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

“Well, my fane…” Vasek hesitated with an awkward, uncomfortable expression. “Three thousand years or your death. And you aren’t so young anymore.”

Lothian scowled, then sighed. “My mother lived too long.” He looked over at Mawyndul?. “But don’t get your hopes up. I still have another thousand years at least.”

“A continued Miralyith reign is exactly what the subordinate tribes are worried about.”

“If that’s so, an assassination wouldn’t help anything,” his father said. “Even if they were successful, Mawyndul? would take the Forest Throne, and even with his meager skills in the Art, he could easily defeat the best challenger from any other tribe. They will still be ruled by a member of the Miralyith.”

Meager skills?

“Perhaps assassination would be used as a deterrent,” Vasek said. “What if every Miralyith who took the Forest Throne were killed? Would Miralyith stop petitioning and leave the field to others? The horn makes all challenges a fair fight, but a goblet of poison? A knife in the back? These are difficult for even a Miralyith to survive, are they not?”

“And they would do this knowing Ferrol would reject them? That they would be cast out of the afterlife and Fhrey society? They would be isolated from everyone, even their ancestors.”

“As I said, if one feels the sacrifice is worth it, if one thinks there is no other way, it is entirely possible.”

“You’re saying the other tribes are planning to kill my father?” Mawyndul? asked.

Everyone turned and looked. Each had the same expression of surprise, as if none had remembered he was there.

“We don’t know anything for certain, my prince,” Vasek said with an unaccustomed tone of sympathy in his voice.

The Master of Secrets obviously presumed Mawyndul? cared about his father’s well-being, which made Mawyndul? question the wisdom of his title.

“You don’t need to worry,” Lothian assured him. “The tribes have no understanding of the Art. If they did, they wouldn’t dream of such things. The Talwara is well protected.”

“The fane’s food is cleaned by a Miralyith,” Vasek explained. “All doors and windows are sealed by the Art each night, and only those assigned residency may enter these walls. Besides, I expect to get to the bottom of these rumors quite soon, and then we can eliminate those responsible.”

“My fane?” Vidar spoke up. He had arrived near the end of the meeting as he usually did. His only reason for coming was to learn what, if any, direction the fane might wish to relay to the Aquila. “The meeting is about to convene, your son and I—”

“Yes, yes.” Lothian swept his fingers at them. “Be off. Be off.”

“If I may, my fane.” Vasek held up a hand to stop them. “Should these rumors prove true, the safest and easiest solution would be to calm any fears that might lead to such an act. Vidar needs to continue to assure the other tribes that they all have a voice within the Aquila and that there are no plans to change that dynamic. It may help to ease tensions until I can learn more.”

The fane nodded his agreement.

“I shall do my best, as always, my fane,” Vidar said to Lothian.

Then without so much as a look, Vidar walked out, leaving Mawyndul? to chase behind.

—

Mawyndul?’s second Aquila meeting was more boring than the first, perhaps more tedious than anything could be. Makareta wasn’t there. He looked repeatedly until Vidar shot him a glare. The topic being discussed wasn’t the assassination possibility, but rather the drainage of the tea fields. At one point, Vidar kicked Mawyndul?’s foot in order to wake him, but no matter how hard Mawyndul? tried, he couldn’t keep his eyes open or his head raised. The second kick was harder than the first. The third time made him cry out.

Mawyndul? had been lost in a nightmare where an assassin was stalking him through an unfamiliar section of the Talwara, which was strange because he knew every inch. The killer had already murdered his father and was giving chase down endless corridors. The would-be butcher was a huge shadow that leapt out quite suddenly. Mawyndul? tried to scream, but couldn’t. He tried to summon the Art, but nothing happened. He then resorted to running, but the killer got a grip on Mawyndul?’s leg, squeezing until it hurt.

When he woke, it was less the pain of Vidar kicking him and more the terror of the nightmare that caused him to scream. Regardless of the origin, the result was catastrophic. Everyone in the chamber stopped and looked at him in shock. Vidar appeared the most surprised of all as he leaned away, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide.

“Pay attention, you little fool!” Vidar snapped.

Maybe Vidar hadn’t meant to speak as loud as he did, but there was no doubt everyone in the chamber heard. Unfortunately, this included a lovely Miralyith with kitten eyes sitting in the gallery’s front row. Makareta had apparently showed up too late to keep Mawyndul? awake, but just in time for his most humiliating experience since The Traitor had stopped him from ending the life of the God Killer.

Mawyndul?’s castigation didn’t end there. After the Aquila adjourned, Vidar reprimanded him further. He did so far more quietly, but by then Mawyndul? wasn’t concerned with volume so much as speed. He wanted to catch Makareta on her way out, and ask her if they could go somewhere before the meeting. He was hoping she would tell him where she lived. Instead, Mawyndul? was trapped, listening to a lecture from a second-rate Miralyith.

“Your father will hear about this, but that should be the least of your worries,” Vidar said, and Mawyndul? realized who the shadow in his dream had been—a more frightening version of the senior councilor with fangs and claws. “You’ve tarnished not only your reputation in this esteemed body, but mine as well.”

Vidar stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Listen, you little shite, your father might not care about the impression you make, but I refuse to be embarrassed by your behavior. While we are in this chamber, you do what I say, and that means paying attention and minding your manners.”

Mawyndul? was stunned, but not so much so that he would assume a subservient role from a lesser Miralyith. He was the prince after all. “Why should I?”

Vidar smiled then, and when he did, the senior councilor really did look like the thing from the nightmare. “Politics, my boy. You might be Lothian’s son, but trust me, I can ruin you. I’ll make everyone in this city hate you, including your own father.”

“And when I become fane, I’ll have you executed.”

“I’m twenty-seven hundred years old, boy. I won’t live long enough to give you the satisfaction. You, on the other hand, will have to live with the soiled reputation for the rest of your long life. Think about that the next time your actions could make a fool of me.”