by Michael
“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?”
“Lothian was chosen by Ferrol,” Osla said, as if this self-evident proof made Imaly’s hypothetical inquiry moot.
Imaly watched for, but didn’t see, the same mindless devotion to tradition in the others’ eyes. Having hatched the plan together with Imaly, Volhoric was already converted. So it was Nanagal and Hermon she waited on. Neither spoke, each stabbing back at her with suspicious eyes.
“Ferrol didn’t act alone in picking Lothian,” she continued, “and perhaps we were the ones who failed our lord by not choosing a better challenger than Zephyron. But this isn’t about the past. It’s about the future. So will no one answer my simple, harmless question?” Imaly folded her arms and leaned back against the ornate tile wall.
“You’re speaking of treason,” Osla said.
“No, dear. I’m only asking a question. We are merely having a conversation. No one is suggesting we arm ourselves and storm the palace—that would be treason. I’m only asking for opinions and soliciting the combined wisdom of the Aquila. That’s why it was created, isn’t that so?”
“And yet we are meeting here and not in the Airenthenon, so don’t try to pretend you are just making harmless inquiries,” Osla accused.
Imaly bowed her head, conceding the point. “Be that as it may, I’ve still not received an answer.”
Nanagal stepped forward. “I suppose that would depend on who would replace him.” Unlike Imaly’s casual posture, which was carefully chosen to suggest confidence, his was stiff and straight.
“A valid point, but then let me ask this: What would Lothian need to do in order for you to prefer any Fhrey other than him?”
This prompted a series of smiles and near laughs.
Nanagal shrugged at the absurdity. “I don’t know. I suppose if he went insane and became incapable of reasoned thought.”
“So, you concede that under certain circumstances removal of the fane may be necessary? What if he threatened the very existence of the Fhrey as a people? Would you be willing to take steps to remove him in such a case?”
The smiles faded.
Nanagal looked to Volhoric. “Would insanity constitute a breaking of the covenant with Ferrol? In such a circumstance, wouldn’t our lord demand removal of the fane?”
Volhoric shook his head. “Going strictly by Ferrol’s Law, the fane can do whatever he desires, whether sane or not. Tradition alone—not Ferrol’s edict—demands that he work for the benefit of the Fhrey. I suppose it is possible he could summarily execute every single Fhrey if he chose to do so.” He raised a finger. “Likewise, however, only tradition demands th
at we obey him. Ferrol’s Law doesn’t explicitly require our obedience.”
Imaly pressed, “Given Lothian’s inability to effectively rule, do we let him continue, or is it our responsibility to see that a just and capable leader is in control? If left unchecked, Lothian could, indeed, exterminate our entire race. Do you think Ferrol wants that to happen? Should we not intervene?”
They looked to one another.
For what? Help? Support? Guidance?
In the past, Imaly had always appreciated how pliable the members of the Aquila were, but at that moment, she wished for a bit more backbone.
“I’m not sure,” Nanagal said. He looked around at the others. “Ferrol’s wishes aren’t explicitly clear, are they?”
“So, you’d ignore such behavior? A mad fane slaughtering all of us?” Imaly asked. “And wouldn’t that be the same as condoning such behavior? But being members of the Aquila, don’t you have a responsibility to the tribes you represent?”
“Well, I don’t—”
Volhoric stepped in, “In such a circumstance, I think it would be our duty to our Lord Ferrol to remove him.”
“Yes.” Nanagal reluctantly nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”
Imaly looked at Hermon.
“I have to agree with Nanagal,” he said.
Imaly thought, Of course you do. You always do.
Osla appeared deep in thought as she stared at her feet, hands clenched before her. “I agree, but . . . I submit that we are only speaking in hypotheticals. Lothian’s threat has not yet risen to the level Imaly has put forth. Incompetent he may be, but that has resulted in a stalemate between ourselves and the Rhune. I see no evidence that we are about to be overwhelmed by them at the present. There is no serious threat to our people as a whole. Besides, I don’t understand. How would we even . . .” She paused. “Is there a provision in the law for the Aquila to remove a fane from the throne?”
“No,” Volhoric said.
“Then how could we—”
“We would have to kill him,” Imaly said without hesitation.
Osla’s face dropped, her jaw dangling. “That would require breaking Ferrol’s Law.”
“Yes, it would,” Imaly agreed. “A small price to pay to save all of Erivan, I submit. We are the leaders of our tribes. We are the ones entrusted with the responsibility of protecting our civilization, and sometimes that burden requires more than just sitting in a lavish building and doing only what is safe.”
The echo of her words lingered for a moment, and then silence filled the tomb as they stared, horrified, at Imaly.
Gylindora had once told her that one of the secrets of crafting baskets was to know how far a reed would bend before it broke. The trick with a particularly stiff one was to soak it overnight, or even longer if necessary. This made it more flexible.
I’ve done enough for now, she thought.
“Well, this has been a good discussion, hasn’t it? And I concur with Osla. Times are not yet so dire, and as I said, all this has only been speculation. Nothing we need to concern ourselves with at the moment. It’s just a thought to ponder for another time that, Ferrol willing, may never come.” Imaly opened the door, letting the light of day in. “I want to thank each of you for coming.”
With a pair of ropes looped beneath the coffin, Vasek’s team lifted the casket and set it to one side of the gaping hole. Volhoric had denied Vasek access to the Estramnadon cemetery, but the forest just outside the city had served him well.
The box Vasek had put the mystic in was an actual coffin, a six-sided crate tapered from shoulders to ankles. While Lothian had ordered Suri to be taken to “The Hole”—a set of small cells under the Lion Corps’ barracks—it was the fane’s command to bury her that had given the Master of Secrets the idea to try something even more drastic. Her reported aversion to small spaces seemed like the best leverage and had the added benefit of avoiding physical damage, which always carried additional risk.
He’d picked a coffin that was a tight fit, leaving her no room to move. Constricting the Rhune in the smallest space possible would yield the greatest results. The sound and smell of dirt dropped on the lid, the loss of light bleeding in through the cracks, and the total silence of a grave was a mixture he felt certain would be perfect to convince her to talk.
Timing was key. Too little and the subject would still resist; too much and the Rhune might no longer possess the ability to communicate. His was a dangerous venture, for both the Rhune and for himself. Should he break or kill the fane’s prize, Vasek suspected Lothian might make him the next occupant of that crate.
The Master of Secrets took no pleasure in his work. He had no feelings about Rhunes one way or the other. The stories about them being wild animals—vicious, cruel, and mindless—were nothing more than propaganda. He knew this because he’d created most of the tales himself. The purpose was to depict the Rhunes as ferocious but inferior. This combination would generate fear in the Fhrey population, but not despair. Motivation was the goal, desperation the enemy. Lothian needed his people’s support, not their anger. The fane was their absolute ruler, Ferrol’s embodiment on Elan, but terror tore down even the most sacred of symbols.
As always, Vasek was merely solving a problem given to him by the fane. His task was to obtain a secret from the Rhune’s mind. Had the fane asked him to extract the yolk from an egg, he would have gone about that task with similar logic. And yet in the remote alcoves of his mind, Vasek hoped the Rhune survived being cracked for the same reason that people regretted accidentally killing a ladybug after mistaking it for a mosquito.
No sound came from inside the box, and Vasek felt his stomach sink.
It has only been two hours!
Pry bars were applied to the lid, and Vasek prepared himself for the sight of a dead Rhune and possibly his own future. The lid came free, slid aside, and there she was, eyes closed, hands at her sides, her chest rising and falling, slowly, evenly.
She’s alive!
This thought was quickly followed by an equally surprising one: She’s sleeping.
Much of life fell short of expectations. Spring wasn’t as wondrous as the one dreamed about during a harsh winter, a broken bone was never as painful as imagined, and Suri strongly suspected that death would be the biggest disappointment of all. Everyone spent a good part of their life thinking about what happened when they died. Stories were told by firelight, and all of the tales were larger than life, which was pretty ironic when she thought about it. Reality couldn’t possibly compete with decades of anticipation. These were the thoughts going through Suri’s head when they put her into the coffin.
The sealing of the box had been difficult to endure, but matters got worse when they began dropping shovelfuls of soil onto the lid. Some of the dirt slipped through the seams between the wooden boards, including the poorly fitted joint directly over her face. With her hands trapped at her sides, she was forced to turn her head to keep breathing. That’s when she knew she would die. This thought didn’t come as a surprise, but the fact that she wasn’t screaming did.
At first, she’d thought, This is it. My worst nightmare finally faced.
For most of her life, Suri had been uncomfortable with walls, caves, and any confined place because of an incident that had happened when she was six years old. She had entered a hole that she couldn’t get out of, an opening dug into a sandy bluff near a riverbank. Suri was pretty sure it was a fox’s den. Being young and small, she was certain she could fit, and she desperately wanted to see how foxes lived. She’d been told they were clever, so she imagined tiny tables—miniatures of the one she and Tura used—set with minuscule cups and plates.
Do they have little beds? Candles? Formal clothes they hide from everyone else that they only wear on special nights when the forest holds secret celebrations?
Suri had long suspected that the Crescent Forest creatures held private parties they didn’t talk about when she was around. That hole had been her chance to expose the tru
th of it, and afterward, she planned to confront the first animal she came across and ask them why she had never been invited.
The problem, she discovered, was that she wasn’t as small as a fox. Partway in, she got stuck. When she tried to push her way out, the sandy dirt broke loose and collapsed around her. The more she tried to get out, the worse her situation became. The opening filled up. Everything became dark, and the air was thick with the smell of soil. She’d screamed until her tortured throat refused to make any more sounds. Tura had saved her. The old mystic had found and dug her out . . . three days later.
Ever since, Suri had been terrified of any small place that she wasn’t certain she could get out of. She’d lost part of herself in that fox’s hole. Left it behind, perhaps, or maybe it had died—smothered in the dirt. Suri slept outside from then on, and she only went into Tura’s house on the coldest of nights.
And so she found it odd that as the sounds of the dropped dirt became more and more muffled—as she was buried deeper and deeper—there was no screaming. The panic had failed to come.
I should be losing my mind. Why isn’t that happening? Why am I so calm?
This was, after all, number one on Suri’s list of worst possibilities, her greatest nightmare.
Except it’s not anymore.
Suri had no problem jumping off waterfalls, facing a pack of wolves, or climbing towering trees in storms, but it hadn’t always been that way. In the primordial depths of her memories, she remembered a time when she had been scared of such things. Minna had given her courage. The little wolf pup had been fearless. Suri couldn’t allow herself to be outdone by a pup, so pride had pushed her to confront her terrors, and she discovered fear was a cowardly bully—all bluster, no substance. After one successful jump off the waterfall, Suri couldn’t understand what she’d been so worried about.
Being in tight places like small rooms or the cage that had transported her to the Fhrey capital had almost been like being buried alive, but similar wasn’t the same. Fear of the real thing had haunted her, and it was the anticipation—that unknown factor—which had always paralyzed her. Suri hadn’t been forced to face the greatest fear of her childhood, not head-on, not until Vasek’s men actually buried her.