With hands clasped before her, Makareta entered the Airenthenon. The Miralyith, who had seduced Mawyndul? into unwittingly aiding a revolt against his own father, walked across the marble floor.
This is how these things happen, in empty, hallowed chambers when no one is looking. I wonder if she’s in league with the fellow on the bench. Both of them lying in wait. Both remarkably patient.
Imaly was reminded of the broken leg and sprained arm Makareta had given her as a result of a magical toss across the chamber. It still hurt, still ached on rainy days. Yet Imaly wouldn’t give the child the satisfaction of showing fear.
She sat up, brushed the folds from her asica, and smiled. “What brings you out of hiding?” she said as casually and good-naturedly as possible.
“I need help,” the girl replied.
Only then did Imaly notice the filthy state of Makareta’s asica. Stained and torn in places, it looked more like a rag. And she had hair. Not just a bit of stubble, the result of lazy neglect, but locks that covered both ears and the back of her neck.
She’s been in hiding. By the look of her clothes, she did most of it in a hole.
“I suppose you do, but why come to me?”
“You’re the only one who might listen.”
“Why would I help? It’s not like I have fond memories of our time together.”
“Because you’re wise and compassionate.”
Imaly laughed despite—and possibly because of—her fear. Terror had a way of making her overreact. The Miralyith standing in front of her wasn’t only incredibly powerful, but given that she’d already killed Fhrey, Makareta was no longer bound by Ferrol’s Law. She was a wanted fugitive, desperate and unchecked, and in her eyes, Imaly saw her own death. Having revealed herself, she couldn’t allow Imaly to live past the end of their conversation, whatever that might be.
“You have me confused with Mawyndul?. Flattery won’t work.”
The girl smirked. “I’m not flattering you. Those aren’t compliments; they’re facts. I’ve watched you under this dome for years. You listen. You hear. You’re fair, and you have the best interests of your fellow Fhrey at heart. You are the only non-Miralyith I respect.”
Imaly clutched her arm. “Was it respect that caused you to fling me across this room?”
“Yes,” Makareta said. She pointed at a marble statue of Fane Ghika. With a snap of her fingers, the statue burst into powder.
Imaly hated herself for it, but she flinched at the loud crack, magnified by the echoing dome. The point was clear. Looking at the dust and rubble that had once been a very fine depiction of Ghika, Imaly took her life in her hands and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I don’t have the power, and I wouldn’t even if I did. What you did and what you tried to do were unforgivable—incomprehensible. We only just repaired the scars you left in this building and the square outside. Our whole society is based on the principle that Fhrey don’t kill Fhrey, and most of all that we revere the fane.”
“Do you think Lothian is a good fane?”
“Good or bad, he is fane. There is nothing anyone can do about that. Besides, you would prefer a world where Miralyith were gods and those like me your slaves. I hope you can see that it’s not in my best interest to bring about such a transition.”
“Right now, I’d settle for a non-Miralyith fane, if that fane didn’t want me dead.” Makareta looked at her own feet. “Aiden, Rinald, Inga, Flynn, Orlene, Tandur—they were all killed or executed without hope of an afterlife. Flynn was kept alive by the Art as his skin was melted from his body.”
Imaly nodded. The fane had decreed that all Fhrey in the capital had to witness the executions. Imaly had defied Lothian’s edict, claiming illness. Having seen how he killed Zephyron of the Instarya during the challenge in the arena had been enough for her. Still, she had heard the stories. Dozens of people in the audience had become physically ill, and several had suffered nightmares for weeks afterward.
“You’re the Curator of the Aquila. You have influence.”
Imaly noticed fear in Makareta’s eyes. What stood before Imaly wasn’t a rabid dog; she was a frightened child, an orphan on Imaly’s doorstep. Makareta’s face was pale, her eyes outlined by dark circles. She was thinner, too. The Makareta might be able to explode a marble statue, but she was wasting away.
Where have you been hiding? What life have you led for the past year that finally drove you to me?
“I’ll do whatever you want—whatever you ask. I’m actually a very skilled Miralyith.” She looked at the pile of rubble that had been the statue, and with a few words and a flip of her fingers, the powder reassembled back into the likeness of Ghika, as if nothing had ever happened. “A Miralyith without a tribe, without a friend. I thought such a thing might be of value to a Nilyndd Curator of the Aquila. And, you owe me your life, sort of.”