ordinary house, but instead it provided the only entrance to The First Tree. No artistry adorned the threshold, no hinges or lock, not a sign or a clue. Plain and rectangular, the wooden Door didn't sport a knob—just a rather crude latch. In all the centuries of daily pilgrimages, Gryndal had never been able to determine a way to open it. He'd knocked once as a boy; it was a rite of passage. The Umalyn frowned on the tradition, considered it disrespectful to their god, but even they tried to find a way in.

Trilos, the only person more obsessed with the Door than the priests, was once again on the stone bench, staring at the Door. Leaning forward with elbows on knees, his long hair hid his face, a good thing. Trilos wasn't the most handsome Fhrey.

“I'm going to be leaving in the morning,” Gryndal said.

“I know,” Trilos replied without looking over.

Long ago Gryndal had given up wondering how Trilos knew things, just as he'd learned to look past the unkempt appearance and utterly cavalier attitude. Most Fhrey trembled at Gryndal's passing, and other Miralyith bowed out of respect. Even Imaly and Lothian became nervous with nothing more than a long stare from Gryndal. But Trilos remained oblivious.

Gryndal often inquired into Trilos's past and his nature, but the unkempt Fhrey maintained his annoying habit of ignoring questions he didn't want to answer. Trilos appeared to know more about the Art than anyone—even more than Gryndal's old instructor, Jerydd, who had been taught by Fenelyus herself. To Gryndal's great amazement, Trilos made claims about teaching Fenelyus. If true, there could be only one explanation. Trilos had to be the avatar of the Art, the singular manifestation of power, self-created and self-aware, that had taken corporeal form to educate the Fhrey. If that wasn't the case, it didn't matter; Trilos was always worth speaking to.

Who or what else could Trilos be?

“Any advice before I leave?” Gryndal asked.

“No.”

“No? You've been giving me advice for years.”

“Not this time.”

Gryndal sat beside the rumpled pile of cloth and mangy hair, who was his imaginary friend with a Door obsession. “Why?”

“Those are the rules.”

“Rules? There are rules? Since when are there rules? Whose rules? Rules for what?”

“My game, my rules,” Trilos said.

“I don't understand.”

“Of course not.”

“You aren't making any sense,” Gryndal replied.

“Neither does that Door,” Trilos said. “Impossible to open, and yet it was.”

Gryndal sighed. “So you've said,
many
times. I just don't believe you.”

“Because if
you
can't do it, no one else could have?” Trilos laughed. “I must admit I love your arrogance. I picked well. Still, I'm positive Fenelyus went inside.”

“How'd she open it, then? Oh, right, she didn't, did she? You insist she had help, even though Fenelyus was the most powerful person in her day.”

“What makes you think she was the most powerful?” Trilos asked.

“Everyone knows that.”

Trilos looked at him oddly. “What an absurd statement. Are you drunk?”

“What's absurd about it? Ever hear of common knowledge?”

Trilos grinned.

Gryndal disliked Trilos's smile. There was something disturbing in that expression on that face.

“What exactly do you suppose is
common
about me? And why would you rely on random, unverified conclusions of ordinary people who presume absurd notions like
The sun will rise each day
merely because in their existence it always has? By that same logic, they should live forever. And I can assure you they won't. You disappoint me, Gryndal.”