“Just makes sense. You sent Arion, and she failed. Sent Gryndal and me, and we failed. You sent the giants, and they failed. You want it done right this time.”
His father was nodding.
“I want to go.”
“Why?”
He considered explaining his desire for revenge for his idol’s death but then reconsidered. His father would most likely think he should be his son’s idol, so Mawyndul? took another tack. “The Fhrey don’t go to war often. If I’m to be fane one day, I should see it, understand it. Your mother took you to the Battle of Mador when you were young. That’s why you know how to deal with this. If I don’t go, if I miss the chance to experience battle, how will I know how to handle my own future conflicts?”
His father studied him as if baffled by what he’d just heard. He glanced out the window, then back at his son. “Admirable. You do understand that if you were to stay here, and I were to be killed on the field of battle, you’d be fane—the youngest one ever—assuming you won against whomever blew the horn in challenge. Going with me is risky. You could die.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“No—I can see that. I suppose you’re too young to worry about death. It’s not even a possibility in your mind, or if it is, you see your end as some heroic accomplishment and you would take pleasure in cementing your place in history.” Lothian rubbed his hands together, palm sliding against palm. “Getting older, Mawyndul?, is like climbing a mountain. The higher you go, the greater the view. From time to time, you look back. At such heights, you can see paths behind you: the trails you took and the ones you foolishly disregarded; the blind alleys you fortunately missed, purely out of chance rather than by some greater wisdom on your part. You also spot others following you, people making the same stupid decisions. From your elevated position, you witness their bad choices, the ones they can’t see because they aren’t standing where you are. You could shout down, attempt to warn them, but they rarely listen. They are too blinded by the indisputable fact that the path you followed got you where you are, to the place they want to be.”
His father stared then, as if waiting for a reply, but Mawyndul? had no idea what his father had been babbling about. Maybe he wasn’t saying anything, dusty-minded after all. Older people just talked sometimes. Maybe hearing their own voice was reassuring to them somehow.
“Yes, you can come,” the fane said at last, sounding disappointed. “You, too, can go to war.”
Mawyndul? smiled.
“But you’ll be precious little use to me without an education.”
The smile vanished.
“I’ve enrolled you at the Academy of the Art.”
Thinking his father had appointed a new tutor was bad enough, but this…this was out of the question.
“The academy?” Mawyndul? said, stunned. “But that’s for—I’m the prince. I don’t belong in a public school.”
“That’s exactly where you belong.” The fane took a step toward his son. “You need a formal education in the Art, and tutors haven’t been working out well for you, or them.”
“But at the academy?” Mawyndul? was horrified at being forced to practice, to take more stupid lessons, and this time in front of an audience. “How can I—your son—attend Art school? That’s so…wrong.”
“Wrong? You do know about the academy, right?”
Mawyndul? rolled his eyes. “I know it’s no place for the son of the fane.”
Lothian laughed. “You are aware of how the school came to be?”
Mawyndul? thought a moment. This was one of those things he felt he ought to know, but for some reason, he couldn’t recall if he’d ever learned that particular fact. By the way his father was acting, Mawyndul? had missed something important. He gave up. “No.”
His father let out a small huff that Mawyndul? couldn’t translate. He didn’t sound upset, but he didn’t sound thrilled, either. If anything, the fane appeared mildly amused. “The school was founded by Pyridian.”
Mawyndul? stared at his father, who stared back with enough expectation in his eyes to make Mawyndul? nervous.
“Oh, by the face of Ferrol, you have no idea who I’m talking about, do you?”
Mawyndul? slowly shook his head. He didn’t like it that Sile and Synne were listening. Not that he cared about Sile; the giant didn’t look capable of understanding which object in the sky was the sun and which was the moon. Synne was another matter. Mawyndul? didn’t want to look stupid in front of her, and he felt he was doing just that. But what did it really matter if he didn’t know who founded the Miralyith Art Academy?
“Mawyndul?,” the fane said, “the Art is ours.”