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

Mawyndul? kept the gray cloak hidden. He didn’t know why. The thing was just a nondescript bit of cloth, but he kept it buried at the bottom of a chest. He thought of it often, and finally gave in. After blocking the door with a chair, he fished out the cloak and put it on. Inga and Flynn weren’t good tailors. The seams were uneven, and the loose stitching crossed over itself in places. The fabric was cheaper than anything Mawyndul? had ever worn. The cloak really was an awful garment, and he felt foolish the moment he had it on, and yet, he also felt something else. He put the hood up and experienced an echo, a memory of the thrill he’d had that night when they all cheered for him, and Makareta took his hand.

The door rattled, and Mawyndul?’s heart stopped. For several seconds he stood frozen. They’ve caught me! Vasek and his secret guard had come to haul him away.

“Maw? What’s going on?” a voice demanded. Worse than Vasek, it was his father. “Maw, what’s in front of this door?”

Mawyndul? tore the cloak from his back, catching the hood briefly on his head. He shoved it in the trunk and brought the top down just as his father pushed into the room. Lothian had a perturbed expression—more so than usual. “Why is this chair here?”

“Ah…I…I just put it there. Getting it out of the way for a moment.”

“Out of the way? It’s right in the way.” His father moved the chair aside, glaring at it, and then he closed the door behind him.

As flustered as he was, Mawyndul? was coherent enough to find it strange that his father had come to his private chambers. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Not even the year before, when Mawyndul? had a wretched illness that left him bedridden for two whole weeks, had there been a visit. The white-haired physician had come each day, looking so worried that Mawyndul? believed he was dying. But his father never stopped in to see if his son still lived.

And when Mawyndul? had failed his first attempt to pass the entrance exam to the Estramnadon Academy, there also hadn’t been a visit. Treya had gone to the added effort of putting flowers in his room, fluffing his pillows, and telling the other servants, “Hush, you fools! Think of the prince. What will become of him if he can’t pass the Sharhasa?” Even then, Mawyndul?’s father hadn’t come to him. In fact, until that moment, Mawyndul? wasn’t sure his father knew where Mawyndul?’s chambers were. Yes, his father’s visit was strange, but what really disturbed Mawyndul? was that Lothian had closed the door. Whatever this was about, it was private.

“How have you been?” Lothian asked. The question was superficial, self-conscious, and awkward. Mawyndul? suffered the same stumbling lack of grace when he spoke to Makareta.

“Fine,” he replied, inching away from the chest.

This can’t be about the cloak…can it? But what else? It has to be.

“Vasek tells me you keep mostly to yourself.”

It is. It is about the cloak! Vasek had me followed, or one of the members of the Gray Cloaks is an informant. I should have guessed. Probably Aiden, am I right?

“That’s good, I think,” Lothian said, and nodded thoughtfully. “Best that you keep a distance. Good not to be too familiar with the people you’ll rule one day.” The fane walked across the room to one of the windows, taking in the view. “That’s the problem with being fane…being in charge of anything really, but being fane especially. You can’t get too attached to people. You never know what might be required.”

Mawyndul? felt his heart hesitate as his father paused at the end of the bed and took hold of the canopy post, letting his hand slide up and down, feeling the wood with thoughtful, searching fingers.

He’s trying to explain why he has to lock me up. How he regrets it, but how it’s for the good of the people.

Mawyndul? hadn’t moved after he stepped away from the chest. He stood in the center of his room on the pretty wool carpet that Treya had given him for his twentieth birthday.

Lock me up. That’s all he’ll do. I can handle that. How hard, how different could it really be? Maybe other people would have a problem, but I’ve lived most of my life within this single room. I can handle prison.

“Your mother…did I ever tell you about your mother?”

Mawyndul? replied quickly, as if his father was posing a test. “You said she looked like that painting of Fane Ghika, the one in the first study.”

“Hmm?” He looked up as if he’d forgotten what they were speaking about. “Oh, yes, yes. That’s right. Absolutely. Very much like her. Shorter hair, though.” His father paused. His hand stopped its trip up and down the bedpost.

“Is she still alive?” Mawyndul? asked, trying to cut the heavy silence, but unwilling to assist his father in getting to the point. These were his last few seconds of ignorance, his beautiful sunset that separated doubt from a future of certainty, and he wanted to stretch out that time as long as possible.

The fane pushed away from the bed, walking back toward the chair and the door. “Oh, yes, she’s definitely alive,” he said with a tone suggesting there was more to come, but instead, he stopped there.

Why is he meandering? Not that I’m in a hurry, but why is he dragging this out? He’s only going to lock me up—or is it worse? The conjoined twin images of Gryndal’s head flying free of his neck, and of his father killing the Instarya leader in the Carfreign arena, flashed in his head. I’m his son. I’m the prince. He couldn’t…wouldn’t…

Lothian reached the chair, stopped, stared at it, and then turned with a resolute expression.

This is it, the blow he’s come to deliver.

“I don’t want you going to the Aquila today. I’ll be addressing the council, and you shouldn’t be there.”

“Am I to assume you are putting me under house arrest?” Every muscle in Mawyndul?’s body was tight as he struggled to take the news without sobbing.

His father’s expression couldn’t have been more confused if Mawyndul? had just admitted to being a snowflake in disguise. “What? No! Why would you say such a thing? I just don’t want you at the Airenthenon today. Some unpleasant business is going on, and I don’t want you part of it.”

What’s he talking about?

“You’re my son, and the heir apparent to the Forest Throne. I know you. You’ll want to get involved, try to intervene. You’ll shoot your mouth off and make another spectacle. Such outbursts are problematic in the palace, but in the Airenthenon such behavior is even more serious. I won’t give Imaly that big a victory.”

“This has to do with Imaly?”

“No, but it should make her century, nonetheless. Go do whatever you like, just stay away from the Airenthenon. Can you do that?”

Mawyndul?’s body was still tense with apprehension. Unable to make sense of anything, he held still and replied, “Sure.”

“Good.” Lothian took a step around the chair. “And don’t put furniture in front of doors where people are walking.”

He’s not punishing me. He doesn’t know anything about the cloak, about the meetings. Terror dissolved into relief, instantly replaced with smug satisfaction. How could he? I’ve been too clever for him, for Vasek, for all of them. As his mind thawed, curiosity slipped in.

“Father?” The word came out flat, a poor note played badly from lack of practice. Now was Mawyndul?’s turn to be awkward.

The fane paused nevertheless.

“Since I won’t be there, could you at least tell me your plans for the war? It would save me the embarrassment of being the only one who doesn’t know.”

“What war?”