“Doesn’t change the fact that in one year the kid managed to master what takes most Instarya a hundred. I didn’t call him Techylor to boost his confidence. Right now, he has enough skill to best most Erivan Fhrey. And he’s just sixteen.”
Nyphron dismissed the idea. “In a practice bout perhaps, but there’s a big difference between training and the real thing. The kid will hesitate. He has no experience.”
“He’s Dureyan,” Malcolm reminded them. “Traditionally, they aren’t a squeamish people.”
“Even so, it’s not the same.” Nyphron stared at Sebek.
Sebek shook his head. “He’s still a danger. If he’s this good now and remains dedicated to improving, what will he be like after fighting in a war? What will he be like in ten, twenty, fifty years after he’s gotten used to taking the lives of Fhrey?”
“Old,” Nyphron said. “More than likely, dead. Don’t forget; he’s still a Rhune.”
“He learns fast, too fast. He’s soaked up everything we can teach him. And the bow!” Sebek rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Moya tried to train us. Eres should be a natural, but compared to Tesh, they’re bumbling fools. That kid can do anything. Now he’s asking for armor—iron armor.”
“A lot of them are.”
Sebek shook his head. “Don’t you see? That’s the last thing. When he gets that, Techylor will be ready. You nearly died fighting Raithe, do you—”
“I did not!” Nyphron scowled. “You should know better.”
Sebek smiled. “I do. I fought him just to be sure. But it’s still nice to hear you say it.”
Nyphron glanced at Malcolm, who looked up at him from his perch on that stool with an almost whimsical expression. “Everyone had to believe a Rhune could beat a Fhrey in fair combat—even the Galantians.”
“Well, guess what?” Sebek stared at him. “You don’t need to pretend anymore. In five or ten years, there’s a good chance Techylor could beat you in a fair fight, but something tells me Techylor isn’t partial to fair fighting.” Sebek walked toward the cup and gestured at it. “You want to go back to your room one night and find a full-suited Rhune with two iron swords swinging at you from out of the shadows while you’re squatting on your chamber pot? Maybe that’s what they’ll leave standing untouched in the middle of your shrine for people to visit.”
Nyphron looked at the cup on the ledge and nodded. He had too many plans to let it all fall apart because of some revenge-driven brat. Disappointing. If what Sebek said was true, Tesh might have been the first Rhune Galantian. Sounded like he’d fit right in. Maybe that was the secret of the Rhunes. They didn’t last long, but while they lived they burned brighter.
“Kill him.” Nyphron sighed and looked up at Sebek. “Make it look like an accident—nothing embarrassing, either. The kid deserves that much. I can’t exactly hate him for wanting revenge against the people who killed his kin, now can I?”
Sebek drew his sword and looked down at it as if the blade spoke to him. “I’ll do it in a practice fight. I’ll kill him and say Techylor caused me to slip. That he was that good.”
Nyphron nodded. “A fine epitaph. He’ll be a legend after that. The Rhune that tripped up Sebek.”
“He deserves it. One day he might actually have done it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Avempartha
What Drumindor is to the Dherg, Avempartha is to the Fhrey. To the rest of us, it was a terrible boulder in our path.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Fenelyus had once referred to the tower of Avempartha as the mill wheel of magic. Only Fenelyus could have gotten away with calling the Art magic, but then Fenelyus got away with a lot of things. She grew her hair long, forgave the Dherg after a horrific war, and made a habit of crying late at night in the Garden until she was escorted back to the palace. No one had seen her drink anything stronger than apple juice, but Mawyndulë had heard there were rumors.
He’d barely known his grandmother. Mawyndulë saw the old fane only during official gatherings. By the time he was born, she was too old to do much more than drool. She lived to the ridiculous age of three thousand one hundred and twenty-seven. Some people thought she’d never die. First in that line had to be his father, who had waited forever to be fane. Mawyndulë imagined his father had gone to bed at night and dreamed of smothering the old lady with a pillow. He hadn’t; instead, Lothian endured the passing of years in the shadows as the son of an icon that no one was eager to see die. Such a sentiment was understandable; the old fane was the first-ever Miralyith and the savior of the Fhrey. Mawyndulë had never been a fan. He never liked anything old, and she was beyond ancient. The fact that Arion—The Traitor—idolized Fenelyus only made him dislike the old fane more. Nevertheless, he remembered having second thoughts the first time he had seen Avempartha.
The tower was widely considered the grand pinnacle of Miralyith achievement. Not a hammer or chisel had been used. Wielding the Art, Fenelyus had managed what no builder could have. At the edge of the Parthaloren Falls and in the middle of the Nidwalden River, she had raised a tower. Stone had been stretched upward, imitating an explosion of water frozen at its apex. High above the thunderous cataract, the stone splintered, bursting in a bouquet of slender points that tapered to the size of a finger. This was a sculpture done in the scale of creation. Nothing Mawyndulë had ever seen compared to it. The tower was beyond beautiful; it was evidence of what the Art could achieve with enough power, skill, and talent. Avempartha was as close to divine as the Fhrey had ever come—a temple to the Art.
Fenelyus had made it.
It took her three days.
The first time Mawyndulë laid eyes on Avempartha all he could think about was that old, wizened fane who drooled on herself. How had she made this? Seeing it for a second time, Mawyndulë thought the same thing.
Entering the tower was always a thrill. Fenelyus had made Avempartha to be an amplifier that conducted the intense power of the falls upward. Walking in, Mawyndulë experienced the rush. It literally staggered him. This drew odd looks from the non-Miralyith soldiers who trooped alongside.
How can they not feel it?
The year before, Gryndal had spent the night in the tower speaking to him of how Miralyith weren’t Fhrey, but new gods. Vibrating with raw power, he found the idea impossible to argue. Mawyndulë was convinced he could remake the whole world from inside those soaring walls. That visit, in the company of Gryndal, had been wonderful, full of excitement and expectation.
This time was different.
“You’re not taking the child with you, are you?” Jerydd asked, staring at Mawyndulë as if he were a stain on the floor.
“He asked to come, and I thought the experience might do him good,” Lothian replied. “He might be fane one day. He should know something.”
As always, his father was overwhelming in the defense of his son.
“It’d be better if you left him here with me. Let me teach the child something useful.”
Mawyndulë cringed at the very thought of being left with the old kel. The steward of the tower was a month away from his own bout of uncontrolled drooling. He didn’t even shave his head anymore and had a wreath of white stubble growing around a natural bare spot. Mawyndulë vowed that he’d kill himself before getting so old. There was a limit to what life should endure.
“He’s been attending the Academy for the Art back in Estramnadon,” Lothian said. “He’s only done two seasons; I doubt he’s acquired enough of the basics to even understand your lessons.”
“The academy.” Jerydd said the word as if it were a bad joke. “They’ll ruin him. All those instructors with their rules and lesson plans. They keep tight control, afraid of mistakes. You and I didn’t learn that way. Your mother pushed us to make mistakes—only way to learn—remember?”
Lothian nodded. “Perhaps on the way back.”
Kel Jerydd, Fane Lothian, Mawyndulë, Vasek, and Taraneh were all seated in the kel’s personal study on the second level. Sile and Synne did not sit. Probably wasn’t a chair big enough for Sile, and Synne couldn’t sit still. Those seated shared a bottle of wine, but Mawyndulë wasn’t offered a glass. His father didn’t appear to notice. Insulted at his exclusion, Mawyndulë displayed his indignation by getting up and walking to the window. Although he didn’t expect anyone would see his action as a protest, he knew, and that was all that mattered.
Outside, the moon shimmered on the river below the Fhrey army as they marched across the Nidwalden on a bridge that ran from bank to bank. The span was temporary, ordered by the fane, and created by Avempartha Miralyith. Once the army was across, the bridge would dissolve.
“I don’t expect this war will take long,” his father said. “We have nearly two thousand soldiers and almost fifty Miralyith. When we get there, erasing this insurrection and reclaiming Alon Rhist shouldn’t take more than an afternoon. I won’t bother to stay for the longer process of eradicating the Rhunes. It could take months to get them all. I’ll leave it to the new lord of the Rhist.” He nodded toward Taraneh.
Addressing Jerydd once more he said, “I should be back in a few days. You can have Mawyndulë then.”
“Wonderful. It’ll be good for the lad to get out of that viper’s nest you call Estramnadon,” Jerydd said. Then his voice grew a tad louder as he added, “I heard you got yourself in with a bad crowd there.”
Bad crowd. In his mind, Mawyndulë saw the fleeting image of Makareta’s face under a bridge, lit by magical light—the way he always remembered her. She was probably dead. He’d never found out, and the lack of knowing was difficult to take. The memory of her always hurt, and he wished it didn’t. Makareta had used him, tried to kill his father, did kill dozens of good people, and yet in his mind he still saw that beautiful face and remembered how being with her had felt. Her memory was frozen in flawless perfection, the highlight of his life, the only time his life had made sense. Realizing his future would likely be a sad legacy, he saw those days with her as a shining moment made brighter by the dark tragedy of its loss. He hadn’t even had the chance to kiss her. Despite everything, he still fantasized what that might have been like.
No one had said anything for several seconds, and Mawyndulë realized Jerydd had been speaking to him when he made the comment. They were awaiting his reply. He turned back from the window to see everyone watching. He focused on Kel Jerydd. The old Fhrey looked far too satisfied. “Bad crowd? Perhaps. All I know is that I was invited to a casual gathering by people considerate enough not to drink in front of me.”
The fane stiffened. “Mawyndulë, show respect for the kel.”
“Of course, Father. I shouldn’t wish to insult such an accomplished Fhrey.” He continued to stare at Jerydd. “I heard you got yourself in with a bad crowd of giants…Oh, and congratulations on killing Arion. You did a superb job there.”
“Mawyndulë!” his father erupted.
Jerydd held up his hand to settle him. “It’s fine. The child is wild. I’ll fix that. Mawyndulë, you might be a prince in the Talwara, but here you’re an infant. If you want grape juice, make your own. You’re Miralyith, aren’t you?”
“The Art doesn’t create,” Mawyndulë said.
“No?” Jerydd held out his hands, indicating the walls around them. “What’s all this, then?”
“Fenelyus drew up stone. She didn’t make it.”
“Really? Touch the wall there. What kind of stone is that, do you think? Granite? Limestone?”
“I’m not an Eilywin; I don’t know rocks.”
“What you don’t know is vast,” Jerydd said. He snapped his fingers and a goblet appeared on the windowsill. Rather than wine, it was filled with a stack of strawberries. “There,” he said. “Try one of those. They’re perfect. With the real thing, you can never find them at their peak. Or if you do, they’re always too big or too small, too tart or sweet. No, I must admit, I pride myself on creating a good strawberry.”
Mawyndulë stared at the cup of fruit, stunned. Even Gryndal never created.
He was scared to touch any of the berries, but curious about how they would taste. Were they real? He reached out, plucked one off the top and bit into it. Perfect.
Across the room, the kel of Avempartha smiled. “Still think I can’t teach you anything?”
“I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. Even without the Art, you’re an easy riddle to solve. You’re the heir apparent to the Forest Throne. But you don’t get the job unless you can win the challenge. If we held it right now—if your father dropped dead this very minute, and Imaly gave me the Horn of Gylindora to blow—who do you think would win? A child who whines about not being given a cup of wine, or an old Fhrey who can snap perfect strawberries into existence? If you want wine—if you want anything, Mawyndulë—you make it yourself or go without. Don’t rely on anyone but yourself.”
* * *
—
Mawyndulë was up early, standing on the south balcony. This was something Gryndal had shown him when they were last there.
The First Minister had roused Mawyndulë from a deep sleep. The prince wasn’t used to getting up before midday, and being up before dawn was unconscionable, but Gryndal had whispered for him to follow. The whisper had caught his attention. Whispers were for secrets. Maybe Gryndal was going to share something personal, Mawyndulë thought. And indeed he had.
That morning, just a year ago, Mawyndulë had slipped out with Gryndal to observe the sunrise over the Parthaloren Falls. The light sent shafts across the brink, and through the spray vivid, brilliant rainbows formed. Standing on the damp edge of the balcony, he stared in awe at a world that appeared more magical than he knew it was.
The view this morning wasn’t as grand as before. Mawyndulë had wanted to recapture that moment when he and Gryndal had stood side by side on that balcony and watched the glory of the world awaken—one of his best, untainted memories. But what had once thrilled him now left him feeling dull, empty, and lonely. Gryndal was dead. Even Avempartha felt smaller.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Mawyndulë spun to see Jerydd in the archway. The ancient Fhrey wore a heavy cloak that he clutched to his wrinkled neck with bony hands.
What’s he doing here? What’s anyone doing here?
Fenelyus rightly assumed that people would want to look out into the falls, and as a result, she’d created hundreds of balconies. Mawyndulë, like Gryndal before him, had selected a remote one. Yet here was Jerydd.
The kel smiled and shook his head. “Poor situational awareness.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mawyndulë pushed back against the short rail. He felt trapped. Before him, the nasty old man was grinning with malevolence; behind him, the roar of the falls proved more frightening when he couldn’t see it. Jerydd, feeble as he was, appeared dangerous as he blocked the way back inside.
He fell, my fane. Sometimes people do that. And as we both know, your son wasn’t the brightest star in the heavens.
Yes, Mawyndulë has always been a disappointment. Let’s not waste any more time on him. How about another cup of that marvelous wine and maybe a strawberry?
“Your mastery of the Art has been stunted,” Jerydd said. “If you were one of my students—and you will be—you’d have known I was coming before I arrived.”
“So you can tell the future, too?”
He’s blocking the exit on purpose. I�
��d have to push him aside to get by. I’d have to touch him. Mawyndulë had no desire to be in the same world as Jerydd; he certainly wasn’t going to touch him. Mawyndulë slid his hands along the little wall of the balcony. Maybe I can climb down. The stone was polish-smooth and even at that height still damp from the mist. He might as well have been leaning on ice.
“I can do many things. Gryndal could, too. Did you know he could see what was happening hundreds of miles away? It’s called clairvoyance. Even Fenelyus couldn’t do that.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Gryndal was far better than—”
“Don’t even think of finishing that thought.” Jerydd stepped out onto the balcony with a raised hand.
Mawyndulë remembered how Gryndal had exploded the Rhune with a snap of his fingers and froze.
“Gryndal had some promise, some talent, but he was consumed by his own arrogance. I gave up on him years ago.”
“Gave up?”
“I taught him the Art.”
“You taught Gryndal? My father said he went to the academy. Said he learned from my brother.”
Jerydd smiled. “You’ll find many teachers over the course of your life, Mawyndulë. So did Gryndal. He did indeed attend the Art school, but, just as with you, I offered to take over his instruction. Being smarter than you, he thanked me for the opportunity. And after I gave up on him, he found another mentor.”
“Who?”
“The same one who taught Fenelyus.”
Mawyndulë narrowed his eyes. No one taught Fenelyus. She invented the Art. My father said so. He’s just boasting, trying to sound important.
Jerydd shook his head. “You’re too much like Gryndal. I can see the imprint he placed on you, but I can’t see why. He was using you for something, but what?”
Age of War: Book Three of The Legends of the First Empire Page 17