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

Maybe Mawyndul? would go to the Rose Bridge after all. He was curious about the meeting and who attended. Perhaps they were a bunch of nuts who turned their backs on Ferrol and worshipped the moon or something crazy like that. He wondered how many would be there—he’d prefer just Makareta. As much as he hoped that might be, he knew it wouldn’t happen. She didn’t seem like the type to stand alone under a bridge at night, but hadn’t he already determined she wasn’t too intelligent? Odd for a Miralyith, but he supposed not all the gifted could be smart. The creative ones could be pretty dumb, actually—Arion, for example.

He started picturing Makareta, standing in the dark, rubbing her chilled arms, searching intently. Maybe she had concocted the whole story to lure him to a place where they could be alone. He imagined her shyly admitting her attraction. She’d have to confess the truth when he arrived and no one else was around.

Is it okay for a nobody like me to be out, unescorted, with the prince? she would ask.

He found himself grinning as he slipped out of the Garden, and he was walking quickly by the time he turned onto the narrow lane that went downhill toward the river. With any luck, he wouldn’t even go home that night, and his father could search the palace all he wanted.

—

If Mawyndul? needed any further proof that the world wasn’t fair, he didn’t have to look any farther than the Rose Bridge.

Makareta wasn’t alone.

Fifteen, possibly twenty, people clustered under the span that crossed the Shinara River. At midsummer the water level was low, and there was plenty of room among the flat rocks. The gathering looked like an odd late-night picnic. Several had brought cloths, laying them over the stone. They had baskets of fruit and cheese and bottles of wine by the crate. Several people stood around, sipping from wooden cups. Each attendee had a dark, hooded cloak, though few actually wore them. They carried the garments across an arm or tossed over a shoulder. Perhaps they expected colder temperatures as the night wore on. Mawyndul? wondered if he should have brought something warmer as well, but the night was muggy and he didn’t expect needing more than his asica. If anything, he wished he had worn his short linen one, but he had dressed for the council meeting and hadn’t taken the time to change.

Without a moon, the space below the bridge was dim but not dark. Illumination came from buoyant lights. Sparkling balls of various colors bobbed and floated like bubbles. He’d seen them before, usually at Miralyith-hosted festivals. The lights reflected off the surface of the Shinara and lit the underside of the bridge. Everything under the span was splashed with the strange upside-down illumination that rippled across the stone pylons and people’s faces, giving it all a carnival glow.

“You made it!” Makareta shouted as she appeared out of a clump of people and rushed to his side. She was wearing her cloak, though it was cast back over both shoulders like a cape. In her hand she held a wooden cup.

Makareta hugged him.

Mawyndul? froze. He hadn’t expected an embrace, and he didn’t know what to do. He’d never been hugged before. Rumors said mothers hugged their children; Mawyndul? knew for a fact fathers didn’t.

When she drew back, he saw the cup that had been in her hand was floating beside her. She offered an embarrassed half smile and said, “Didn’t want to spill wine on you. What a nice asica. Little warm for tonight, though.”

“You’re the one in the cloak,” he blurted out, and hated the confrontational tone. Thankfully, she didn’t seem insulted and let out a little laugh.

“We all have these. They were Aiden’s idea. He thought we should have a symbol of unity, you know? A little silly, I suppose. I mean they’re too hot in summer and not nearly warm enough in winter, but we’re expected to wear them at every meeting. No one does, but at least we bring them. Better than tattoos. That’s what Rinald wanted. He thought they would show a real commitment. But we couldn’t agree on a design or where they should go. The whole thing became too much of a hassle, so we settled for the cloaks. Inga and Flynn make them.”

“By hand?”

Makareta laughed. “Of course not.”

Mawyndul? was still thinking about the hug. In retrospect he decided he liked it. She had smelled like lilacs, and he recalled the warmth of her cheek against his neck and her bald head against his jaw. The squeezing was nice, too, the way her arms felt around his back. If he had known, if he hadn’t been so blindsided, he would have returned the hug. He would have liked to let his palms solve the riddle of what was clothes and what was Makareta. Maybe, before the night was over, he’d have another chance.

“Here. Have some wine,” she said, and the cup drifted toward him. “It’s really good. Inga brought it. So much better than the ghastly swill Rinald said was supposed to be a rare vintage from a famed vintner. Everyone hated that. But this is excellent; try it.”

Mawyndul? grabbed the floating cup, which was wet on one side where it had spilled a little. He didn’t want it. He didn’t care for wine. He mostly drank water, and loved apple cider when it was in season. He disliked the sensation of wine and mead. He hadn’t touched either of them since his first taste at the age of thirteen. He also had never shared the same cup with anyone. He was the prince. He didn’t share anything, but Mawyndul? took it from her. He looked inside, but saw only a dark liquid. Over the brim, Makareta’s big kitten eyes peered at him expectantly. Placing the cup to his lips, he took the tiniest of sips. He got mostly air, but a little of the wine as well. Fruity, he thought, sweeter than he remembered. He took a second taste, a bigger one. The wine surprised him—light, not biting or bitter.

After another sip, he noticed a crowd of bald heads around him. “Is everyone Miralyith?”

“Oh, yes,” she said with sudden gravity. “Non-Mira aren’t allowed.”

“Why?”

“We talk about stuff; things others wouldn’t understand.”

“Like what?”

“Like how Miralyith shouldn’t have to hide under a bridge to speak the truth. Am I right?” The speaker was a tall Fhrey—taller than Mawyndul?—who approached them carrying two fresh drinks, one of which he handed to Makareta.

“This is Aiden,” she said.

“And this is the famous Mawyndul?.” Aiden grinned. “Makareta said there was a chance you might visit our humble gathering, but I didn’t believe her. Who would? Let me just say, it is an honor to have you here.”

Aiden looked older than Makareta, but he was still young—under five hundred maybe, in his first millennium certainly. Older people had a dusty way about them. Dusty was a word Mawyndul? had recently begun applying to people with dated mannerisms and tastes, as well as an archaic mentality that mirrored something left on a shelf too long to be useful. Those in their second millennium—while they didn’t appear too old—moved, talked, and possessed attitudes that betrayed their age. They screamed old, as if from another world, an ancient one covered in sediment. Aiden was young. So was Makareta, as was everyone under the bridge that he’d seen so far.

“And what exactly do you do? I mean what is everyone here for?” Mawyndul? asked, looking around.