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

He wondered if his mother had been a priest. Since his father said she was still alive, he tried to imagine who she was. Why hadn’t anyone questioned her about abandoning her son? And didn’t Ferrol disapprove of such behavior? Maybe she was a priest, and church leaders did what they wanted and made rules for everyone else. If he weren’t going to be fane, Mawyndul? would have chosen to be an Umalyn.

“You’re early,” the unkempt, non-Miralyith on the bench said. He hadn’t looked up, never took his eyes from the Door.

“Are you talking to me?”

“What? You think I’m talking to the stupid Door?”

Stupid Door?

Mawyndul? had never heard anyone use such sacrilegious language anywhere, much less in the Garden and in front of the Door. He was stunned to feel a sense of outrage over something he’d never cared about. He was also impressed.

“Ah…” Mawyndul? fumbled.

“Don’t want you tarnished with the doings at the Airenthenon today, eh? Have to keep you immaculate, don’t they? Can’t allow that sort of stain anywhere near you.”

“Stain? What are you talking about? Have we met?” Mawyndul? was certain they hadn’t, but it was a polite way of getting the point across.

“You’ll find out soon enough. She’ll tell you when you get to the meeting.”

“What meeting? And who is she?” He knew very well what and who, but there was no way the wretch on the bench could know anything about either.

He didn’t answer, only laughed. “Okay, fine. Play it that way, if you wish. I’ll not burst the bubble of your innocence. Although it’s a shame really.”

Mawyndul? wasn’t certain, but he believed he was being insulted somehow. He stood up straight, folded his arms, bounced them once on his chest, and frowned with extreme disapproval. The mystery man on the bench never saw any of it. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the Door.

“I am the prince!” Mawyndul? finally declared when it became painfully obvious the guy on the bench wasn’t going to turn.

“I know,” he replied.

Mawyndul? waited a few minutes, expecting more.

Silence.

He decided to skip the insult—if in fact there had been one—what else could be expected from a blasphemer who didn’t revere the sacred Door? “What’s a shame?”

“You’ll get over it. You’re resilient. Such rich, dark soil. I can smell the fertility. From you will grow wonderfully bitter fruit. At peak ripeness, you’ll harvest your crop, smash it, and distill a fine wine. Then you’ll store it away, letting it ferment. A quality wine takes time, and you’ll be ever so patient.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Hatred. Some people get filled with it and explode. If they survive, they move on. Others just let it dribble out over the years, like a leaky bucket. One day they notice the bucket is empty, and they wonder what had been in it in the first place. Still others use hatred as a weapon, going so far as to pass it on to others—an ugly, unwanted gift disguised as a virtuous heirloom.”

Mawyndul? didn’t answer; he was too mystified. Who is this person?

The fellow on the bench continued speaking while still looking at the Door. “You’re not like any of those. You’re different. As I mentioned, you treat hatred like a fine wine, believing it gets better with age, never expires, doesn’t go bad. But that’s the thing about hatred, it can become rancid, and it’ll turn into poison if you keep it bottled too long. Hatred will eat through any container and seep into the groundwater of a soul. Revenge is never enough to expel it because it keeps bubbling up anew. What you don’t realize—can’t really—is that by that time, it’s all you are. You don’t have the hate in you. The hate is you. When that wine is consumed, you won’t ever be able to rid yourself of it. Can’t vomit it up or spit it out. It’d be as impossible as escaping yourself.”

He finally looked over at Mawyndul? then. “That’s the shame.”

—

Mawyndul? figured he walked farther and faster that day than he ever had in his life, and yet he never seemed to get anywhere. He couldn’t even remember where he’d been. He’d just walked. He barely recalled passing the Greenway market, and thinking there was something he wanted from there, but he continued without slowing. The constant motion kept his mind from wandering, from returning to the conversation with the wretch in the Garden.

Not a conversation, he told himself, more like a nightmare born from a fever. None of it made any sense. First my father, now this weird stranger.

When the sun finally set, he was pleased to be rid of a strange day. Despite leaving early and having nothing to do, Mawyndul? arrived late to the Rose Bridge. He halted a few yards away, surprised by the large crowd gathered there.

Normally he would find, at most, twenty people, sometimes as few as eight. That night he saw forty, maybe fifty. A bonfire burned brightly and spark-swarms whirled toward the underside of the bridge. Dark figures danced in a circle around an enchanted blaze that changed colors and burned three times the height of a Fhrey. Laughter, songs, the pound of drums, and even the lilt of a flute drifted on the wind, although no one appeared to be playing any instruments. The usual floating lights where there, too, but that night they darted madly about like insane fireflies. Mawyndul? heard hoots and shouts, and as he drew closer, he saw that the river itself was rearing up and jumping to the rhythm of the music. His secret group had gone mad.

Mawyndul? approached hesitantly, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Everyone wore their gray cloaks, but most of them he’d never seen before.

Why is nothing normal today?

Mawyndul? was on the verge of leaving—just going home to curl up in his bed and smother the day with covers of silk—when Makareta found him.

“Where have you been hiding?” she asked. Her voice was louder than normal. She rushed up and without pause gave him a tight hug. He was caught off guard again and too disturbed by the ruckus to think. She smelled of wine. “Congratulations, Your Highness.”

“Huh?” he so eloquently replied.

She smiled warmly, enough to melt his defiant refusal to be joyful. What a face. What eyes. Both were a tad glassy, cheeks flushed, her balance off. If he’d had as much wine as Makareta, he might have tried to kiss her and doubted she’d object. Unfortunately, Mawyndul? was thinking altogether too much. That was his punishment for arriving late. Perhaps there were always people who came later, but he never noticed the stragglers; by then he was too lost in discussions and cups of wine—not to mention her eyes—to notice.

“Congratulations!” Aiden appeared with a big-brother grin. “Did you just get here?”

“Why is everyone congratulating me?”

“Why?” Aiden appeared puzzled and looked at Makareta.

She shrugged and addressed Mawyndul?. “I…I don’t think…I mean…you weren’t at the Airenthenon today, were you? Mawyn, do you not know what happened?”

Mawyn? That’s new. I’m not sure I like it.

“My father didn’t want me attending. Why? What happened?”

“Of all people to be the last to know! Am I right?” Aiden shouted and clapped Mawyndul? hard on his back.

Is everyone drunk? Do I act this way when I’ve been drinking? Mawyndul? was pretty certain he didn’t.