by Michael
The person on the bench smiled. “Troth is the chord of creation.”
“There is no such thing,” Mawyndulë declared. This was a topic he knew about. This queer little creature on the bench was presuming to know about the Art and was—as most laymen were—wrong. “There is no chord of creation.”
“Of course there is. How do you think everything was made?”
“It can’t be reached with the Art.”
“How do you think Jerydd made his strawberry? Where do you think this one came from?”
Mawyndulë stared at him.
How does he know about Jerydd and his mysterious fruit? How did he know I would be taking a walk? And about Treya and my father? There is no way he could know any of that. Who is he?
“Troth is massive—so big it doesn’t feel like a chord at all. That’s why most—like you and your teachers—don’t know it exists. Wouldn’t matter if you did; the power it takes to pluck it is overwhelming. Jerydd needed the full force of Avempartha just to make that single tiny strawberry. An autonomous creature like the one your father is struggling to produce is even harder to achieve.”
Mawyndulë looked down at the berry in his fingers. “But you made this without . . .” He looked around at the dead and snowy world.
“It’d be best if you took me out of such contexts. Doing otherwise will only confuse you. I’m different, and I don’t play by the rules. My presence is a perfect example. That I intend to teach you how to make a real strawberry is another.”
Mawyndulë looked back at the fruit. “Why?”
“Because twice is not enough.” He pointed at the Door. “I need footprints to track, and my prey is a crafty one. I’m hoping three times will be the key.” He laughed. “Get it? The key?”
“You’re making no sense at all.”
The fellow on the bench smiled, this time with amusement that bordered on sinister. “It will be clear when you look back on it, when you see this moment from behind. All the pieces are in position, or will soon be. Still, you need to be armed for the future because you’re going to need all the help you can get. Now listen closely.”
Mawyndulë had escaped the Garden. That’s how he looked at it, how he saw it from behind.
The guy on the bench had blathered on and on about Troth and creation, while Mawyndulë had retreated with smiles and nods until he finally waved farewell and hurried off.
What was that all about?
Mawyndulë made a mental note to report him to Vasek. As he left the Garden through the gate, a wave of relief washed over him. The stranger on the bench was disturbing.
Both times!
He did appear to know about the Art, but his ideas were queer. Not thinking about where he was going, Mawyndulë ended up exiting on the river side of the Garden. He should have headed back to the palace. His feet were cold, and if Treya were going to be killed, the execution would be over by now.
Who—or what—was he?
While still trying to make sense of his trip through the Garden, Mawyndulë was working his way along the river, approaching the infamous bridge, which was now covered in snow. That’s when he saw her. At first, the prince was certain he was wrong. What he was seeing had to be an illusion, a trick of light, maybe a vision, some sort of manifested memory, even a ghost. But no, it was Makareta. She was there, not under the bridge but at the end of the walkway between two leafless birch trees. She wore black and white in the fashion of an Umalyn. Even with the dark hood pulled up, he recognized her. In the shadow of that cowl, a pair of frightened eyes looked out at him.
Lost in shock and disbelief, he stared.
“I’ve been afraid to show myself to you—afraid you’d—but now . . .” Her eyes fluttered with concern.
Same voice. All the muscles in Mawyndulë’s stomach were squeezing. The cold of his feet was forgotten. “How—how are you alive?”
“I got away. Stayed hidden.”
“Where?”
“Here.” She made a vague motion at everything and nothing.
“You stayed hidden here in Estramnadon for seven years?”
The dark hood barely moved as her head nodded.
Is Vasek that terrible at his job? How has no one seen her? How did she get any food? How did she survive?
Makareta didn’t look any different.
Well, maybe a little, he conceded.
That happy smile she used to wear was gone, and her eyes seemed older—worn out—exhausted. She was still pretty. The pout and the sad, frightened eyes she now wore suited her, made her more vulnerable, more appealing. He thought this even as he remembered that she had betrayed him, that she was a murderer. But that second thought was only an idea, like plans for tomorrow, and she was right there in front of him.
“I had to see you,” she said.
“Why?”
“To say I was sorry. To make sure you knew that I never meant—” She took a deep breath. “You see, I planned to explain things later on, but that time never came. And I thought that if I . . .” Her hands came up toward her face, only going half the distance. The sleeves of the robe were so long that all he saw were the tips of her fingers. Makareta nervously looked around at the empty landscape and adjusted her hood, pulling it forward to cover more of her face. “Can we go somewhere and sit? Will you give me a chance to explain?”
“You used me to try to kill my father. What explanation could you possibly give?”
“That if we had succeeded, you’d be fane. And if that had happened, the Miralyith wouldn’t be exiled on the banks of the Nidwalden, and we wouldn’t be in a pointless war with the Rhunes.”
Mawyndulë glanced over his shoulder toward the palace. He wasn’t sure what to do. He’d told himself that if he ever saw her again, he’d kill her. He could. When she murdered other Fhrey, her own action ejected her from their society. By Ferrol’s Law, Makareta was no longer Fhrey and no longer under his protection.
He had played out the scenario thousands of times. He’d make a flippant remark and casually set her on fire, or do what Gryndal had done to those Rhunes in the burned-out village. He would snap his fingers and she would blow apart. He’d pictured those scenes many times, but in none of them had she looked so sad, so vulnerable, so enticing. In his daydreams, she always presented him with a vicious, maniacal grin.
He’d always thought that seeing her would be frightening. Just as he could kill her, she could do the same to him. Having murdered once, any added body count wouldn’t make the state of her soul any worse off. He ought to be tense, terrified, but he didn’t feel any of those things. She wasn’t threatening in any way. He stared at her, and she looked back. It felt as if he were peering into her soul through a door she’d purposely left open.
“Yes, we can sit,” he said.
She nodded, pivoting on her left heel, and led him to a flat rock near the bridge, close to the scene of the crime. She dusted it off with the too-long sleeves that flopped about in a ridiculous manner. She cleared a patch big enough for both of them. Then she sat down.
Her disguise was a good one. Umalyn priests dressed just that way and were often seen near the Garden. No one but he would have recognized her, and he did only because she wanted him to.
Mawyndulë took a step and sat beside her.
“You can kill me,” she said, shocking him with the invitation. “I won’t even put up a shield, but I hope you’ll let me speak before you do. I know you must hate me. Probably see no reason to listen, but . . . well . . .” She shook her head. “I know you won’t believe this, but my feelings toward you were always sincere, and, yes, I really believe you’ll make a better fane than your father.”
She bowed her head, slapped her lap with her sleeves, and emitted a frustrated huff. “All of this sounds so contrived! Anything I say now will come off like begging, and I suppose I am, but you should be able to accept this much.” She looked up at him. “By coming to you now, I’m literally putting my life in your hands. You don’t even have to kill
me yourself. All you have to do is tell your father that I’m still alive. If you do that, I’m dead. It’s that easy for you to kill me.”
“Maybe not. If you’ve evaded the search for this long—”
“No one has been looking. Not for a long time, at least. Everyone thinks I’m dead or gone to some faraway place.”
“And so you risked your life just to apologize to me?”
“No—that’s part of it—a big part, but there’s something else.”
Mawyndulë waited, but Makareta didn’t say anything for a long while. She sat with her head bowed, her knees clamped together, shivering slightly. He could see the fine material of the robes quiver.
“What is it?” he finally asked.
She sucked in a breath, and he thought she might be crying, but her face was lost in the hood. “This is hard for me. I’m—I’m really scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of you.”
“Really?”
“I’m afraid you won’t believe, and that you’ll hate me.”
“What you really fear is that I’ll kill you—or have someone else do it.”
She shook her head. “I did—I was—not now. I think if you were going to do that, you already would have. No, I’m scared because—Mawyn, I’ve killed Fhrey.” She drew back the hood, and he could see tears in her eyes. “When I die, I don’t know what will happen. Maybe I’ll just disappear or dissolve, but one thing I know for certain is I’ll be unable to enter Phyre. No one will mourn me. No one cares—no one at all.” The tears slipped down her cheeks. “You have no idea what it feels like. I’m facing oblivion, and I’m all alone. I just want to know someone somewhere cares. And right now, you’re the only one who I think might. But if what I have to tell you doesn’t change your mind, then I’m truly lost. So please, try to listen with an open mind and heart, and if when I’m finished you want to hand me over to your father, so be it.”
He reached out and touched her trembling hands. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t thought about it, but he was glad he had. They still felt the same—better, even. In the past, Makareta had been a wild thing he was trying to impress; now she came to him in defeat, in surrender. He realized that no matter what she said, he could never hand her over to his father. He was stunned to discover the truth, but not surprised. He wouldn’t give even his goldfish to Lothian.
“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.”
Brin thought he looked familiar. He wore no armor and was dressed in poor wool and badly stitched leather with a leigh mor wrapped over one shoulder. The pattern was Dureyan. He had a thumb hooked in his belt; the other hand held a spear like a walking stick. And then there was that sword on his back. She was certain she’d seen it before. “Excuse me, do I know you?”
“Don’t think so. I’m certain I’d remember a pretty thing like you. I’m Herkimer of Dureya,” the man said over his shoulder as he marched.