Age of Swords (The Legends of the First Empire #2)

He felt she was saying more than her words suggested. He could see Imaly was the sort of person who did that—who spoke in innuendo, a complex language he wouldn’t always understand and maybe wasn’t supposed to.

Mawyndul? smiled back. The moment he did, he squashed his lips into a forced frown. He didn’t want to like the big, ugly lady with fish eyes. She wasn’t Miralyith. She wasn’t his equal. In all likelihood, she was his enemy and the enemy to his aspirations. He didn’t need her to remind him he would be the next fane—and what did she mean by quite possibly? There wasn’t any possibly about it. He was the prince. And when his father died—and his father was already old—Mawyndul? would sit on the Forest Throne. He didn’t need her to tell him this.

“You’ll be just fine,” she assured him. “See you next week.” She offered him a wink, and once again, he wondered if there was a hidden meaning in that last bit, as if perhaps next week would never come, or he wouldn’t live to see it, or maybe she would end up blind and unable to see him. He found speaking with Imaly exhausting.

He nodded and ducked out the door, following behind the oldest and slowest councilors. The elderly wave of purple and white spilled down the steps of the Airenthenon. Some were caught up into conversation by small waiting groups. Mawyndul? recognized most of them, but he didn’t know a single name. They all knew him, of course. Everyone in Estramnadon had filed past his crib, or visited the Talwara over the last few years to see the new heir to the Forest Throne. And they all knew one another because they were centuries old. Mawyndul? was a sapling in an ancient forest. Still, he was the prince, and one day he would rule. But at that moment, he felt like a foreigner, an outsider looking at a world he didn’t know.

Alone, he descended the steps to the ancient interlocking stones of Florella Plaza. Artists displayed examples of their work: statues of animals, glass sculptures as delicate as moths’ wings, and breathtaking paintings of the sweeping frontier. A group of landscapes near the Fountain of Lon caught Mawyndul?’s attention, and he went over to examine a particularly large image.

The painting depicted a dramatic view of Mount Mador, caught in the light of a setting sun. The image was bold, passionate, emotionally stirring—and also a lie. Mawyndul? had stood at the same vantage point as the artist. He’d seen the view, and the pinnacle didn’t look anything like the picture. There were no bright oranges and deep purples, no gold ridges on the slopes. And while the mountain was large and impressive, it wasn’t that big. Not to mention, the clouds didn’t swirl so dramatically. Everything was embellished for effect. Looking at it, Mawyndul? thought the artist managed the opposite of their intention. The lurid colors and exaggerated size cheapened the truth, replacing grandeur with garishness.

“Hello.” He heard a soft voice and turned.

His muscles froze and rooted him in place. He was face-to-face with the girl from the third tier. She stood within arm’s length, smiling at him, and just as pretty up close. Prettier even.

“That’s mine.” She pointed at the painting. “Do you like it?”

He nodded, his mind searching for his voice. “Yes…much…ah very much. It’s…it’s wonderful. Amazing really.”

Her smile grew bigger and brighter.

Mawyndul?’s heart began to gallop. He could feel it throbbing and worried it might be noticed under the layers of his asica.

“I wasn’t actually there,” she admitted. “I borrowed from other paintings.”

“I was,” he said.

“I know. Did it look like this? Do you think I captured it?”

“Absolutely. Better than absolutely. Better than perfect. You improved on perfection. Really.” Mawyndul? tried not to listen to himself. He knew he was babbling. His fingers trembled, and he was starting to sweat.

Again she smiled, and his stomach became buoyant, feeling the way it did when he went swimming. Actually, no—more than that—he felt a tad nauseous, but in an impossibly pleasant way.

“I’m Makareta.”

“I’m Mawyndul?.”

She laughed a short, light sound. “Of course you are. Everyone knows you.” Her smile disappeared, and a worry wrinkle appeared over her eyes. “Is it okay for me to talk to you? I mean, is that allowed?”

He didn’t know what she meant.

“I wouldn’t have, except you were looking at my painting. I thought…” She turned away with troubled eyes. “Maybe I should just stop talking now.”

“Why wouldn’t it be all right?”

Her brows went up. “You’re the fane’s son, and a council member of the Aquila, an important person. I’m…well…I’m nobody.”

Mawyndul? was stunned that such an amazing girl as Makareta—a Miralyith—could see herself as a nobody, but he did like that she considered him too important to speak to.

“You’re Miralyith, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“Then how could you be nobody?”

“I’m not important, not like you. I’m just—”

“All Miralyith are important.”

She smiled again. He liked making her smile, and he managed it so easily. Up close, she was dazzling. He would’ve likened her blue eyes to pools of water, or fiery gems, or the endless skies, if any of those things had been remotely as beautiful.

“You sound like friends of mine,” she said. “They go on and on about how the Miralyith are the chosen ones of Ferrol. The Blessed Ones, they call us. Why else would Ferrol give us such gifts? They chide me when I struggle to accept my own position, my birthright.”

“These friends sound very wise.”

“A lot of Miralyith our age feel that way. Would you like to meet them? We’re having a gathering next week on the first night of the new moon, under the Rose Bridge in the north end of the city.”

“Under the bridge? Why there?”

She paused and looked around them. Lowering her voice, she said, “Not everyone would appreciate the things we talk about.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Come and find out.” She looked down at her feet a moment, then back up at him. “If nothing else, it would be nice seeing you again.”

Mawyndul? couldn’t argue with that. He gave her a nonchalant shrug, but in his mind, he was already making plans to find the bridge.





CHAPTER SEVEN


The Road to Tirre




So I had this idea. A crazy one—or so I thought at the time. I did not have a clue what I was doing. No one else did, either. That is how it was at the beginning, and maybe it always is like that at the start of great things.

—THE BOOK OF BRIN