She wiped her face with her wrist. “I wish to Mari that Suri had asked me before she asked you. If I had known she was looking for sacrifices, I would have stood in line all night to volunteer. Then I could be the hero and you could be the one drowning in guilt and self-loathing. Let me tell you, a painless death at the hands of Suri sounds like a pretty good deal right now. But I won’t get to die a hero like you. Women never do. We just get old, then we’re forgotten.”
She sniffled and shook her head. “Raithe, I wish I could say I was sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t because…because this just hurts too much. You took away my chance, you stole my one hope to make everything right, and honestly, at this moment—I hate you. I hate you so very much…almost as much as I hate myself. So take it.” She moved to the mound of rocks, lifted one, and set the ring on the pile. “Nyphron gets everything else, but not this. It’s yours. I think it always was.”
“Seph?” Moya called. It was getting dark, and the Shield was having trouble seeing her keenig.
“I have to go. I have to take care of my people. It’s what I do.” She waved, and Moya started toward her. “You sacrificed yourself to save us; good for you, but you only had to do it once.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Message
In my mind’s eye, I see this little bird flying past arrows, Miralyith-conjured lightning, and a fire-breathing dragon. What an unlikely hero.
—THE BOOK OF BRIN
Imaly sat sideways in the golden chair in the center of the empty Airenthenon with her legs thrown up on the arm. Most undignified and disrespectful to the sanctity of the chamber, it was also wonderful. At her age, Imaly’s feet had a tendency to throb when she stood too long, and she’d just spent hours on them. The weekly meeting of the Aquila had ended, and the assembly had been vicious. Imaly didn’t blame them; she was anxious, too. The fane and the army had been gone for weeks without word. Everyone wanted answers. She didn’t have them, but that didn’t stop the questions.
As Curator of the Aquila, she was acting fane in his absence. This position held no real authority. The martial powers bestowed on the fane by Ferrol did not transfer. She also had no authority to set policy. All she could do was oversee the appointment of a new fane should the old one die and, as was the case just then, fail miserably at answering questions about Lothian’s progress.
Some of the questions, like the one posed by Minister Metis, were legitimate concerns for the fane’s well-being. More, like Volhoric’s inquiries, were politically motivated. Like many, he saw a rare opportunity. Fane and heir were both at war. War was dangerous. Should something happen to them both, the field of options would be wide. The Aquila, and most especially Imaly herself, would have the power to direct the future of Erivan. If they allowed only non-Miralyith to blow the Horn of Gylindora, the Fhrey would have a new ruling tribe, one with the power to castrate the growing supremacy of the magic class. The course of history might be forever changed should the fane and his son die. Volhoric was probing, seeing where her intent lay. He would, of course, want to endorse an Umalyn for fane. He said as much when he stated that the Fhrey were in need of strong religious leadership to help return to Ferrol’s Fold.
As self-satisfying as it might be to deflate the egos of the Miralyith, who had indeed become too full of themselves, doing so was dangerous. The riot of the year before had proved that the Miralyith might not dutifully accept a place at the back of the line. Handled poorly—no, even if handled well—Erivan could explode into civil war. She considered going to the Garden to think, but she’d avoided the bench across from the Door since her unexpected encounter with the unseemly stranger who announced he’d be watching her. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t been. She’d asked around and discovered nothing. Imaly had gone so far as to send people to walk by that bench to determine if he was still there. He was. She found this both unsettling and reassuring. Yes, he was still around, but obviously not stalking her. Her initial thought that he might be a threat had faded over time. Now she wondered if she should have gone back. The fellow on the bench was an enigma that haunted her, but he was also a potential source of information. He appeared to know more than he ought to.
Imaly had been on her feet far past the usual two hours, and they were screaming at her because of it. Lifting them up helped drain the swelling. She’d take a soak when she got home in the hope that they would be recovered for the next week’s assembly.
She heard the echoing clack of shoes on the marble floor and jerked her legs off the arm with an unhappy grunt. She didn’t need Volhoric or Kabbayn to see her lounging on the sacred chair. Little things like that had the ability to become big things when said in the right way to the wrong people. Only it wasn’t Volhoric or Kabbayn, nor any of the councilors. She was most certainly the last person Imaly expected, and seeing that familiar face, Imaly was both stunned and terrified.