Age of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  The pattern, the way it wound deeper and deeper, indicated that the creator was playing with the giant chords, the monolithic base elements rooted in the abyss. When Suri had killed Rapnagar, when she was touching the strings, she had noticed the drop-off, the same way someone might notice a draft or a whisper. The presence was just as irresistible and just as disturbing.

  What’s down there? The question had haunted her ever since.

  Now that you know…now that you’ve seen what it’s like, you’ve had a taste and are hungry for more. Now that you’ve touched the chords, you can’t help wanting to fly.

  Arion had been right about that. Having seen, having touched, she was infected by the possibilities. Suri felt as if she’d spent her whole life on a little hill, content and happy. Then one day she glimpsed the truth, that the hill was actually the nose of a great beast. Not easy to sleep after that. Knowing about the chords, realizing she could alter the world, made ignoring the possibilities intolerable. She was wearing a shirt with a loose thread and was dying to pull it—if for no other reason than to make the desire go away, to make it stop distracting her.

  If it had just been the thin, high strings, she might have put the whole thing out of her mind. Fire was made by plucking the light strings, and she’d done that for years. The abyss was what drew her. The chasm out of which grew the great chords, the supports, the foundations of the world. That was a forest of trees whose roots held the universe together.

  What would it be like to pluck one of them? What would they sound like? And what would happen if I did?

  The person who created Balgargarath had touched those chords. He had stroked them and wrought a monster.

  Suri looked toward the sealed crack. Using the Art to passively tap into the nature of the world, she could sense the creature just on the other side of the stacked stones. A gigantic, brilliant mass of light. Pure power. In contrast, Arion’s sliver-thin shield coating the stacked stones—the enchantment that prevented Balgargarath from reaching them—appeared as dim as moonlight glinting off the sheen of a frozen lake. The veneer was all that was needed, but Suri suspected it was all Arion could manage.

  “How did he do it?” Suri asked. The words weren’t directed at anyone; they just spilled out.

  “How did who do what?” Moya asked.

  Suri looked up surprised. “What?”

  “You asked—”

  “Oh, I was just wondering…the Old One…if he was trapped in here, how did he create Balgargarath, where did he get the power?”

  Arion’s head turned away from the doorway. “Such a thing would require an enormous source.”

  “If you found it,” Persephone said, “could you get us out of here?”

  Arion nodded. “With a source that strong, Suri could pick up this entire mountain and just toss it aside.”

  “What about you?” Persephone asked. “I know you’ve been trying to teach her, but, like the dwarfs, I think things have gone far beyond lessons. Our lives are at stake.”

  “She can’t,” Suri answered. “The injury to her head…in the dahl when Malcolm hit her with the rock…it damaged her. Every time she uses the Art, it hurts. Even holding the door is killing her. Doing anything that big would be suicide.”

  Persephone’s eyes widened. “That’s why you’ve been leaving everything to Suri. That’s why you didn’t stop the demon.”

  “It is why I rely on Suri; but even if not hurt, I couldn’t stop it. No one can.”

  “But wait,” Persephone said. “You’re keeping that thing from coming in. What source are you using?”

  Arion gave a guilty look. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “All of you. Feeling tired? I stealing power. Mostly them.” Arion nodded toward the dwarfs, who were still snoring. She smiled. “Keeps them quiet.”

  “Won’t that eventually…”

  Arion nodded.

  “How long?”

  Arion tried to form a reassuring smile. “Not to worry.” She wiped at her nose. “I’ll die before you do.” She swallowed and winced as she did, then looked at Suri. “I think I need to teach you to do this.”

  “There’s always a better way,” Roan muttered.

  Suri looked at Roan, who stood staring back at her as if she wanted to say more but couldn’t, or maybe she didn’t know what came next.

  The way Suri saw it, they were standing on a path that had three forks. The problem was that each trail led to the same awful place. Arion could fail to hold the demon and they would be killed. They could die of thirst or starvation. Or Suri could take over for Arion and eventually use up everyone’s strength. Then she would be without a source and Balgargarath would enter and kill her.

  Roan was right. There had to be a better way.

  Suri turned to Brin. “Show me how to sing what is on the table tablet.”

  “Suri,” Arion said. “There’s no power.”

  “The one who made Balgargarath found power in here, I just have to discover where it’s hiding.” She faced Brin again. “Teach me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Makareta

  Everyone thinks their adversary has an easier time than they do. They believe that all their opponent’s schemes work out exactly as expected, while their own plans constantly suffer setbacks. It is a funny notion, especially since you can’t have an adversary without being one.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  As Mawyndulë and Makareta walked into the Airenthenon together, he knew this would be the greatest moment of his life. Despite being the crown prince, his life up until that point was a disappointing one. He’d never done anything noteworthy, and aside from his one ill-fated trip to Rhulyn, he’d never gone anywhere. No laws prevented him from leaving the palace, but he felt the disapproval when he did.

  His father rarely left the Talwara. As fane, people came to him. Monthly visits to the Temple of Ferrol were acceptable, but mingling in the marketplace wasn’t. Mawyndulë’s life mirrored his father’s, and most days were spent in his room. Everyone thought he was meditating, developing his Art. He did that, but mostly he did nothing. He spent hours lying on his bed daydreaming, which was a challenge as he had so little raw material to work with. His fantasies had become more specific over the last few weeks, but that day—that glorious afternoon—several became reality.

  Gryndal had been the senior councilor for the Miralyith, and for years, Mawyndulë had longed to imitate his hero. But with Vidar as his tyrannical master, he’d grown to hate the dull sessions. Yet that day, just like in one of his wonderful dreams, Vidar was simply gone. Convicted of treason, his former master had been locked away. In his place walked Mawyndulë, with the beautiful Makareta by his side. His father hadn’t questioned her appointment. Vidar’s sentencing was distracting the fane so thoroughly that he didn’t seem to care who was picked. For once, everything was working the way it should. The old had been wiped away, and this was a new start. Yes, the start of a new life, a better life. Mawyndulë imagined he was entering the Airenthenon again for the first time. It certainly felt that way.

  Not until they had taken their seats—when he sat in the senior councilor’s place—did he feel the guilt.

  You don’t think Vidar is really a traitor, do you?

  Mawyndulë had avoided asking questions about Vidar’s fate, mainly because he didn’t want to know what his father planned to do, but also partly out of concern that Lothian or Vasek might grow suspicious. The fane had already been watching him. Vasek tells me you keep mostly to yourself. But they didn’t know about the Gray Cloaks.

  What if they did? What if Vasek discovers Vidar wasn’t a traitor after all? And worse yet, what if he finds out I knew but didn’t say anything? He would certainly be in trouble, which he felt was completely unfair. After all, he hadn’t done anything. He was more innocent than Vidar, who, in a way, deserved his punishment. And what could I have done? Told my father everything? Then Makareta and Aiden would be locked up, possibly killed. He could
n’t let that happen, not to her.

  The whole matter was in the past. He wasn’t certain why he was even thinking about it. He’d made his choice, and it was a sound one. Vidar was old, while he and Makareta had their whole lives ahead. If someone needed to be sacrificed, let it be the dusty, bitter old Fhrey.

  The speaker beat the staff on the tile and called the session of the Aquila to order.

  Hemon, senior councilor of the Gwydry, was the first to speak, saying something about a shortage of indigo resulting in a lack of blue dyes. Mawyndulë tuned her out after the first three sentences, focusing instead on Makareta’s thighs. Since it was a warm summer’s day, she wore a short asica, and seated on the benches as they were, the hem of her garment inched up well above her knees. Her right thigh touched his left—bare skin to bare skin. She didn’t seem to notice, but to Mawyndulë it was as if he’d stepped off a cliff. His stomach rose and hovered somewhere just below his throat. Breathing was difficult. Filled with a nervous energy, he squeezed his hands into fists. Closing his eyes, Mawyndulë tried to calm himself. But that only brought forth random images of the two of them together.

  Arion—The Traitor—used to say he had a great imagination, and she would laud the ability as an advantage in the practice of the Art, but it could also be a torment. He couldn’t turn it off. He saw them together on his bed, in that quiet place where he was always alone, her presence transforming his prison into paradise. He imagined them lying side by side, facing each other, talking. She was still wearing the short asica, her bare thighs close to his, and he would reach down and feel her smooth skin. She would smile, sigh contentedly, and in that exhale would be an invitation.

  Opening his eyes, Mawyndulë bit his lip, trying to slow his heart and relax his breathing.

  His daydreams had never been this powerful before, but his fantasies were also never this close to becoming a reality. He’d already decided to make his feelings known to Makareta. After the meeting, he planned to walk with her down by the river to the eastern glade. If she protested, he would insist. He could do that now that he was senior, and she junior, councilor. A bench sat near the water and despite the lovely view, few people ever went there. They would be alone.

  He wondered if he should ask first or just kiss her. He was likely to fumble the words, but how many ways could he screw up a kiss? After that, what need would there be for words? She might slap him, might think he was too forward, too presumptuous. But he was the prince, the heir to the Forest Throne, and the senior councilor for the ruling tribe in the Aquila; he should be confident, strong, assertive. Asking for permission might appear weak, might disappoint her. It hardly felt romantic or dashing to explain in painful detail how he had trouble breathing at the sight of her bare thighs.

  He couldn’t help staring. Her legs were beautiful. Perfect. Not too thick or thin, and smooth without any blemishes, not a freckle or pimple. Touching her would be—

  He was still staring at her legs when she stood up.

  “I would like to propose a motion that henceforth the Aquila be divided into two houses.” Makareta spoke to the assembly in a loud, clear voice. “An upper house, to be composed entirely of Miralyith, and a lower house to represent the remaining tribes, which will be presided over by a Miralyith administrator. The lower house will submit suggestions to the upper house, who’ll be tasked with considering if any proposal warrants being passed on to the fane. In addition, the upper house will create and submit its own advice for our leader. In this way, the lesser tribes will retain their voice in government, but it will no longer be a hindrance to the progress of our society.”

  When Makareta stopped speaking the Airenthenon was silent. Everyone stared, first at her, then at him.

  Mawyndulë was paralyzed. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. He would never have dreamed of making such a blatant statement on his first day. She hadn’t even discussed it with him. What was she thinking? She just stood up and spoke.

  “Everyone,” Imaly said, standing as usual in the center of the ring. She extended an arm in their direction. “Allow me to introduce the new, and apparently very eager, junior councilor for the Miralyith. Makareta is so unfamiliar with her task, she’s not aware that junior councilors have no voice in the Aquila.”

  “I’m aware of the old rules, Imaly. It is you who are ignorant of the new rules.”

  Imaly looked at Mawyndulë, then back at Makareta, and sighed. “You’re embarrassing yourself, dear. Not to mention the shame you are bringing to your senior councilor and your tribe. I hope it is an embarrassment you will learn from.”

  “As you are of the Nilyndd, Imaly, it is you who must understand your place in the new order. You should be quiet and listen to your superiors.”

  A gasp rose from the other councilors.

  Imaly’s brows rose. She focused squarely on him and said, “Mawyndulë, as senior councilor, please muzzle this whelp of yours, or I will be forced to find you both in contempt.”

  Mawyndulë cringed in embarrassment; given another second he would have stopped Makareta. He would have told her to sit down and be quiet. Only that second never came.

  “Whelp?” Makareta exclaimed. She made a motion with her hand, one that Mawyndulë recognized but couldn’t believe he was seeing. The Art was never used in the Airenthenon, even Gryndal—

  Imaly flew across the chamber, slamming into the far wall where she collapsed to the floor.

  “How dare you speak to a Miralyith with such irreverence.”

  “Makareta!” Mawyndulë shouted in shock.

  She ignored him and faced the rest of the assembly. “The days of equality are over. We Miralyith are your betters. This fact can’t be changed any more than you can alter the rising of the sun. The gods are divine, and we now join them. You will bow before us, or be muzzled like any ill-behaved animal.”

  “Makareta, sit down,” Mawyndulë whispered, even as he realized things had already progressed beyond her merely resuming her seat.

  Across the chamber, Imaly was still on the ground. She was moving, thank Ferrol. She was still alive.

  The chamber exploded with angry shouts.

  “How dare you!” Cintra of the Asendwayr yelled.

  “Blasphemy!” Volhoric declared.

  Mawyndulë was lost. Between hurried breaths, his wonderful daydream had shifted to his worst nightmare. The transition left him dazed, struggling to catch up, to make sense of it all, and thinking was very nearly impossible. All the councilors, seniors and their juniors, as well as the spectators—of which there were far more than usual—were on their feet, stomping and yelling. He heard the chant of “Miralyith, Miralyith!” coming from the gallery.

  What’s happening?

  “Today is a new beginning,” Makareta said, using the Art to amplify her voice so that it boomed. “Today the Miralyith take our rightful place in the pantheon of gods.”

  “The fane will not allow this! This…this…this…” Nanagal shouted, unable to locate a single word that could encompass his outrage.

  “Your new fane sits beside me,” Makareta said, placing a hand on his shoulder. A touch that for once brought no sense of delight. “And he agrees with me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mawyndulë said. “I’m not the fane.”

  Makareta finally turned to face him and smiled. “In a few minutes you will be.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

  “For us.” She touched his cheek. “For all the Miralyith, and for you.”

  “Okay, back up, what are you doing for me?”

  “This was all your idea. You’re a genius.”

  Maybe he was dreaming. None of this could be real. Wasn’t that always the way? Nightmares start out as pretty little dreams, and then before you know it, Imaly is thrown across the room and the world falls apart. “Stop talking and make sense, will you?”

  Makareta giggled. In another time and place—in his bedroom perhaps—that migh
t have been cute, but surrounded by an angry mob, she just sounded mad.

  “Explain what’s going on!” He was shouting to be heard over the growing din.

  She nodded. “We’re just following through on your suggestion. Well, not precisely, but you provided the stepping-stones.”

  The councilors were struggling to flee the Airenthenon, but the doors appeared to be locked. Someone threw a clay cup that shattered on the wall near the steps. The ceremonial guards, whom Mawyndulë had previously believed to have the most boring duty in the world, attempted to restore order, but they were tossed aside in the same manner Imaly had been.

  “Makareta, please. Make sense,” he begged.

  “You told us that Vasek had taken precautions against the actions of an assassin, or even a full-scale attack on the Talwara. That was helpful. Aiden and I had been planning variations on both, but you saved the day. The solution was simple once you pointed out our mistakes.”

  The councilors were pounding on the doors. Some were openly crying. In the gallery above, Mawyndulë heard howls of laughter from a dozen spectators. Among them, he recognized Inga and Flynn.

  “What solution?”

  “It’s far too risky to kill the fane in his palace. But he can’t plan for the unexpected, for chaos. Even Vasek couldn’t anticipate that we would lure him here.”

  Kill the fane? Kill my father?

  He stared at Makareta, his mind unable to get past those three words.

  She must have seen something in his face, because hers softened, and a sad smile appeared. “You do understand that your father must die. He’s far too weak. I know it’s not his fault, but we can’t wait for a natural death. That would take too long. His biggest deficiency is being a product of his time, growing up when the tribes were considered equal. But that era has passed, and we can’t wait for the throne to pass to you. This generation…our generation…will see the ascension of the Miralyith, and the world will be a very different place…a better place.”