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 Mawyndul? 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 Mawyndul? 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, Mawyndul? 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, Mawyndul? 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. Mawyndul? 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 Mawyndul? 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.”
Mawyndul? 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. Mawyndul? 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.”
The comment made the hairs on Mawyndul?’s arms rise. Then I hope I die in battle. Mawyndul? could avoid being enslaved to Jerydd and the horrors of growing old in one act. He imagined the moment as heroic and thought the place of his death would be revered in the same way as the two boulders on the riverbank where Fenelyus stood to create Avempartha.
Kel Jerydd, Fane Lothian, Mawyndul?, 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 Mawyndul? wasn’t offered a glass. His father didn’t appear to notice. Insulted at his exclusion, Mawyndul? 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 Mawyndul? then.”