Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “How have you been?” Lothian asked. The question was superficial, self-conscious, and awkward. Mawyndulë suffered the same stumbling lack of grace when he spoke to Makareta.

  “Fine,” he replied, inching away from the chest.

  This can’t be about the cloak…can it? But what else? It has to be.

  “Vasek tells me you keep mostly to yourself.”

  It is. It is about the cloak! Vasek had me followed, or one of the members of the Gray Cloaks is an informant. I should have guessed. Probably Aiden, am I right?

  “That’s good, I think,” Lothian said, and nodded thoughtfully. “Best that you keep a distance. Good not to be too familiar with the people you’ll rule one day.” The fane walked across the room to one of the windows, taking in the view. “That’s the problem with being fane…being in charge of anything really, but being fane especially. You can’t get too attached to people. You never know what might be required.”

  Mawyndulë felt his heart hesitate as his father paused at the end of the bed and took hold of the canopy post, letting his hand slide up and down, feeling the wood with thoughtful, searching fingers.

  He’s trying to explain why he has to lock me up. How he regrets it, but how it’s for the good of the people.

  Mawyndulë hadn’t moved after he stepped away from the chest. He stood in the center of his room on the pretty wool carpet that Treya had given him for his twentieth birthday.

  Lock me up. That’s all he’ll do. I can handle that. How hard, how different could it really be? Maybe other people would have a problem, but I’ve lived most of my life within this single room. I can handle prison.

  “Your mother…did I ever tell you about your mother?”

  Mawyndulë replied quickly, as if his father was posing a test. “You said she looked like that painting of Fane Ghika, the one in the first study.”

  “Hmm?” He looked up as if he’d forgotten what they were speaking about. “Oh, yes, yes. That’s right. Absolutely. Very much like her. Shorter hair, though.” His father paused. His hand stopped its trip up and down the bedpost.

  “Is she still alive?” Mawyndulë asked, trying to cut the heavy silence, but unwilling to assist his father in getting to the point. These were his last few seconds of ignorance, his beautiful sunset that separated doubt from a future of certainty, and he wanted to stretch out that time as long as possible.

  The fane pushed away from the bed, walking back toward the chair and the door. “Oh, yes, she’s definitely alive,” he said with a tone suggesting there was more to come, but instead, he stopped there.

  Why is he meandering? Not that I’m in a hurry, but why is he dragging this out? He’s only going to lock me up—or is it worse? The conjoined twin images of Gryndal’s head flying free of his neck, and of his father killing the Instarya leader in the Carfreign arena, flashed in his head. I’m his son. I’m the prince. He couldn’t…wouldn’t…

  Lothian reached the chair, stopped, stared at it, and then turned with a resolute expression.

  This is it, the blow he’s come to deliver.

  “I don’t want you going to the Aquila today. I’ll be addressing the council, and you shouldn’t be there.”

  “Am I to assume you are putting me under house arrest?” Every muscle in Mawyndulë’s body was tight as he struggled to take the news without sobbing.

  His father’s expression couldn’t have been more confused if Mawyndulë had just admitted to being a snowflake in disguise. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing? I just don’t want you at the Airenthenon today. Some unpleasant business is going on, and I don’t want you part of it.”

  What’s he talking about?

  “You’re my son, and the heir apparent to the Forest Throne. I know you. You’ll want to get involved, try to intervene. You’ll shoot your mouth off and make another spectacle. Such outbursts are problematic in the palace, but in the Airenthenon such behavior is even more serious. I won’t give Imaly that big a victory.”

  “This has to do with Imaly?”

  “No, but it should make her century, nonetheless. Go do whatever you like, just stay away from the Airenthenon. Can you do that?”

  Mawyndulë’s body was still tense with apprehension. Unable to make sense of anything, he held still and replied, “Sure.”

  “Good.” Lothian took a step around the chair. “And don’t put furniture in front of doors where people are walking.”

  He’s not punishing me. He doesn’t know anything about the cloak, about the meetings. Terror dissolved into relief, instantly replaced with smug satisfaction. How could he? I’ve been too clever for him, for Vasek, for all of them. As his mind thawed, curiosity slipped in.

  “Father?” The word came out flat, a poor note played badly from lack of practice. Now was Mawyndulë’s turn to be awkward.

  The fane paused nevertheless.

  “Since I won’t be there, could you at least tell me your plans for the war? It would save me the embarrassment of being the only one who doesn’t know.”

  “What war?”

  What war? Had his father gone senile? Or did he think Mawyndulë was too young to be trusted with such information?

  “Aren’t you speaking to the Aquila about your plans to invade Rhulyn? I’d just like to know what you’re going to say.”

  Lothian smiled, a strange, unfamiliar expression, not biting, cynical, nor condescending. There wasn’t even a hint of sarcasm; his father almost looked proud. “You are young and have so very much to learn. You have no idea how the world works, do you? There won’t be a war. The giant’s delivered the punishment already. We’ll need to increase the tensions between the clans to reduce their numbers, but there is no reason for more than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the Grenmorians may not have been completely successful, but the message was sent and received. That town is now deserted.”

  “But Gryndal’s murderer is still alive. Arion is as well…and Nyphron.”

  “Yes, a great many are still alive, you included.”

  Mawyndulë had no idea what was meant by that or why his father included him in a list of criminals. The old man really might be losing his mind. “We have to invade, wipe them out.”

  “Who?”

  Who? Mawyndulë physically and mentally blinked in disbelief. He’s doing this on purpose.

  “The Rhunes! They have to be destroyed, all of them.”

  “Why?”

  Mawyndulë stood, staring in shock. “They killed Gryndal!” His voice gained volume from frustration. Maybe yelling louder would make his father understand. “They have to be punished. You can’t let them get away with this.”

  His father’s face softened. “You don’t destroy an entire herd because one goat chews up an old boot. With the Grenmorians, I sent a message. Dahl Rhen is no more. They understand that defying me comes with a price, no matter how justified that defiance might appear. Arion surely understands how angry I am with her. In time, I am certain we’ll have to visit that further, but I’m content to let her stew.”

  A boot! Did he just compare Gryndal to an old boot?

  “But Vasek said the Rhunes were preparing for war.”

  Lothian smiled again. “You paid attention. That’s good, but what you fail to see is that the Rhunes aren’t an enemy to be fought. They are more like elk or deer. And it’s silly to be concerned about going to war against simple animals. They have no weapons or any ability to access the Art. The only concern is a stampede, and that’s why we’ll increase our efforts to reduce their numbers.”

  Mawyndulë was furious. So angry that he almost told his father about the Rhune who’d resisted Gryndal’s control. He’d purposely left that part out of his recounting because The Traitor had been adamant about telling the fane of the girl’s existence. He wasn’t going to play into Arion’s plan. Circumventing anything she wanted was Mawyndulë’s sacred duty.

  He couldn’t comprehend why his father was being so
ridiculous, but Lothian hadn’t been there. He hadn’t seen the arrogance of Arion or watched the filthy Rhune slice off Gryndal’s head. His father hadn’t witnessed the blood, or heard the sound the head made as it struck the turf—a ghastly hollow, impossibly normal thunk. Arguing with his father was pointless. He didn’t understand, and couldn’t.

  Then a question popped into his head. “Then why are you addressing the Aquila if it isn’t about the war?”

  “Something far more important has happened. It has nothing to do with you,” he said, and there was that smile again.

  After his father left, Mawyndulë stared at the closed door and wondered what had just happened. More important, he wondered what was about to.

  —

  Banned from the Aquila, Mawyndulë had nothing to do. He’d spent more than half his life sitting in the chair his father had just complained about, either there or on the nearby bed. Mawyndulë wasn’t an outdoorsy person, and he’d never played sports or composed music, even though The Traitor often said he should. She also suggested painting. He’d dabbled with that a few times, but found it irritating. Still, since meeting Makareta, he’d seriously considered taking it up again. He thought he could do a few pictures and invite her to his room to see them, get her impression—one artist to another. Having her visit would make the irritation worth bearing. He imagined that if she were there, he’d never want to leave.

  That day, however, it was just the chair, the chest, the table, the lamp, the wardrobe, and the bed, all poor company for a fine summer’s day. He decided to go out. Perhaps he’d get some paints at the market on the Greenway. He might even set up an easel somewhere and jump right into his new hobby. The problem was that he planned on going to the Gray Cloak meeting that evening. He didn’t want to have to come back, but he also didn’t want to carry the cloak around with him. What if someone saw?

  It’s just a cloak.

  He pulled a satchel out of his wardrobe and stuffed it in.

  What a pain. Why have cloaks?

  He slung the bag over a shoulder and went out. He spotted the dome of the Airenthenon on the far hill across the valley and wondered—briefly—what was happening. His father had the wrong impression of his son. Mawyndulë was delighted by his banishment. Not having to sit through another meeting was a gift. Resolving not to go anywhere near the Airenthenon, Mawyndulë decided to cut through the Garden. A pleasant walk, it would take him closer to the Rose Bridge. Far too early for the meeting, but he thought he might skip some stones, even go wading if he became hot enough. He’d only just entered the sunshine and already he felt uncomfortably warm.

  Why is it that Ferrol made the world hot at times and cold at others?

  If Mawyndulë had built the world, he’d have made it perfect. All year long, day and night the temperature would remain the same. No need for coats or cloaks—except as badges to secret societies. Mawyndulë thought about this and shook his head as he walked. Cloaks were stupid. They ought to wear rings instead. Mawyndulë made a mental note to bring that up at the meeting. He was certain rings were a great idea. She’d like that.

  The guy was on the bench again, still in the dirty clothes, still staring at the Door.

  People did that, Mawyndulë knew, the Umalyn especially. Priests of Ferrol sat and meditated on the Door for hours. On holy days, they came in flocks like migrating birds, all sitting there praying, clearing their minds, or asking for guidance. Maybe they just stared and thought about what they’d eat for their evening meal. Or perhaps they fantasized about someone they lusted after, or even plotted to exact revenge against a fellow priest. The Umalyn liked to act pious, but Mawyndulë figured everyone was selfish at heart. And priests probably more so than most.

  He wondered if his mother had been a priest. Since his father said she was still alive, he tried to imagine who she was. Why hadn’t anyone questioned her about abandoning her son? And didn’t Ferrol disapprove of such behavior? Maybe she was a priest, and church leaders did what they wanted and made rules for everyone else. If he weren’t going to be fane, Mawyndulë would have chosen to be an Umalyn.

  “You’re early,” the unkempt, non-Miralyith on the bench said. He hadn’t looked up, never took his eyes from the Door.

  “Are you talking to me?”

  “What? You think I’m talking to the stupid Door?”

  Stupid Door?

  Mawyndulë had never heard anyone use such sacrilegious language anywhere, much less in the Garden and in front of the Door. He was stunned to feel a sense of outrage over something he’d never cared about. He was also impressed.

  “Ah…” Mawyndulë fumbled.

  “Don’t want you tarnished with the doings at the Airenthenon today, eh? Have to keep you immaculate, don’t they? Can’t allow that sort of stain anywhere near you.”

  “Stain? What are you talking about? Have we met?” Mawyndulë was certain they hadn’t, but it was a polite way of getting the point across.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. She’ll tell you when you get to the meeting.”

  “What meeting? And who is she?” He knew very well what and who, but there was no way the wretch on the bench could know anything about either.

  He didn’t answer, only laughed. “Okay, fine. Play it that way, if you wish. I’ll not burst the bubble of your innocence. Although it’s a shame really.”

  Mawyndulë wasn’t certain, but he believed he was being insulted somehow. He stood up straight, folded his arms, bounced them once on his chest, and frowned with extreme disapproval. The mystery man on the bench never saw any of it. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the Door.

  “I am the prince!” Mawyndulë finally declared when it became painfully obvious the guy on the bench wasn’t going to turn.

  “I know,” he replied.

  Mawyndulë waited a few minutes, expecting more.

  Silence.

  He decided to skip the insult—if in fact there had been one—what else could be expected from a blasphemer who didn’t revere the sacred Door? “What’s a shame?”

  “You’ll get over it. You’re resilient. Such rich, dark soil. I can smell the fertility. From you will grow wonderfully bitter fruit. At peak ripeness, you’ll harvest your crop, smash it, and distill a fine wine. Then you’ll store it away, letting it ferment. A quality wine takes time, and you’ll be ever so patient.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hatred. Some people get filled with it and explode. If they survive, they move on. Others just let it dribble out over the years, like a leaky bucket. One day they notice the bucket is empty, and they wonder what had been in it in the first place. Still others use hatred as a weapon, going so far as to pass it on to others—an ugly, unwanted gift disguised as a virtuous heirloom.”

  Mawyndulë didn’t answer; he was too mystified. Who is this person?

  The fellow on the bench continued speaking while still looking at the Door. “You’re not like any of those. You’re different. As I mentioned, you treat hatred like a fine wine, believing it gets better with age, never expires, doesn’t go bad. But that’s the thing about hatred, it can become rancid, and it’ll turn into poison if you keep it bottled too long. Hatred will eat through any container and seep into the groundwater of a soul. Revenge is never enough to expel it because it keeps bubbling up anew. What you don’t realize—can’t really—is that by that time, it’s all you are. You don’t have the hate in you. The hate is you. When that wine is consumed, you won’t ever be able to rid yourself of it. Can’t vomit it up or spit it out. It’d be as impossible as escaping yourself.”

  He finally looked over at Mawyndulë then. “That’s the shame.”

  —

  Mawyndulë figured he walked farther and faster that day than he ever had in his life, and yet he never seemed to get anywhere. He couldn’t even remember where he’d been. He’d just walked. He barely recalled passing the Greenway market, and thinking there was something he wanted from there, but he continued without
slowing. The constant motion kept his mind from wandering, from returning to the conversation with the wretch in the Garden.

  Not a conversation, he told himself, more like a nightmare born from a fever. None of it made any sense. First my father, now this weird stranger.

  When the sun finally set, he was pleased to be rid of a strange day. Despite leaving early and having nothing to do, Mawyndulë arrived late to the Rose Bridge. He halted a few yards away, surprised by the large crowd gathered there.

  Normally he would find, at most, twenty people, sometimes as few as eight. That night he saw forty, maybe fifty. A bonfire burned brightly and spark-swarms whirled toward the underside of the bridge. Dark figures danced in a circle around an enchanted blaze that changed colors and burned three times the height of a Fhrey. Laughter, songs, the pound of drums, and even the lilt of a flute drifted on the wind, although no one appeared to be playing any instruments. The usual floating lights where there, too, but that night they darted madly about like insane fireflies. Mawyndulë heard hoots and shouts, and as he drew closer, he saw that the river itself was rearing up and jumping to the rhythm of the music. His secret group had gone mad.

  Mawyndulë approached hesitantly, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Everyone wore their gray cloaks, but most of them he’d never seen before.

  Why is nothing normal today?

  Mawyndulë was on the verge of leaving—just going home to curl up in his bed and smother the day with covers of silk—when Makareta found him.

  “Where have you been hiding?” she asked. Her voice was louder than normal. She rushed up and without pause gave him a tight hug. He was caught off guard again and too disturbed by the ruckus to think. She smelled of wine. “Congratulations, Your Highness.”

  “Huh?” he so eloquently replied.

  She smiled warmly, enough to melt his defiant refusal to be joyful. What a face. What eyes. Both were a tad glassy, cheeks flushed, her balance off. If he’d had as much wine as Makareta, he might have tried to kiss her and doubted she’d object. Unfortunately, Mawyndulë was thinking altogether too much. That was his punishment for arriving late. Perhaps there were always people who came later, but he never noticed the stragglers; by then he was too lost in discussions and cups of wine—not to mention her eyes—to notice.