by Michael
The two walked a bit farther, passing by the crypts of the previous fanes. When they got to Fenelyus’s tomb, Imaly said, “You know, many see you as the true inheritor of her legacy. They say the talent for leadership skipped a generation.”
The weather had turned colder. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, their naked branches clapping hollow, woody applause as their clothes danced in the streets. Imaly lifted the hood of her robe.
Mawyndulë recalled Vidar’s warnings about trusting Imaly, about her being dangerous, and he knew that was just so much dusty thinking. Since their first meeting, she had endeared herself to him, been the one true rock in the turbulent sea of his life. Hearing Imaly say words he’d recently thought or knew he was about to think, Mawyndulë realized that in all the world, Imaly was his only true friend. A shame she had to be so old and ugly.
Imaly began walking away, but in a quiet voice she said, “Your father is not a very good fane, Mawyndulë, but you will be. What’s more, everyone else sees that as well.”
Mawyndulë felt a rush of warmth. He wasn’t used to such compliments, even though flattery had been part of his life since birth. People had praised his looks, his clothes, and his sheer luck at being born son of the fane. All of it was excessive, noisy, and false—just like the trees’ applause. None of the approval had come in response to anything he’d achieved or from anyone whose opinion he respected. But Mawyndulë admired Imaly. Most people did. Even those who hated her—and she had plenty of enemies—held Imaly in high regard. That was something else he appreciated about her. She made her own current, moving against the tide until the water followed, and she never cared about the hostility forming in her wake. She was right; they were wrong, and doubt remained a stranger on her doorstep. He wanted to be like that. He would have to be when he was fane.
Pride rose to Mawyndulë’s lips as his self-conscious smile became an open grin.
Imaly gestured at the streets around them. “Everyone knows what happened. They saw how your father floundered helplessly in water that was far too deep. He would have drowned and taken all of us with him. During the Battle of Grandford, you distinguished yourself, and he . . . well, he fled. The city knows how you captured the Rhune and brought her here. They know it was you who—”
“But it wasn’t me at all. Jerydd was the one who actually caught her.”
“Pishposh.” Imaly waved a hand at him.
Pishposh?
He liked Imaly, but sometimes the things she came up with mystified him.
“Catching a Rhune is nothing. But you! You killed Arion,” Imaly said. “I shudder to think what might have happened if you hadn’t. Who knows how many dragons we’d be facing?” She grinned, and he noticed she didn’t have the best of teeth.
“You knew that was me? Not many people do.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised—word travels. I’m the Curator of the Aquila, so I hear it all, and the people have been talking about you in the most complimentary of terms. I can’t tell you how good that is to see in these trying times. Do you know what the people want? What they need? I’ll tell you: heroes to believe in. Don’t try selling Jerydd and Lothian. No one wants an old bureaucrat or an impotent coward. They want to be led by a dashing young prince who saved the Airenthenon and the Aquila during the Gray Cloak Rebellion. The same one who defied his father to capture a Rhune with the secret that might save us all from destruction.”
“I didn’t disobey my father. He sent me.”
“Details don’t matter. The story is better if you ventured out on your own, and that’s what the people will think. That’s what they’ll remember.”
“But it’s not true.”
“Mawyndulë, the best chronicles are never true, not completely. But make no mistake, it is our stories that define us both as individuals and as a civilization. Long after we’re dead, people remember. And those memories form the building blocks of who we are, what we value, what we believe in, what we stand for, and what we fight against. Truth comes from how we view ourselves and how others see us. Our stories are the most important things we have. The better the tales, the greater the legacy we leave, and the more worthy a world we create.”
They walked across the plaza to the old residences, which Mawyndulë now realized had more interesting lines and character due to their age.
“You’ll see,” Imaly went on. “You turned the tide in this war. That’s what people think and what they need to believe. It was you—not your father—who braved the frontier and returned with our salvation. You are the legacy of Fenelyus, the one coming to our rescue in our most desperate hour.”
Imaly paused in front of her house, which long ago had been the humble residence of the first fane. “I knew Fenelyus well. She and I didn’t always agree. We often fought about policy. I wrestled with her over the totality of power that the Miralyith wielded, and I reminded her that in our society, authority was meant to be shared. I was against the forming of the Miralyith as a new tribe because Gylindora Fane had decreed there be six, not seven. Your tribe has great power—there was a time when I was certain the Miralyith would destroy our civilization. And oh, how we fought about that! I swear we nearly came to blows over the subject. But then I met you—a Miralyith I could believe in. You give me hope, Mawyndulë. I want to thank you for that.” She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.
Before he’d met her, such an action would have made him want to vomit, but now he felt a tear well up. He was honored, honored by her.
Maybe she saw his eyes water, because she quickly continued the conversation. “Do you want to know something? Fenelyus actually threw a cup at me once. Can you imagine!” Imaly smiled warmly at the memory.
Mawyndulë couldn’t conceive how Imaly could recall the event so fondly. Arion had done the same to him, and it was just one in a long list of reasons he hated her. But Imaly was unusual in ways he was still trying to decipher.
“That cup smashed against the wall in the Airenthenon. A chip struck me in the cheek here.” She pointed to a faint red mark and smiled again, further bewildering Mawyndulë. “The old fane, who had raised the world’s highest mountain, formed Avempartha, and single-handedly came within a hairsbreadth of wiping out the entire Dherg race, threw a teacup at me!” Imaly laughed. “But for all our wars, for all our disagreements, I understood there was a greatness in her. Fenelyus was special. You could hear it in her voice, recognize it in the way she walked, and see it in her eyes. She was regal.”
Imaly reached out and placed both hands on his shoulders. “I see the same in you. You have her eyes, but I fear—I know—that the greatness of Fenelyus did, indeed, skip a generation.” Imaly lowered her voice to a whisper. “Let us pray to Ferrol that we can endure the wait. I know this will sound awful, but in some ways, I almost wish the Gray Cloak Rebellion had succeeded. Makareta and the others might not have been as foolish as we thought. I often wonder what happened to her.”
“Me, too,” Mawyndulë replied with his own whisper. “I sometimes imagine spotting her in a crowd.”
“What would you do if that happened?”
This was a question he’d asked himself before. In the past, he always knew the answer, but now Mawyndulë shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Mawyndulë left Imaly in front of her house and began to wander. With his father in such a foul mood, he had no desire to return to the palace, but he had nowhere else to go—or so he thought.
Perhaps it was Imaly’s comments that caused him to take the river road back, or it might have just been an accident, but Mawyndulë found himself strolling along the Shinara. He stopped as he spotted the Rose Bridge and remembered the overgrown memories that gathered beneath it. Under the heavy gray sky, everything looked so dead: trees reduced to skeletons, fallen leaves rusting brown, the grass a brittle yellow. He tried to picture the place as it had been so long ago in the bloom of early summer, all of it so rich and full, so deep and green: people laughing, singing, drinking, making plans, and building dreams. H
e remembered the taste of the wine, the sound of the music, the feel of her hand—all of it gone. Mawyndulë felt the pang of that loss as a tightness in his chest, a fist squeezing his heart.
He considered going down, but the bank of the river looked wet and muddy and there were thorns.
It’s not the same anymore. Nothing is.
Staring at the place was like visiting a grave. A cold wind pushed him. He shivered against it and sighed.
Time to go back to my room, he thought but continued to stare at the spot where Makareta had hugged him. He tried to recall how she used to look—always smiling, her lips rosy from the wine. He thought of how good her embrace had felt, how she smelled, and the warmth of her body. But the memories were so thin that the effort left him cold and sad. He endured the bitterness in search of the last drop of sweetness.
I loved her.
The revelation added to his suffering, lending righteousness to his pain. He was a martyr. In this, he found the drop of sweetness he’d looked for—self-pity. He was alone with his pain, with his grief, and that made him noble, even more courageous, and worthy of admiration. He could have been whole with Makareta. He knew this as certainly as he had ever known anything. She was the one person who could have completed him, his only chance at happiness, and their future together was gone before it fully started.
I’ve got to stop coming here. It’s too painful.
A cold wind picked up.
She said she thought I would make a better fane. So did Imaly.
Mawyndulë pulled up his hood.
Your father is not a very good fane, Mawyndulë, but you will be. What’s more, everyone else sees that as well . . . Let us pray to Ferrol that we can endure the wait.
He found the hood’s string and pulled it tight.
Maybe Makareta wasn’t a traitor.
The wind blew harder, coming down the open corridor of the river.
He heard his father’s words, Granted, I had my doubts when you were caught up in that Gray Cloak Rebellion. I mean, what were my options there? Either my son is a conspirator or an idiot.
A freezing rain began to fall, making the surface of the Shinara jump and the trees rattle.
Maybe Makareta was right after all.
Chapter Twelve
Astray in a Gloomy Wood
Drome and Ferrol were twins in the same way that day is related to night and good is the counterpart to evil. The underworld realms they ruled were mirrors reflecting their light—or lack thereof. — The Book of Brin
The crow sat on a patch of dead grass watching them. At least Brin thought it was a crow. The bird was big, black, and she’d known them to stand their ground over a carcass, but there was no carrion to be seen, no reason for the bird to be there. Still, the crow was less than six feet away, glaring at them with all the disdain of a thousand-pound aurochs.
The noise of their entry should have been enough to scare it away. The portal popped loudly upon each person’s arrival. They burst through the door into the darkness of Nifrel with shouts and gasps. Brin had come across the threshold crying.
Moya and Tekchin are gone!
Moya had been Brin’s closest friend. After Audrey’s death, Sarah had opened their home to the orphan, whom Brin’s mother used to call The Handful. Moya became Brin’s troublesome older sister. She was the bad influence, the foul-mouth, the mischief-maker, and Brin’s undisputed idol. Moya had taught Brin to dance, provided her first taste of mead, led the pair on forbidden adventures into the forest, and shown Brin she could be the hero of her own stories. Moya had also lied for Brin, telling Sarah that she was the one who had broken the treadle on the loom. Sarah had made Moya sleep on an empty stomach for that—Brin didn’t sleep at all. Moya had always protected her, and in all the years they lived in Dahl Rhen, no one ever picked on Brin. No one dared. She’d always been safe with Moya around. Upon reaching the bottom of the underworld and kneeling in the frightful, dark, and gloomy wood, Brin didn’t feel safe anymore.
Wiping her eyes, Brin saw Gifford looking back at the threshold, his sword drawn, likely waiting for Drome or that big one-eyed giant to come through. Tressa stood with hands on hips, peering the other way into the gloomy wood of pale leafless trees that was Nifrel. Rain clutched his pick, unsure which way to face, and Roan sucked on her lower lip the way she used to after someone had touched her.
“I don’t think they’re coming,” Gifford whispered. He moved closer to the portal, which from their current side was a smooth sheet of pale light. With his free hand, he reached out, and his fingers passed through the barrier.
With a violent cry, Gifford was jerked forward.
Rain and Brin grabbed him, pulling hard. Roan and Tressa joined in, and the combined effort was enough to free his arm.
“Someone on the other side grabbed my fingers,” Gifford said while clutching his assaulted hand to his chest and glaring up at the brilliant opening. “Doesn’t look like they can come through.”
Brin nodded. “I hope you’re right.”
“What happened?” Gifford asked her.
Brin tried to talk but her throat closed.
“The castle came down on them,” Rain answered for her. “Tekchin is gone, buried, and Moya was pinned by a block as big as a roundhouse. I tried, but I couldn’t make much more than a dent. Moya ordered us to leave.” The dwarf looked at Brin. “Practically had to threaten this one before she got moving.”
Gifford nodded solemnly. “So it’s just us now.”
Brin sniffled. “Looks like it.”
Together they turned from the door to view this new place, the second realm of Phyre.
Tree trunks creaked and groaned, and a handful of shriveled leaves clinging to bone-white wood rustled—the whisper of a thousand ghosts. Brin couldn’t feel a wind, yet bare branches clicked and clacked—a hollow, mournful sound.
Not at all a wholesome place.
Gifford, who also peered into the dark wood, summed it up. “Makes the Swamp of Ith seem nice, doesn’t it?”
“Is that the same bird that was in Rel?” Rain asked, returning his pickax to the sling on his back.
“I don’t know, maybe,” Brin replied.
“I think it is,” the dwarf said. “Strange.”
“Are you kidding?” Gifford looked at Rain. “In all this, you find the bird stands out as unusual?”
Rain shrugged. “Nothing else came through the entrance—why the bird?”
“We should get moving,” Tressa said, still staring out into the darkness that lay ahead.
“What about Moya?” Roan asked, her face illuminated by the threshold, eyes bright with the light that flooded the tiny clearing. “Maybe if we . . . perhaps we could—”
“That’s as far as she’s going to go,” Tressa said.
Brin stiffened. The cold indifference in Tressa’s voice infuriated her, even more so because Brin felt guilty for abandoning her friend. Once again, Tressa had become the heartless hag who’d thrown her pages in the river. “What if it were you, Tressa?”
The older woman gave a miserable smirk. “If it were me lying back there, everyone would have already left.” She focused on Brin with a naked honesty. “And you know it.”
“That’s not true,” Gifford said.
Tressa frowned. “Thing is, I wouldn’t mind. I’d expect it because this isn’t about me. We all knew the risks. I certainly did, and if Moya didn’t, then she was an idiot.”
“How can you be so cold?” Brin asked.
“I’m cold,” Roan said.
“What?” Brin looked at the woman, puzzled and a bit irritated. Filled to overflowing with self-hatred and doubt, she didn’t appreciate the flippant remark. It only took a second for Brin to remember that Roan never made offhand comments.
“I mean, I feel cold,” Roan clarified, following this up by rubbing her arms vigorously.
Tressa shook her head in disgust. “Seriously? What are you, eight? I’m cold, too. We’re all cold. Deal with it. We�
�ve got—”
“No, she’s right,” Gifford said. He was looking around suspiciously, as if the darkness and the dead trees were plotting against them. “I haven’t felt anything since dying. And the chill just started. I didn’t feel it when we were in Rel.”
Brin noticed it then. Not a true cold, not in the wintry sense, but she felt a distinct chill rise up her back and neck. It danced along her skin. Something was different, she could feel—
Snap, crack, rip. In the forest of bleached wood, something stirred, something big.
The chill grew frostier as Brin peered into the forest. The world of Nifrel was dark. Not black, like it had been at the bottom of Neith where she couldn’t see her own hands, but dim and hazy. This new world settled for shades of gray that built up to an eventual ebony where the sky had always promised to be. Brin wasn’t aware of any light that made it possible for her to see, but then what good was light when she didn’t have eyes? The world was no longer something she saw but rather something she perceived.
“What is that?” she asked.
Crack!
Brin couldn’t tell if it was a large branch that snapped or just a really close one.
Gifford drew his sword.
The crow finally moved. Flashing black wings, it flew to a low branch of a nearby tree. Even it no longer felt safe.
Struggling to penetrate the hazy silhouettes of the eaves, Brin finally saw movement, a giant hulking creature bristling with fur. “What is it?”
“I think,” Gifford said. “I think it’s a bear—a really big bear.”
“Is that . . . ?” Tressa started, then faltered. “Could that be . . . ?”
Out of the shadows the beast lumbered, a great brown bear. It rose on its hind legs and roared so loudly that the trees shook.
“The Brown,” Brin gasped. She’d never seen the bear that had killed Konniger and so many others, but she’d heard what it looked like: reddish, the color of dried blood, and huge from a steady diet of human meat. Maeve had been among its victims, and Suri would have died, too, if she hadn’t—