33: THE NATURE OF POWER

(Therin’s story)

The soldiers at the Gatestone asked them no questions after Therin and Doc presented the writ from the emperor, nor did any of the wizards on the other side.

The Academy hadn’t changed since Therin had last visited. Admittedly, he hadn’t stayed long. Wizardry hadn’t suited him, or at least so he’d thought. So instead, he’d joined the church, ironically to learn the same things he would have otherwise learned at school.

“Should we hire horses?” Therin asked.

“Horses won’t like where we’re going. Parts of the Kirpis are so dense a horse is useless.”

“And you expect us to do better?”

Doc only laughed.

Later, Therin began to understand what Doc had meant. They’d simply walked into the woods. Everyone at the Academy knew about the vané ruins near the school.¹ Everyone knew how dangerous and foolhardy going there was. Still, every year at least one poor idiot always took the professors’ warning as a dare and never came back.

Apparently, the ruins’ haunted reputation owed its origin to vané traps and spells more than ghosts.

Doc knew the way, and after pacing out a certain distance, he knelt and wiped away a section of soil. “Stand over there.” He pointed to a corner of stone wall as he did something.

Therin looked around. The indicated area was circular and vaguely familiar. Then he identified the original of that feeling. This resembled the bottom of the pit in Saraval, the one that had led …

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Therin said. “There’s a working gate here to the Well of Spirals? That the Quuros could have used to invade the Manol at any time?”

“Careful there, grandson,” Doc said, grinning. “You’re forgetting to call yourself Quuros too.”

He slid his hand across the stonework in a peculiar way, then sprinted over to join Therin. The light swirled around them, flashed, and then they stood in the blue-sky-covered meadow Therin remembered.

As did a great many soldiers.

Therin forced himself to stay calm. They weren’t in any danger; Doc had almost certainly cloaked their presence so the soldiers wouldn’t even know they’d arrived.

This belief lasted all of two entire glorious seconds and ended with a ring of metal as the soldiers advanced on them with drawn weapons.

“What are you showing them?” Therin whispered.

“Oh … us,” Doc said. “Chainbreaker only works on someone if I know they’re there. Makes it awkward when traveling through something like a Gatestone.”

“Or a door,” Therin whispered. “Why didn’t you mention this beforehand?”

“You didn’t ask,” Doc said with a shrug.

Therin stared daggers at him. “Are you kidding?”

The first soldier inspected them closely, then lowered his blade in what he probably meant as a reassuring gesture. Therin was not reassured.

“Apologies,” the man said, “but the well is temporarily off limits.”

“It’s the Well of Spirals,” Doc said. “You can’t deny us entrance.”

Therin stared at both vané as they spoke voral. He knew they were speaking voral. He also knew his understanding of voral matched a vané child’s. He shouldn’t have been able to follow their quick exchange.

Therin understood them perfectly. He made a mental note to thank Galava—assuming he survived this.

Doc’s mild reply didn’t sit well with the lead soldier. “Yes, I know.” The vané flushed with either embarrassment or anger. “That’s normally the case, but I’m under orders.”

“Orders from whom?” Doc’s voice burned. His hand drifted toward his belt as if seeking the pommel of his sword. “Someone’s overstepped their authority in a spectacular fashion.”

Therin wasn’t the only one to notice his friend’s wandering hand. The soldiers tensed, weapons that had just begun to drift into relaxed poses snapping back into threatening postures. The lead soldier’s lips twisted, but before he could unleash a snappy retort, a woman interrupted them.

“Captain, is there a problem?” Therin couldn’t see the speaker through the wall of irate vané until she pushed her way through. He barely covered his startled shock; it was Miya, or Talon pretending to be Miya.

He immediately corrected himself. This wasn’t Miya. Her short-cropped blue hair and shimmering silver-chain gown suggested another identity. She pursed her lips in a way Miya never did. The eyes were different, the cheekbones. This could only be Miyathreall’s sister, Miyane. Queen Miyane.

“Your Majesty.” The soldiers grounded their weapons and bowed deeply. The captain continued to speak. “A pair of petitioners. I was sending them away, but one of them seems to think he is a part-time advocate.”

Doc snorted.

Queen Miyane looked them over closely. “And what brings you to the well this day?” she asked, giving Doc a second look.

“It’s my mother’s Death Day,” Doc said. “May I ask why the well is closed?”

“Just for a few hours,” the queen reassured. “There was an incident earlier. A matter of treason.” Her blue eyes flitted between them again, a faint furrow creasing her brow. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure. What are your names?”

“Mithraill,” Doc said, indicating first himself before pointing at Therin. “And my friend Montherin.”

Therin plastered a dumb-but-pleasant smile on his face, the kind he used at parties he’d long since stopped caring to attend.

“Mithraill.” The queen rolled the name around on her tongue. “That name sounds familiar.”² She waved a hand in airy dismissal. “Return in a few hours. You may finish your pilgrimage then.”

“With all respect, Majesty,” Doc said, his voice flat and hard, “you cannot deny us access to the well. Not for any reason.”

Therin glanced sideways at his friend. He knew Doc’s moods. This level of anger used to result in Doc’s enemies dead on the Arena floor.

Queen Miyane drew herself up, her expression furious. Then she laughed. “I see what you mean,” she told the captain. “A part-time advocate indeed.” To Doc, she lifted her chin and said, “You are brazen.” Her amused expression drained away, leaving her face as cold and hard as marble. “Contradict me again, and I will have your hand. Then you may visit the well to have them grow you a new one.”

Therin nudged Doc. “We can come back later.”

Doc ignored him, his focus solely on the queen. “I said, ‘With all respect,’ and I’ll say it again: With all respect, since when does the king have any authority over the Well of Spirals?”

“He does not,” the queen said, eyes flashing. “But he has authority over traitors, especially those who choose to shelter here.”

Therin cast a brief look around. The crowd by the pool ignored the confrontation, preoccupied with Well-of-Spirals-y tasks. That left the soldiers facing them (Therin counted fifteen) and a score more who could easily reinforce them. Things wouldn’t go well for Therin and Doc if a fight broke out.

Yet Doc seemed to want just that.

“At the risk of being called an advocate a third time in one afternoon, and with continued respect to Your Majesty, the king most certainly does not,” Doc said. “The Well of Spirals is outside vané control or politics, both Kirpis and Manol. It is open to all, at any time, and it Cannot. Be. Closed. Except by order of the chief attendant, a thing that has only happened twice ever.”

“Do we really want to pick a fight with the queen?” Therin asked sotto voce. Louder, he said, “Why don’t we bow, apologize, and come back later? The well isn’t going anywhere.”

“I believe we’re past that point,” the queen snarled.

Doc continued, “The king has no authority to shut down the well. Most especially not a king is who nothing but the usurper son of a usurper!” With that, he drew his sword.

Therin experimented with Zheriasian swear words he seldom had opportunity to practice.

The guards sprang into action.

And attacked each other.

Seven guards attacked the other seven as if they stood in a fencing line learning their forms. The fifteenth guard, the captain, saved his madness for the queen.

All was chaos. Therin turned, expecting to see Doc wading into the fray. Instead, his friend stood perfectly still, sword held loosely in his hand, concentrating intensely as he watched the scene.

“Nik—Doc—Mithraill—damn it, why can’t you pick one name and stick with it—what are you doing?” Therin reached for his own sword before remembering Galava hadn’t given it back to him.

“Shh,” Doc said. “It’s not easy controlling this many at once.”

“What in the name of Nythrawl’s frozen heart is going on here?” a voice thundered from behind the tumult.

Therin froze, astonished. The fighting stopped instantly.

That voice hadn’t asked for respect. That voice hadn’t demanded obedience. That voice had simply expected both, to such a degree it seemed inconceivable respect and obedience would not be granted.

Therin followed the solders’ wide-eyed gazes to the voice’s source. He expected to see an Immortal, or at least a god-queen. Instead, he saw a vané woman. Beautiful, to be sure, but one might as well call the ocean wet. She didn’t seem impressive enough to have been the source. Indeed, she leaned on an attendant as she hobbled forward on unsteady legs.

Therin turned to Doc to ask the woman’s identity. He blinked and looked away quickly. Seeing such naked joy, longing, pain, and hope on his friend’s face was uncomfortable. Besides, Therin had his answer.

Only one person could elicit such a response from Terindel the Black.

Doc’s wife, Valathea, released the attendant and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well?” she asked at a normal volume. “Care to explain why blood is being spilled in the most sacred spot in the entire world?”

Quiet settled over the well, nestled among the perfectly shaved grass and flowering hedges. The queen looked all around, wild-eyed. She stared not at but through where Doc and Therin stood. “Where did they go? They were just here!”

Therin turned to his friend; Doc was still concentrating.

“I asked a question,” Valathea said.

“I owe you no explanations, Founder,” the queen growled. “We were attacked, obviously.” She studiously ignored the fact her men had been attacking each other. “Captain, take the Founder somewhere safe.”

“This is the Well of Spirals,” Valathea said, her tone suggesting this was all the safety one should ever need. “And yet I’ve never seen this many soldiers taint this land with their presence. Explain why I shouldn’t report you.”

She hadn’t directed the last sentence at Miyane; she addressed Doc.

“I’m not Mithraill,” Doc said. “I know who I look like, but please, let me explain.” His voice cracked from the strain, his eyes desperate.

Valathea examined Doc with a hateful gaze. That stare slipped once, to look at Therin, before returning to Doc’s face.

Gods, Therin thought. Valathea knows who killed her husband. She knows who Mithraill is. And my moron of a best friend is letting her see us as we really are.

Valathea opened her mouth and started to say something, but Queen Miyane beat her to it.

“Report me?” Queen Miyane said, her tone incredulous. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Valathea blinked. She made a moue at Doc before turning back to the queen. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“I’m Miyane, queen of the vané!” Clearly, Miyane found the idea of a vané not recognizing her intolerable, even if said vané had spent the last five hundred years as an inanimate object.

“I’ll assume you’re my nephew’s wife.” Valathea sounded bored.

“… yes.” Miyane visibly searched for some more scathing retort.

Valathea gestured toward the well. “Perhaps the attendants might live up to their titles and see to your people? As you said, whoever those men were, they’re no doubt long gone.”

“I’ll find them,” Miyane growled. “They can’t have traveled far. No one’s left by a gate.” Then she paused, hand pressed against her arm. “One of them called my husband a usurper son of a usurper.”

“Did he?” Valathea said. “How interesting.”

“That sounds like something one of your husband’s loyalists might say.” The queen’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Do you know those men?”

“The ones who fled, you mean?” Valathea raised an imperious brow. “Yes. But he was no friend of mine nor of my husband. I recall him associating with Queen Khaevatz.” She tilted her head. “Surely, you noticed he was Manol vané.”

“I do not appreciate your tone,” Queen Miyane said.

Valathea studied the woman, her expression placid. Then she said, “Allow me to give you a piece of advice, as one queen to another—”

“By the Law of Daynos, you’re no longer queen,” Miya retorted.

Valathea laughed. “How adorable of you to think a label defines authority. Since you’re family, here’s a lesson for free: if you choose to demonstrate power, make sure you can follow through. The problem with a bluff is someone may call you on it.” She gestured around, to where attendants still lingered, now watching the scene. “How many witnesses would you like me to summon when I appear before parliament?” Valathea smiled at the flash of panic on Miyane’s face. “Neither you nor my no doubt perfectly legitimate nephew have power here. And we both know it. So leave.”

Queen Miyane stood very straight. She seemed about to order something unpleasant, but just then, a guard moaned. The queen took stock of her wounded guards, some with serious injuries.

“Fine.” Her face wrinkled in distaste. “But we will return to collect you later. His Majesty wishes to speak with you.”

“I shall count the seconds,” Valathea said.

As the queen and her people swept away toward the gate, it was impossible not to feel like Miyane was the underling sent packing by her ruler. From the scowl on Miyane’s face, she felt the same.

After Miyane left, Valathea announced, “It’s a lovely day. I think I’ll go for a walk.”