“You made it!” Makareta shouted as she appeared out of a clump of people and rushed to his side. She was wearing her cloak, though it was cast back over both shoulders like a cape. In her hand she held a wooden cup.
Makareta hugged him.
Mawyndulë froze. He hadn’t expected an embrace, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d never been hugged before. Rumors said mothers hugged their children; Mawyndulë knew for a fact fathers didn’t.
When she drew back, he saw the cup that had been in her hand was floating beside her. She offered an embarrassed half smile and said, “Didn’t want to spill wine on you. What a nice asica. Little warm for tonight, though.”
“You’re the one in the cloak,” he blurted out, and hated the confrontational tone. Thankfully, she didn’t seem insulted and let out a little laugh.
“We all have these. They were Aiden’s idea. He thought we should have a symbol of unity, you know? A little silly, I suppose. I mean they’re too hot in summer and not nearly warm enough in winter, but we’re expected to wear them at every meeting. No one does, but at least we bring them. Better than tattoos. That’s what Rinald wanted. He thought they would show a real commitment. But we couldn’t agree on a design or where they should go. The whole thing became too much of a hassle, so we settled for the cloaks. Inga and Flynn make them.”
“By hand?”
Makareta laughed. “Of course not.”
Mawyndulë was still thinking about the hug. In retrospect he decided he liked it. She had smelled like lilacs, and he recalled the warmth of her cheek against his neck and her bald head against his jaw. The squeezing was nice, too, the way her arms felt around his back. If he had known, if he hadn’t been so blindsided, he would have returned the hug. He would have liked to let his palms solve the riddle of what was clothes and what was Makareta. Maybe, before the night was over, he’d have another chance.
“Here. Have some wine,” she said, and the cup drifted toward him. “It’s really good. Inga brought it. So much better than the ghastly swill Rinald said was supposed to be a rare vintage from a famed vintner. Everyone hated that. But this is excellent; try it.”
Mawyndulë grabbed the floating cup, which was wet on one side where it had spilled a little. He didn’t want it. He didn’t care for wine. He mostly drank water, and loved apple cider when it was in season. He disliked the sensation of wine and mead. He hadn’t touched either of them since his first taste at the age of thirteen. He also had never shared the same cup with anyone. He was the prince. He didn’t share anything, but Mawyndulë took it from her. He looked inside, but saw only a dark liquid. Over the brim, Makareta’s big kitten eyes peered at him expectantly. Placing the cup to his lips, he took the tiniest of sips. He got mostly air, but a little of the wine as well. Fruity, he thought, sweeter than he remembered. He took a second taste, a bigger one. The wine surprised him—light, not biting or bitter.
After another sip, he noticed a crowd of bald heads around him. “Is everyone Miralyith?”
“Oh, yes,” she said with sudden gravity. “Non-Mira aren’t allowed.”
“Why?”
“We talk about stuff; things others wouldn’t understand.”
“Like what?”
“Like how Miralyith shouldn’t have to hide under a bridge to speak the truth. Am I right?” The speaker was a tall Fhrey—taller than Mawyndulë—who approached them carrying two fresh drinks, one of which he handed to Makareta.
“This is Aiden,” she said.
“And this is the famous Mawyndulë.” Aiden grinned. “Makareta said there was a chance you might visit our humble gathering, but I didn’t believe her. Who would? Let me just say, it is an honor to have you here.”
Aiden looked older than Makareta, but he was still young—under five hundred maybe, in his first millennium certainly. Older people had a dusty way about them. Dusty was a word Mawyndulë had recently begun applying to people with dated mannerisms and tastes, as well as an archaic mentality that mirrored something left on a shelf too long to be useful. Those in their second millennium—while they didn’t appear too old—moved, talked, and possessed attitudes that betrayed their age. They screamed old, as if from another world, an ancient one covered in sediment. Aiden was young. So was Makareta, as was everyone under the bridge that he’d seen so far.
“And what exactly do you do? I mean what is everyone here for?” Mawyndulë asked, looking around.
Closer to the river, three fellows in gray cloaks held a water war. They coaxed balls of liquid from the stream, much as he had at the fountain with Vidar, and launched them at one another. Mawyndulë had seen Miralyith play the same game at holiday festivals, and it had always looked like fun.
“To enjoy the company of the right people without having to suffer fools, inferiors, or those who are too stupid to tell the difference. Am I right?” Aiden replied, and Makareta nodded.
Aiden had a little smile that stayed on his lips as he spoke. Probably fake. Mawyndulë believed most smiles were. But maybe Aiden’s was real; most young people didn’t fake-smile. That was a dusty trait. Aiden could genuinely be awestruck by his princely presence.
“We believe our culture is on the cusp of a new era. It’s been nearly twelve thousand years since Estramnadon was founded, since Gylindora Fane and Caratacus led us here and established our society. Did you know Gylindora was a Nilyndd…a crafter?”
Does he think I’m an idiot?
“Of course he knows that,” Makareta said with enough disdain to put a genuine smile on Mawyndulë’s face.
Aiden looked annoyed, or maybe it was embarrassment at being corrected in front of the prince. “Okay, but did you know she used to make baskets?”
Mawyndulë was pleased to see just as much surprise on Makareta’s face.
“Ah-hah!” Aiden declared victory. “I thought so. Most people don’t know that, but it’s true. That was her craft, making baskets from river grass. Can you imagine? A fane. A basket weaver! Life was very different then. So much of our society was established in a time before…well…before the Art for one. I think it goes without saying that if the Miralyith had been one of the original founding tribes, Gylindora wouldn’t have been our first fane. Am I right?”
Mawyndulë found himself nodding as he took another sip of wine. At first glance, he hadn’t liked Aiden. He didn’t care for anyone taller than himself, and Aiden’s habit of repeating Am I right? was certainly annoying. But most of all he didn’t like that Aiden had given Makareta a cup of wine. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Perhaps they were just friends, but it bothered Mawyndulë all the same.
He couldn’t argue, however, with Aiden’s high opinion of Miralyith. What he had said was as comfortable as old slippers. Mawyndulë had thought the same for years. And while he knew Gylindora had been of the Nilyndd tribe, he’d never heard about the basket-weaving thing. That was pathetic, but also exactly what he would’ve expected.
“What your father did to that Instarya leader in the Carfreign changed everything. It showed that not even the warrior tribe can hope to challenge us for dominance. And the way he played with him? That was awesome. When Lothian finally obliterated Zephyron like a toy, that really sent a message. All the other tribes now know the truth about the Miralyith. We aren’t just a stronger tribe; we’re a different people altogether. A higher sort of being.”
“Gryndal used to say the Miralyith were the new gods,” Mawyndulë said.
Aiden grinned. “Did Gryndal tell you he was part of our group?”
Mawyndulë was stunned.
“The founding member, actually. A genius.” Aiden’s grin faded to a sickened look. “I can’t believe what happened to him. To be killed like that…by a Rhune.”
“Mawyndulë was there, weren’t you?” Makareta said.
He nodded and finished the last of his wine—a large mouthful—and he found himself wishing there was more.
“That must have been horrible,” she said, shortening the distance between them.<
br />
Mawyndulë didn’t like people standing too close, but Makareta was an exception. He also liked that she was now nearer to him than to Aiden.
“Everyone heard how you tried to kill the Rhune. You were summoning fire, yes?” she asked.
Mawyndulë nodded.
“A perfect choice,” Aiden said. “I would’ve tried the same.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Makareta said reproachfully. “Neither one of us would. We would’ve been struck stupid, paralyzed at the sight of Gryndal’s headless body. We wouldn’t have been able to think, much less do anything.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t, but I certainly would have,” Aiden said, sounding angry and perhaps a little hurt.
Mawyndulë didn’t want to gloat, but he couldn’t help smiling.
“I don’t think you know what you would or wouldn’t have done,” Makareta said. “The last time, and I bet the only time, you saw anyone die, much less witnessed anyone being killed, was that Instarya leader in the arena. He wasn’t Miralyith, not one of our people, but I still cried.”
“That’s you,” Aiden said. “I didn’t cry. I laughed.”
Mawyndulë hadn’t laughed or cried. After seeing what his father had done to Zephyron, Mawyndulë left the stands, went behind the support pillar near the service gate, and vomited. He worked hard to avoid thinking about the challenge, and he’d pushed away the memories of the day Gryndal died. Mawyndulë had tried to erase the dual visions of blood and gore, especially the horror when the First Minister’s head came free and fell. There had been so much blood. He thought he could still taste the vomit on his tongue.
“You’re such the hero, aren’t you?” Makareta told Aiden.
Aiden’s expression soured. “I’m just saying that fire was a good choice. That’s all.”
“Well, I agree with that,” Makareta conceded. Taking Mawyndulë’s empty cup, she handed him her full one.
“Maybe,” Mawyndulë said. “Won’t ever know because The Traitor stopped me.” He refused to refer to Arion by name anymore. His old tutor would forever be known as The Traitor.
All three shook their heads in disgust. “Bitch,” they said in unison.
Such a perfect harmony made them all smile, and in that shared moment, Mawyndulë felt at one with the universe. Everything made sense in a way it never had before. It all felt good and right. He liked the wine—the way it tasted and how it made him feel. The floating carnival lights and the people playing with water were wonderful. He liked the silly robes, the hidden secret fellowship, and the atmosphere provided by the dark underside of the bridge. Mawyndulë even decided he liked Aiden. But more than anything else, he liked Makareta. He liked her a lot.
“This is fun,” Mawyndulë said, and took another sip of wine, surprised that his new cup was already mostly empty.
“Does that mean you’ll come back?” Makareta asked.
“If I do, can I have a cloak?”
“Only members get those. Would you like to join?”
Mawyndulë decided with barely a thought. What was there to think about? These were the most sensible people he’d ever met. They were smart, welcoming, and more like a family than anything he’d experienced in the Talwara. And then there was Makareta. Mawyndulë licked the wine from his lips and wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
“I’d love to,” he said. “You’re my kind of people.”
CHAPTER TEN
Something to Believe In
We were the same age, but I do not recall seeing him in Tirre. I have been told that he was little more than an animal then, an abandoned boy surviving the aftermath in the shadows and tall grass. No one could have guessed what he would become. I know I did not.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
The tent still leaked.
Raithe watched water fall from sagging cloth where overhead pools had formed, three of them, and each one dripped. He wasn’t complaining—quite the opposite. He was amazed that pieces of stretched cloth could keep the area mostly dry after four solid days of rain.
Clan Rhen had settled along the northern wall of Dahl Tirre. The stacked-stone barrier ringing the village had provided shelter from the wind, which blew in endlessly from the sea. The open field afforded plenty of room to spread out, and after the villagers unloaded the carts, they dug a series of fire pits and stored the supplies. Water had been pulled from Tirre’s well, originally a source of tension with the locals who insisted the newcomers needed to wait each day until all the Tirreans were finished. Despite this, everything had worked out fairly well until the rain.
The downpour made the days difficult and sleeping a misery. Under such deplorable conditions, frustration led to anger and dissent spread. Complaints grew frequent, including regrets about accepting Persephone as chieftain and the decision to leave Dahl Rhen. After hearing them, Raithe stayed close to her and walked with one hand on his sword.
This is how it’ll end. How everything will fall apart, he had thought with irony. Not with war or the might of the Fhrey’s magic but with rain.
Then Roan had started unrolling the wool.
For centuries, hunters had built shelters from animal skins, but there hadn’t been many of those in the dahl. What they did have plenty of was wool. Roan adapted the concept, and soon Persephone had assigned a small army to follow Roan’s directions. Using spears as poles, a series of taut awnings were fashioned that butted against the wall. When supports ran out, Roan dismantled the carts. The trick was in the angle that caused the water to run off. Soon a narrow porch was erected, providing enough shelter to sleep and cook beneath if everyone took turns. A few hours out of the rain to eat a warm meal or take a nap eased rebellious thoughts—at least for a while. Raithe worried what winter would bring, even though he had no intention of being there when the snows fell.
“Mind if I have a look?” Flood asked, pointing at Raithe’s sword.
Raithe had ducked under the wool near Padera’s cooking pit for his midday meal. He’d picked a bad time, as the three Dherg were there, too. Why they were still around he couldn’t understand. They were always underfoot, and more than a little annoying. “Why?”
Flood shrugged. “Strange seeing someone like you with a bronze sword. I thought your kind still used stone-tipped spears.”
Raithe didn’t like the tone. “And your kind are just plain strange.”
Flood harrumphed, folded his little arms, and scowled.
Raithe pulled the sword from his belt.
The Dherg flinched.
“Relax. You said you wanted to see it.”
“See it not feel it.”
Raithe flipped the weapon around, presenting the pommel. Flood hesitated, then reached out and took the blade. He held it up to the light and studied the edge.
“Took this from that elf you killed?” Flood asked.
“Elf?”
“Elf, Fhrey, same thing. Only they hate elf more.” He gestured once more toward the weapon. “So is that where you got this blade?”
Raithe nodded. “Elf-made bronze.” The Dherg scowled and shook his head as if the sword had insulted him.
“Best weapon I’ve ever had. What’s wrong with it?”
The Dherg handed the weapon back. “Feel how light it is.”
“Yeah, that’s what makes it good.”
Flood rolled his eyes. “This is the product of laziness. Look at the blade. See the color? It’s almost white.”
“So, why is that a problem?” Raithe asked, certain Flood was trying to find fault where there wasn’t any.
“Bronze is made from combining copper and tin. Tin has a lower melting point, so it’s easier to liquefy than copper. This sword is tin-heavy. That’s why it’s so light in color and weight. If it had more copper, it’d have a golden hue and would be stronger. Copper…good copper…is scarce. Can’t really make a good bronze sword without it, and there are better uses for copper if you come across it. For instance, black bronze is used to make our most revered statues. It’s
made by mixing gold and silver with copper.” He pointed at the sword as Raithe put it back in his belt. “That’s not a sword. Not a real one. It’s cheap cosmetic jewelry.”
“Well, it cut right through this.” Raithe hauled out the broken end of his father’s blade, which was sheathed on his back.
Flood looked it over. “Where’d you get this?”
“Handed down by members of my family. Supposedly a Dherg made it.”
Flood frowned. “Belgriclungreian, if you please.”
Raithe smirked. “Is that a word or did you belch?”
“Point is we didn’t make this. We haven’t made copper swords since before the War of Elven Aggression. And no one would make a sword this long out of copper, too weak. But I guess I don’t have to tell you that.”
It didn’t surprise Raithe that his family heirloom, the thing his father loved more than his wife, daughter, and sons put together, was worthless. He expected Flood to toss the half-a-sword back at him, but he kept it, turning the hilt over and over in his little hands. The Dherg licked the metal, and amazement washed over his face.
“What?”
“It’s copper.”
“You had to lick it to tell that? Of course it’s copper.”
“I mean it’s pure copper. I’d say”—he licked again—“ninety-five, ninety-eight percent.” Flood looked up at him as if this should mean something. “I told you copper is scarce. Most of it was mined out during the war. Pure copper is more valuable than gold these days. I’m not a swordsmith, but in the hands of a good one, this sword could be melted down and turned into quite a few excellent weapons. Much better than that elven ornament you’re carrying.”
Flood handed the broken end back, and by then the line for food had moved up. The Dherg went on ahead, leaving Raithe to consider that his father’s belief in the value of that blade might not have been so misplaced.
—
A short time after Raithe finished his meal, the rain was either stopping or taking another of its momentary pauses. Persephone ventured out from under the wool, and he watched her take a few tentative steps, navigating the brown puddles. She paused, looking up with a squint, and then she winced, as the rain hadn’t given up entirely. She wiped her face, held out her palms for a few seconds, and then set out into the open, walking down the length of the encampment.
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