Chapter Eleven

3rd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Moraven Tolo made his way through the graveyard in the shadow of Grijakun. The area had been sculpted with small hills and hollows, and had copses of trees and hedges that screened many a mausoleum from another. He passed the resting places of poets and priests, merchants, nobles, and warriors. Each had offerings placed in front of them: some had food, many had candles, and others had piles of faetsun—the fanciful paper money that the priests would later gather and burn. As smoke it would rise to the Heavens, and as ash sink to the Hells, so their recipients would have it to spend in the afterlife.

He carried with him a small jug that had been swaddled in cloth to keep its contents warm. While summer had not yet passed into autumn, the night had been cool. As he expected, he found Ciras Dejote sitting cross-legged in front of the tomb where he’d left him, his sword still sheathed across his thighs. The younger man made to rise when Moraven deliberately trod upon and snapped a stick, but the serrcai motioned for him to remain seated.

“It has been a long, cold night.” Moraven squatted and placed the jug before Ciras. He pulled the lid off and the steamy scent of spicy chicken broth filled the air. “Would you share my breakfast?”

The younger man shook his head, though his stomach’s growling told the truth. “Please, Master, eat. If there is anything left over, then I shall partake.”

“Very well.” Moraven sat and replaced the lid on the jug. “Do you have questions for me?”

“No, Master.”

“No? Your mouth lies better than your belly. We met on the first night of Festival. I agreed to take you on as a student. You were most eager, yet you have no questions?”

“No, Master.”

“Again, no? You came all the way from Tirat to find a swordmaster. You were given to my care when it was the serrian Jatan you wished to enter. No questions?”

“No, Master.”

Moraven let any pleasure drain from his face and voice. “If you have no questions, I can teach you nothing. You might as well return to Tirat. Do you not wonder why you were given to me?”

The younger man hesitated, then nodded. “I do wonder.”

“And?”

“And I assumed Grandmaster Jatan sought the best for me, so put me in your charge.”

“Very good.” Moraven lounged back against the corner of the tomb of a poet. “Have you come to question that assumption?”

“No. Yes.” The man’s shoulders shifted uneasily. “I am certain you know what you are doing.”

“No, you are not, but that’s good. Neither am I.”

Ciras blinked away shock, then looked down to hide his reaction. Moraven gave him a moment to compose himself. When the man’s head slowly came back up, the swordmaster continued, letting the hint of a smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. “If you have questioned dicaiserr Jatan’s decision, then you have questioned other things, too. What have you questioned?”

Ciras opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The drowsiness that had marked him before evaporated. “Master, I mean no disrespect.”

“But?”

Ciras opened his hands to take in the whole of the cemetery. “Why am I here?”

“Why do you think you are here?”

“I don’t know. You told me to wait here. I have waited. I have not stirred an inch. I have been vigilant. I have looked for ghosts and thieves and those who would steal relics, and I have seen nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Of course I have seen some things.” Ciras set his sword aside and stood. He wavered for a moment, resting his hand on the tomb, then shook his legs and took a few halting steps. “I saw kin and admirers bring offerings to those whose monuments are here. Most were quiet; some laughed.”

Moraven let his smile broaden. “Laughed, did they? Why would they do that?”

The younger man’s eyes widened. “Do you not know where you put me?”

“Tell me.”

Ciras prodded the tomb with a toe. “This is the monument to the poet and playwright, Jaor Dirxi. Do you know who that is?”

Moraven shrugged. “I might remember a poem or two.”

“He is famous for his satires about warriors. His poems ridicule what we are and do. His plays make us into buffoons. Some think them funny. They turn the natural order on its head. They exalt farmers over swordsmen; they equate fighting off locusts with defending the Empire from barbarian hordes. Save that a Naleni princess was his lover, he would not be here and his work would be forgotten.”

“And you didn’t like them laughing at you, a warrior, standing vigil at his tomb?”

“No, I did not.” Ciras stopped his pacing and stared down at Moraven. “But I preferred that to the humiliation I received last evening when you bid me stand vigil in the courtyard of the Three Pearls.”

“You didn’t like that duty?” Moraven raised an eyebrow, then pulled the lid from the jug again. “I spent last evening there myself and quite enjoyed it.”

“How could you? The Three Pearls is one of the most notorious houses of prostitution in Moriande—nay, even the whole of Nalenyr.”

“More like all nine of the Principalities.”

“Even worse, then,” Ciras snarled. “Not even a house of entertainment, just a house of whores, coming in from trolling the streets, finding men and women of dubious character, questionable sobriety, and soon to be diminished wealth. They saw me there, teased me, touched me, and whispered all manner of lewd and lascivious suggestions. One even served her customer right there in front of me, moaning, groaning, and making other noises ill suited to the human throat.”

Moraven sipped some of the soup and let its warmth spread through him. “I know she did that. I paid her to do so.”

“You paid for my humiliation?” Ciras’ eyes narrowed and anger crept into his voice. “Was that your aim, then, to humiliate me? Or did you have me stand guard there so the brothel’s owner would reward you for my service?”

“And, if that were true?”

“That would be reprehensible.”

“Would it? Why?” Moraven sprang to his feet and rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “If I am your Master and hire you out, am I not entitled to your wages?”

Ciras hesitated. “Yes, but—”

“But what? Is it wrong that I collect your wages in congress with gutter whores if I so choose? You would let me take food from a farmer for your service. Why not what others have to offer?”

“But, Master, you are serrcai!”

“Meaning?”

“You are better than that! You are better than that just as I am better than sitting vigil in a graveyard while the whole of the city is celebrating the Harvest Festival. My family is Tirati nobility. We have money. On the second night of Festival we throw a huge ball for the richest and wisest and most celebrated. Had you come to Tirat, you would have been honored at that ball, Master. You would have been given anything you desired. You would not have had to settle for gutter whores. We would have bought you the finest courtesan on the island. We would have brought one from the mainland for you. My family would have done that. They would have.”

Moraven again arched an eyebrow. “But not now?”

“After how I have been treated in your service? Why would they? You have disgraced them, me, and yourself. I had never imagined I could be so poorly used. I trusted Master Jatan and he turns me over to you, a jokester who consorts with poxed gutter whores while paying them to tempt me with their foul bodies. You are worthy of respect, or should be, but I can find nothing but contempt for you.”

Moraven drank again, then set the jar down. “You may stop now.”

“Stop? Why would I? You asked if I had questions, so I have them.” Color flooded Ciras’ face. “Why did you have me guarding a whorehouse? Of what possible use was that? And why have me here standing vigil over the grave of a poet who hated what I am?”

“Stop. Now.” Moraven held his right hand out, palm up. “Sit.”

The edge in his voice drove Ciras to his knees. He bowed his head and laid his hands on his thighs. “As you wish, Master.”

Moraven dropped to his knees as well and kept his voice low. “The use of what I have required from you, and what I will require from you, is that these things allow me to learn about you. The more I know about you, the better I will be able to correct your errors and make you into the serrdin you should be.”

He moved the jug of broth closer to Ciras. “Drink. You are hungry and thirsty. But slowly. It is hot.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Let me tell you what I have learned so far, Ciras.” Moraven let the man drink and lick away the droplet of broth hanging from his lower lip before continuing. “You have a romantic view of being a swordsman. I have little doubt you have killed—probably bandits and thieves who were besetting good folk. They probably even deserved to be dead. You see yourself as part of a grand heroic tradition of the sort exalted in songs, poems, and stories, rendered in statuary and in paintings. You know the works of classical Imperial authors, like Jontze and Viron Dunnol—more the latter since he was himself serrcai. You cling to the Nine Virtues, eschew the Nine Vices, and intend to pass the Eighty-One Tests of an Imperial serrcai. How many have you already passed?”

Ciras barely looked up, but pride infused his words. “Thirty-one, Master.”

“More than one a year.” Moraven smiled. “And more than I have.”

“What?” Ciras all but dropped the jug of soup. “Master!”

Moraven’s eyes narrowed. “Still your tongue, for when it is working your ears are not.”

He waited for the man to fall silent again, then continued. “You wonder at the postings I gave you. They were exercises in becoming a swordsman. They encompassed rules—those you imagined, and those that exist without your comprehension. And they had grander lessons attached to them. You failed the lessons and followed only the rules you acknowledged. Let me explain.

“The rules you acknowledged were those you have accepted from your reading and previous training. You accept that, as your Master, I can give you an order and you feel honor-bound to abide by it without question. I told you, last night, that I wished you to ‘stand watch here.’ You took the words to mean you were to be rooted to this very spot—one that was cold, subjected you to ridicule, and left you hungry.”

Ciras frowned, but did not voice a question.

Moraven smiled. “Very good. You were hungry, yet you sat here in a place where people bring food to the dead. You are in a place of plenty, yet you were wanting.”

“But, Master, the food is an offering to the dead, and to the gods. To take it would be—”

“Would be what? Didn’t you see vermin come and nibble at sweetcakes and fruit?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did the gods smite them? Did revenants rise to protect those offerings?” Moraven lowered his voice. “The priests of Grija are seldom skeletal, though they serve the god of Death. Do you think all that food is burned as sacrifice?”

“No, but . . . It is wrong.”

“Very good, Ciras. This speaks well of your character that you are willing to endure discomfort when something runs against your moral code.” Moraven nodded encouragingly and bade him drink more soup. “You must remember, however, there are times when circumstances require you to deal with things in ways different from those you might have intended. Rare is the transgression that cannot be repaired afterward. In fact, all but one can be fixed.”

“And that one?” Ciras closed his eyes and crimson burned his cheeks. “Forgive me, Master. Here I sit at the focus of the answer.”

“Yes. Why did I have you sit here last night, in a graveyard, when all about you could hear the sounds and see the lights of Festival? Because those who are here once enjoyed Festival. What you and I do can take that away from them.”

“If you will forgive me, Master, that makes sense. Why, then, the House of Three Pearls?”

“I would have hoped that would have been obvious, too.” Moraven sighed. “There you saw the ardor that burns at the core of all people. Each of the Nine Virtues denies a drive that the Nine Vices embody. Lust is one—which in a house of entertainment is renamed desire and therefore acceptable. The point is that people have drives—urges that they may or may not be able to control. If they can control them, it may only be for a little while. You controlled yours that night, but you were under no directive to do so. I told you ‘stay here,’ nothing more. Had you asked for a bed, they would have put you in the same small room I slept in last night.”

The swordmaster raised a finger. “At the Three Pearls you saw the strength of lust. Here I hoped you might truly reflect on the truth beneath Jaor Dirxi’s poetry. He did ridicule warriors, but did so because of his terror of them. He and many others were terrified in that day and age that warriors would dominate the world, and that Cataclysm after Cataclysm would be unleashed. Many a warlord and bandit prince had second thoughts about actions they intended, for fear Jaor’s sharp wit would lampoon them.

“So, these two nights were for you to learn that people will do much to defend or to obtain the objects of their desire, and that their fear of death will prompt them to many things, including acts of courage. All to avoid death. Without understanding those lessons, you will not understand people. Without understanding people, you will never be able to separate those you must kill from those you need not.”

Ciras’ expression softened, then he nodded.

“One more thing, Ciras.”

“Yes, Master?”

“You mentioned your family.”

“Yes.”

“Are they here?”

Ciras shook his head. “In Moriande? No, Master.”

“Do they know you are here?”

“No.”

“Do they have influence here?”

“Not really.”

Moraven flowed to his feet, drew his sword, and let the quivering blade slap the underside of Ciras’ chin. “Could they prevent me from killing you this instant?”

The young man swallowed hard. “No, Master.”

“Very good.” Moraven resheathed his sword. “All you are, Ciras, is what you are: what you can do, how you can make the world better. Money, rank, family—even your past—are immaterial. We are each of us utterly alone in the world. If we cannot find within ourselves the strength to deal with the challenges the world presents us, all the strength from outside will not save us.”

Ciras nodded and appeared on the brink of asking another question when two guards in the Prince’s livery approached, leading an elderly man wearing the formal robes and wispy beard of protocol functionary. Moraven stood as the old man mounted the little hill.

The functionary bowed. “Have I the honor of addressing Moraven Tolo?”

“I am he.” Moraven returned the bow, making it of a depth and duration suitable for the Prince himself.

The old man drew an ivory paper scroll from his sleeve and handed it to the swordmaster. He held out a small bronze stamp so Moraven could check its design against the red wax seal, then he broke it and read.

“Minister, there must be some mistake.”

The old man shook his head. “No, serrcai, there is no mistake. You will report to Wentokikun on the sixth night of Festival. There you will display your skills in a duel.”

“But I made no offer to do anything of the sort.”

“It does not matter. The display of your skills was offered to the Prince as a gift to honor the dynasty’s anniversary.”

Moraven smiled. “A gift? Who offered my services so?”

The old man’s head tilted to the side. “The Lady of Jet and Jade.”

“Ah, of course.” Moraven smiled warmly. “Her request is my command.”

 

Chapter Twelve

3rd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

The confining weight of the layered robes of state struck Prince Cyron as heavier than the lamellar armor he donned for battle. He would have gladly traded the purple robes—embroidered as they were with a menagerie of the gods’ earthly avatars, dragons ascendant—for his armor. Having the dragon mask shielding his face would have been a grand bonus, for a single slip of expression could be his undoing. Much better the cut of a sword than so simple a mistake.

The doors to the long reception chamber opened slowly. Eight pillars, each depicting one of the gods of the Zodiac, neatly divided the room into three equal parts. The Dragon Throne on which he sat represented Wentiko—the ninth star sign—and clearly subordinated all the other gods. A wide red carpet trimmed in purple ran from the edge of the throne dais to the door. Only those of royal blood were permitted to walk the wide carpet between the pillars. For a commoner to set foot on it would be an offense before Heaven and against the Prince, resulting in dire catastrophes that his astrologers and ministers could catalog with precision. The trespasser would have to be killed to prevent them—and in any number of horrible ways which his ministers could also enumerate.

The ministers would be witness to all, but from their positions on the reed mats in the outer thirds of the room. His own functionaries would take up positions at the right side of the room, and his visitors would be opposite them, also at their Master’s right hand. They would be matched in number, ordered equally by age, so everything remained in harmony and balance.

Aside from the fact that I hate their Master and he hates me.

Cyron kept his face utterly impassive as Prince Pyrust of Deseirion centered himself in the doorway. He was likewise hampered by ceremonial robes, with dark blue predominating. His had been embroidered with a far simpler motif that involved Hawks and only two other of the gods. Dogs, which were the symbol of Helosunde, rimmed the hem of his garment so that with each shuffled step, he crushed one beneath his feet. On his robe’s skirts, breasts, and, no doubt, back, a gigantic hawk bore a clawed worm in its talons, asserting the supremacy of Deseirion over Nalenyr.

Cyron found the display as ill-mannered as he did bold—but at least he had refrained from giving the worm a red mane matching Cyron’s dead brother’s hair. Another might have taken Pyrust as crude or stupid for wearing such a garment during this particular Festival, but to do that would be to underestimate Pyrust. Regardless of Naleni money and weapons being placed in the hands of Helosundian rebels, the Desei maintained their grip on the conquered Principality. Cyron doubted, despite the peerlessness of his Keru guards, that Helosunde would ever again be free, which meant Pyrust would be coming for Nalenyr sooner rather than later.

But while Pyrust was a formidable opponent, he did have flaws. The greatest among them was his belief in prophetic dreams. Cyron had long since gotten past such superstitious nonsense, but he still listened to court astrologers and soothsayers. It appeased the ministers and that made his life easier. Now, if Pyrust would just do the same, all could be well.

As Pyrust stepped onto the carpet, his ministers filed into the room and took their places. Cyron’s followed suit, as if each side were a well-practiced dance troupe. The Prince knew each of them was watching the others, evaluating, guessing, and cataloging nuances that would later be turned to advantage during negotiations. Had they put a fraction of this energy into actually making the vast bureaucracy function, all the Principalities would be years ahead of where they currently were.

When Pyrust reached the halfway point of the carpet, Cyron stood and laid the horsehair-tipped wand of state on the arm of his throne. A minister twitched when he did that, disappointing Cyron. He’d half hoped the man’s heart would seize and he could put someone in that position who had not been old when his grandfather ruled.

While Pyrust’s face had remained a stone mask, his step faltered for a heartbeat when Cyron put his wand down. One of the Desei ministers saw that and stiffened, evening the score in the protocol duel. Pyrust came on, lengthening his stride ever so slightly, kicking Helosundian dogs as he came, then stopped at the last pair of pillars and bowed.

“On this occasion of your dynasty’s anniversary, Prince Cyron, I and the Desei wish you all prosperity, longevity, and joy.”

Pyrust held the bow deeply and long enough to impress Cyron. I could almost believe he is sincere.

He waited for his northern counterpart to straighten up, then he bowed—not nearly so deeply. To do so would have been unseemly given the location and circumstance of their meeting. He did hold the bow as long as Pyrust’s, however, and the eldest Naleni minister did begin to grey about the face.

“You are most welcome, Prince Pyrust.” Cyron looked at his ministers. “I would have a chair brought for the Prince.”

The oldest minister grimaced, and a hand stole to his chest. The two most subordinate ministers did stand and shuffle to the door to take a small seat from a Keru guard. They conveyed it to the front of the hall and set it up at the line of pillars at the right. Bowing deeply to both Princes, they retreated with tiny steps, but managed to move quickly regardless.

Pyrust turned his back to his own ministers and hazarded a smile. “A campaign chair. How thoughtful.”

“Your Highness is known for being comfortable in one.” Cyron nodded slightly. “I would have made it a saddle but bringing a horse in here would have had its difficulties.”

Pyrust did sit, though stiffly. “So I understand.”

Cyron sat and arranged his robe around his legs so the flat central panel was in clear display. It showed a hawk being savaged by a dog. It continued the insult his remark about the horse had started, since legend had it that Pyrust’s grandfather, when he took the Helosundian capital, had ridden into the palace’s reception hall and smashed his face against a rafter, spilling him from the saddle. Much was made of that as an ill omen for the Helosundian occupation.

“I was pleased you accepted my invitation to visit during the Festival this year. I hope you will find it a pleasing experience.”

“Far more so than some, but I am glad you find amusement at your own Festival.”

The Naleni prince frowned, which deepened the slight groan from his ministers. “I am not sure I understand.”

Pyrust smiled wolfishly. “You clearly enjoyed terrifying that girl last evening. You had her whipped this morning as well.”

“I did enjoy the former, but not the latter.” Cyron’s eyes tightened. “You have seen her type before—born into privilege, but with no sense of the responsibility that comes with it. How would you have handled things?”

“You know the answer to that. I would have had her whipped right then and there. No chance for appeal. I would let everyone understand the severity of her offense and the justice of her punishment. Punishment delayed serves little purpose.”

“Perhaps, but that was not my thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

The younger man smiled. “I was thinking to give her a chance to learn from her experience. I gave her eight hours to think about the lash tasting her flesh. Had she become contrite, had she apologized—had she come to accept her punishment this morning and admitted the justice of it—I might well have forgiven it in the spirit of the Festival.” He shrugged. “She was not contrite. Her kin came and demanded I forgive her in the name of the Festival. I offered them the chance to take her place, but none wished to do so.”

The Desei prince frowned. “We may think you Naleni are degenerate, but I would not have imagined that your sense of morality had decayed such that even her father would not take her place.”

“No, but I did mention that my jaecaitsae would add a lash for every year she had lived, and that made the total unacceptable. Her escort, however, did make the offer. He was one of yours, so perhaps you are right about us, or you are just morally superior.”

Pyrust snorted. “You say that only because he has been exiled, so is no longer one of mine. Had he truly been, you would have said it was a sign of intellectual morbidity.”

“Or true love.”

“Often the same thing.”

“Alas.” Cyron did allow himself a smile. “She was led to a public square, stripped to the waist—which I think bothered her more than the threat of a lashing—then whipped. The jaecaitsae, on my instruction, did inflict enough pain with the first lash that she passed out. The other three were lighter, and only one left a small mark, tracing the line of a shoulder blade. She will never see it, but her handmaidens will.”

“You think that is justice?”

“It is enough justice for me. There was nothing that could change her into a productive citizen, so she serves as an example. I could have hoped for more, but I will settle for that.” Cyron nodded once. “I know you would have been more ruthless, but I did what I thought was best. Our opinions clearly differ on that. And they will into the future, I am quite certain.”

“You speak frankly.”

“In my court, that is welcome.”

Prince Pyrust nodded, then slapped his hands on the arms of the campaign chair. “As you have made me feel comfortable and permit me some familiarity, my brother, I would suggest we drop all pretense. You know I had no choice but to come to celebrate your dynasty, for your father came to Felarati to celebrate a similar anniversary twenty years ago.”

“My brother came with him.”

“I recall having met him.” Pyrust’s eyes tightened slightly. “A brave man, your brother.”

But not your superior. You measure me by him, and find me lacking. It is dangerous to disabuse you of that notion, but far more so to let you maintain it.

Cyron smiled. “Let us cast aside pretense. I want you to know I do not see your attendance here as any acknowledgment of my nation’s superiority, even though my dynasty is nearly twice the age of yours. I also thank you for the gift of the fine woods and carvings that you had sent to us.”

The northern Prince stiffened. “I would hope you do not read the wrong thing into the simplicity of our gift.”

“I do not.” The Desei had sent fine hardwoods, well seasoned, that the Prince’s artisans drooled over, and the finished goods that arrived had won admiration from all who saw them. Cyron had even kept a small traveling chess set for himself before distributing the rest of the works among his ministers and friends. The only difficulty with the Desei gift was its overall size, for they should have offered much more than they did.

Cyron leaned forward. “You are aware that Erumvirine sent a million quor of rice to us as a gift?”

Pyrust’s eyes hardened. “News of their largesse runs rampant throughout Moriande. Even the deaf and the dead know of it.”

“And news of your lean harvest is likewise known.” Cyron deliberately chose the word “lean” because the truth was so harsh it could have whipped flesh from the bone. It had been a dry year, and the Black River had not flooded, so the rice crop all but failed in Deseirion. With a quor being enough rice to feed a man for a year, the Desei harvest had left them with barely half a quor per person.

“It is my intent, Prince Pyrust, to honor the Erumvirine gift by distributing their black rice among my people.”

“Your people, then, will be fat and happy.”

“Happy, indeed, for that is what I wish for them.” Cyron pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and rested his chin on his fingertips. “I intend to take a million quor of our gold rice and send it north, to Deseirion.”

Pyrust covered his surprise well, but only with suspicion. “Why would you do this?”

“I would have thought my motives transparent.” Cyron exhaled, straightening up. “Your people will suffer this winter and some will die. If your harvest next year is as bad—which my astrologers suggest is quite possible—you will have one choice. That will be to move south with troops and take what you want and need from my nation. The thing of it is that after a year of famine, your army will be weaker, so you will have to move now, this year, and within the next month, or the disaster cannot be averted. A fool would wait until next year, and you are not a fool.”

“You say I am not a fool, but you seek to bribe me with food.”

“I don’t think a wolf is a fool, but if food cast out to it will keep it from entering my home, I will feed it.”

Pyrust’s face closed for a moment, then he nodded. “You put me in a difficult position. Food is what my nation needs immediately, and you offer it. Not freely; I expect a price of some sort. Since you are also not a fool, I know that price will be dear. But you also know the inequality of food is not the overwhelming disparity between our nations. I have dreamed of what is. As you explore and trade with the rest of the world, you grow more wealthy. If I let you bribe me with food and gold, I will grow dependent on you; and then when you cut me off, my nation collapses.”

“I will not dispute your reading of the future, Prince Pyrust, but I will maintain it is but one future of many.”

“Ha! You wish to reunite the Principalities into an empire just as much as any other prince. Only you would buy us instead of take us.”

Cyron raised an eyebrow. “Peaceful consolidation of an empire is a vice?”

The northern ruler hesitated. “It’s not the way of things. Your brother knew that. Your action reduces the rest of us to slaves. It destroys our spirits.”

“And being conquered doesn’t?”

“Those who survive a war of conquest are cowards. Those with spirit will have died in the defense of their nation.”

The Prince of the Naleni nodded. “Let me explain things to you carefully, then. I will ship grain north, but only at intervals. If your army invades, the warehouses and way stations will be burned. I will draw you south with my army while my fleet burns Felarati. The Helosundians have far more people under arms than you imagine, and as you move south, they will move in behind you, cutting off your supplies. Your army will starve. Once I have crushed your army, I will move north with food and win over your people, establish a Helosundian regent for Deseirion, and unite all three realms under my banner.”

“It sounds good when you say it, my brother-prince, but crushing my army will take more than a long march and rebels running through mountains.” Pyrust held his hands up. “But the future you outline is possible. It will profit neither of us. This leaves me asking what you will demand for the rice?”

“My ministers will meet with yours, but what I want is a cessation of the Helosundian campaign. I want you to withdraw your troops from the field.”

The Desei leader thought for a moment, then nodded. “You could have gotten more from me. A pact of nonaggression for five years.”

Cyron shook his head. “You would not honor it, nor would I have trusted you to.”

Both leaders fell silent, but the echoes of gasps from ministers filled the air. The two men did smile at that.

Pyrust frowned. “Your defense of your realm would work whether or not you were willing to give me food. Why, then, do you not let me starve?”

“Because you will not starve, my brother.” Cyron shook his head ever so lightly. Why don’t you understand? “Your people will starve. My desire is to save them from pain and death.”

“But they mean nothing to you.”

“But they should, shouldn’t they?”

“There are some who would argue in favor of that point, yes.” Pyrust stood slowly. “I am not one of them. The power we have is power to exercise for the glory of our dynasties. It is not enough to survive. We must prosper, and others must be made to bow and acknowledge our superiority.”

Those could have been my brother’s dying words. Cyron rose as well. “This could be true, Prince Pyrust; but if it is, it won’t be happening this year.”

Pyrust smiled. “No, but there are many years to come.”

 

Chapter Thirteen

3rd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi became aware of the buzz of murmured voices as he woke, almost because of their abrupt silence as he stirred. The stinging scent of smelling salts still filled his head and he sneezed, once—violently—reigniting the ripping pains in his back. He felt tightness, where his flesh had been stitched closed, but it felt as if red-hot wire had been used for the sutures, and ground glass had been bound into his wounds.

He gasped and wanted to cry out, but his dry throat and thick tongue prevented it. He lay on his stomach and tried to lift his head, but even that simple movement sent a pulse of pain through him. He bit at the pillow and managed a growl as a fat man’s pale hand brought smelling salts near him again.

The man’s voice came distant and disdainful. “He must lie still or he will reopen the wounds. He has slept long enough for the poultices to draw most of the poison, and for the lacerations to begin to heal, but things are still delicate.”

Keles couldn’t place that voice, but his mother’s followed. “You are certain he will be well?”

“My lady, I am the Prince’s own physician.”

“I know this very well, Geselkir, but the question is how hard do you wish me to use my influence with the royal house on your behalf?”

“Well, really!”

Keles smiled, despite feeling as if his insides were drifting within a shell of pain. His mother did not often reveal her steely nature. On those few times she did she invariably got her way.

“You are still of the opinion that he cannot be taken to attend the healing tomorrow evening?”

“Under no circumstances. I was adamant at the start about that, and have not changed my mind.” Disgust infused the physician’s words. “The healing is superstitious nonsense, and dangerous as well. The Prince’s pet may be docile, but he was not always so. He could revert at any time. To allow one of the vanyesh to live is unthinkable.”

“It is not the vanyesh’s life which concerns me, Geselkir.”

“Keles should remain quiet for several days. I will return to remove the stitching. Keep the wounds clean, change the poultices often, and he will do very well. If there is redness, especially if it spreads, you will tell me.”

“You will see it yourself when you visit him.”

“My lady, if you think . . . yes, of course, as you desire.”

Drawing in as deep a breath as he could muster, Keles studied the pain in his back. He discovered a dull ache in his ribs lurking beneath the fiery lines in his flesh. The sharper pain in his back throbbed—four distinct lines of it, each in its own time as if a fiddle string was being plucked at random. He let his breath out slowly, hoping some of the pain might fade, but instead it just thrummed in a new, jagged melody.

He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of a rotund man still wearing a Festival robe. The brownish stains at the knee and on the sleeves were obviously blood, and undoubtedly his. Keles dimly recalled some sort of commotion, but his throbbing skull prevented him from being able to remember anything clearly.

Keles tucked his chin toward his chest and looked at his mother. She, too, wore the gown from the previous night. He knew she hadn’t slept, but she looked as beautiful as ever. Beyond her stood his sister, likewise pretty, but wearing everyday clothing. She had not slept much either, but Keles was certain their mother had sent her off to bed at some point.

Keles tried a grin and it worked. His voice did, too, in a croak. “How long have I been sleeping?”

From near his head Geselkir offered, “Not long enough.”

Siatsi smiled at her son. “You will sleep more, but it was important we wake you now. Thank you, dicaifixtsi, you are excused.”

“If you think for one moment I approve of what you are going to do, you are sorely mistaken, Mistress Anturasi.”

“Your concern is noted.”

“I don’t think you understand. You have made him my responsibility. The Prince has made Keles my responsibility. What you are about to do—”

“—is necessary.” His mother’s voice remained even, but her expression was unrelenting. “You give me no choice. You’ve said he cannot go to the healing, so I must bring it to him.”

“It is dangerous nonsense, worse than subjecting him to the vanyesh. You risk your son’s life.”

“Have you changed your mind about the healing?”

“No, and I resent your questioning my judgment in this matter.”

“Do you?” Siatsi’s chin came up. “Exactly how many claw wounds from a Viruk warrior have you treated?”

“Well . . .”

“Would that be none?”

“I have seen them.” His voice grew small. “After death.”

“Wait outside.”

“Gladly. I shall not be a party to this.”

Keles waited for the doctor to leave, then looked at his sister. “Water.”

His mother held her back. “Not yet.”

“But I need water.” Keles fought to speak clearly, but his throat closed.

Siatsi squatted down to bring her face on a level with his. “You need something else first. Nirati, please bring our guest.”

His sister departed without a word and quickly returned leading the Viruk ambassador. At the sight of her, a flutter began in Keles’ belly. She came close enough for him to catch a hint of her scent, and perspiration immediately blossomed on his brow and upper lip. His breathing came harder and his lower lip trembled. His stomach clenched and he almost lost control of his bowels.

Ierariach stood back away from him. “The nesginesfal is in him. I can prevent it doing any lasting damage, if you please.”

His mother nodded. “Please.”

“Stand away from him.” The Viruk came no closer, but as his mother moved behind her, she pressed her hands together, palm to palm, with fingers pointing toward him. She crossed her thumbs—he wasn’t sure why he noticed that, but he did. Then her hands shot away from each other like stags leaping away from dogs.

The air between her hands shimmered, much as it did above a sun-baked rock. Her form rippled and shifted, then a blast of heat slammed into Keles. It poured into him along the stripes on his back, liquefying the ground glass and searing his flesh. Hot bile from his stomach burned up into his throat and how he refrained from vomiting he did not know. The pain, which had been sharp, melted into soft flows, but that only lasted for a heartbeat or two. The heat spiked, hurting him enough that he cried out, then went limp. Strength drained from him as a chill seeped through damp sheets and into his skin.

Keles labored to breathe. He shivered a bit and wanted to roll onto his side so he could draw his knees up, but he could not. Each breath felt as if he were lifting the whole of his family’s tower, and each exhalation sounded as if it might be his last.

He would have been worried that it would be, save for his mother’s whispered question. “What do we do now?”

The ambassador spoke plainly, but also in subdued tones. “The poultices will not hurt. Keeping the wounds clean will be good as well. He should remain in bed for several days—I know his grandfather will not wish this, but I have an ancient chart that might buy your son the time he needs. Mild meals, and no meat to anger the blood.”

His mother nodded. “Your magic has cured him?”

“Some.” The ambassador nodded toward him. “The venom may yet have some residual effects.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will show you.” From the sleeve of her robe she drew a handkerchief and used it to mop the perspiration from her brow. She stepped toward him, then brought the kerchief to his nose. “Can you smell my scent, Keles?”

He breathed in, though not deeply, for fear of starting the fire in his back again. At the first hint of her scent, however, his gorge rose and he could not restrain it. He vomited over the cloth and her hand. Worse, his bowels let loose and his bladder as well. His body convulsed. He threw up again, then aspirated a bit of vomit, which started him coughing.

The ambassador whipped away the pillow and held his head as he vomited one more time. He coughed again, hard, and the pain exploded in his back. He choked, coughed, and couldn’t breathe. He fought for air, unsuccessfully, and with agony wracking him once more, the world narrowed and became black.

 

Chapter Fourteen

4th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Ministry of Harmony, Liankun

Moriande, Nalenyr

Pelut Vniel looked up from the small table at which he knelt. A long rectangle of rice paper lay on it. The black pinecone he’d quickly brushed there glistened wetly. He set the brush down and smiled as Kan Hisatal bowed.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Minister Hisatal.”

“It is my pleasure to answer your summons with alacrity, Minister.” The heavyset man held his bow for a second more than required by protocol, then took one step forward and sank to his knees at the edge of the floor. “How may this one be of service?”

Pelut did not answer as his clerk, Iesol Pelmir, knelt and cleared the low table. The clerk—a slight and bald man—meekly and precisely set the table aside without disturbing the painting, then shuffled over to Hisatal and gave him a pillow on which to kneel. The clerk withdrew to his corner, where he knelt on the bare wooden floor, and Hisatal’s hesitation betrayed surprise that the clerk remained.

This pleased Pelut. Hisatal had come expecting a private conversation, as many of their conversations prior to his departure on the Stormwolf had been. Neither of them wanted a witness to what was said. Iesol’s presence suggested that either the minor clerk was soon to be elevated, or that what was to be said would be safe for wide currency. Neither is true, but if he assumes it is, he will be looking for hidden meanings. He will be off-balance, and I want that.

Pelut looked up. “We have several things to discuss, you and I, concerning the future. Your future, and how it shapes the nation’s future.”

“May it be of benefit to both of us.”

And you think I do not know all the nuances of your statement. Pelut resisted the urge to smile and instead slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe, thereby emphasizing his superior stature. As with any member of the bureaucracy, he wore a blue robe with a gold sash. While the two others wore cotton, Pelut wore silk, and his cuffs and hem were decorated with wide gold cloth bands. All three had the Naleni dragon embroidered in purple on the ends of the sash, but Pelut also had it on the gold bands at his sleeves. He was in a position of power both of them hungered for, and Hisatal especially needed to be reminded of that fact.

“The most important first, then . . .”

Hisatal nodded, betraying himself. “I do not think Keles Anturasi’s being shifted from the Stormwolf should affect the expedition in any way. Its outcome will be the same.”

For you, yes. Pelut cocked his head to the right. “No, Minister, the most important first.”

The heavyset man’s mouth snapped shut and his jowls jiggled. He glanced down quickly and color rose to his cheeks. “Forgive me, Minister.”

“Your error is understandable, Minister.” Pelut straightened his head but did not smile. “The most important item is the Prince’s notion of sending grain to the Desei. He has done this despite our best attempts to dissuade him. Grand Minister Lynesorat was less than forceful in making our case to the Prince. This leaves us in quite a muddle.”

Hisatal nodded gravely. “The Helosundians have initiated protests over many ministerial contacts. They have spoken to me even though they know I am leaving. They see this as Prince Cyron’s subsidization of the enemy and are not pleased.”

“I have heard, but that is a problem of their own making. They maintain their Council of Ministers beyond any practical purpose.”

Hisatal frowned. “But without leadership, Helosunde would collapse into disorder. It is our purpose to maintain order.”

“But we must do this within the shell of the state, Hisatal. Leaders, princes, make decisions—but we provide them the choices from among which they select. Leaders come and go, but the bureaucracy is eternal. To those outside we are the instrument of state, carrying out the dictates of the leaders. To the leaders we are eyes and ears, hands and feet, making it possible for them to administer their nations. Before the time of Emperor Taichun, the Empire was in chaos, with warlords fighting warlords and the Emperor’s dominance measured by how widely his army ranged.”

Pelut’s blue eyes narrowed. “The Helosundian Council governs in its own name, allowing resentment to be directed at the ministers. Neither Prince Cyron nor Pyrust need heed them since they cannot speak to them as peers. If the ministers feared poor leadership, their retaining power could be understood, but they fear losing it and the riches it brings them.”

He let a bit of an edge enter his voice and Hisatal found within himself a shred of dignity that prompted a blush. It had not been difficult for Pelut’s agents to learn that Hisatal had entered into a series of agreements with shipping houses and cartographers to give them information about what the Stormwolf discovered. It would make him and his family very wealthy, and that wealth could be used to guarantee patronage that would vault him into the Ministry’s upper echelons.

“You are correct that we must maintain order, but how we do that is just as important. You cannot divorce the two things.” Pelut slipped his hands from his sleeves and held them out, palms up. “The people cherish stability and cling to hope. They hope things will get better. They believe that if they work hard and are diligent, they may someday be blessed with jaedunto. With that comes fame, fortune, and many other benefits.”

“More realistically, we know that jaedunto is a mere fantasy for most. As good as we can be, as hard as we study and work, such a thing is not possible for us. There are rumors, yes, and Taichun’s Grand Minister Urmyr might have achieved it. But he was a celebrated warrior before becoming a minister, and his life has largely been mythologized. He existed, and his precepts are still followed.”

Pelut looked over at Iesol. “Which of his sayings would apply here?”

The young man bowed his head. “Book Seven, Chapter Four, Verse Twenty-seven. ‘And holding up a nut, the Master said, “We take nourishment from the kernel, discarding the shell.” ’ ”

Disdain flashed over Hisatal’s face. “Yes, looking at the truth of a thing is important, but you are saying we hide the truth of things from the leader and the led respectively.”

“Because Urmyr’s words were for us, not them.” Pelut let a smile tug at the left corner of his mouth. “The rice is a problem because of Helosundian protests, as well as protests from the inland lords who will still have to send rice to Moriande. It is a problem because Pyrust’s army will not starve. We will need to initiate an effort to divert eight percent of the grain into stores from which we can disburse them as needed.”

Hisatal nodded. “A wise precaution, Minister.”

“And a bold undertaking. I will be making the delivery of the rice your problem, Minister.”

The man’s head came up, shock widening his eyes. “But, Master, I am prepared for the journey. Things have been made ready. My things are already aboard the Stormwolf.”

Pelut shook his head. “By the time you return to your home you will find they have been restored to you.”

“You cannot—”

“I can and I have. I have because you violated Urmyr’s saying.” Pelut allowed disgust to fill his words. “Iesol, the quote about the perils of greed. The bathing one.”

“ ‘And the Master said, “The just sip from the river of Reward, the greedy drown in it.” ’ ”

“But, Master—”

“You are a fool, Hisatal, and had I known you were such a fool, I would not have appointed you to the Stormwolf in the first place. Were you expected to find a way to enrich yourself? Of course. I fully expect that you will divert one percent of the rice into your own treasury, and do I dispute that? No. I know you will do it, I know you will share your largesse with me and the others who are appropriate. That is the way of things. We reward those who help us.

“But in doing what you did with the Stormwolf you became enamored of the shell and neglected the kernel. I placed you on the Stormwolf so you could befriend Keles Anturasi. You were to win his trust and be his helper. This was not so you could steal his secrets, but so you could influence him in the future. His grandfather will not live forever and Keles will replace him. What matter gold in your pocket today, when the world could be yours tomorrow?”

“I did not think, Master.”

“Wrong. You thought, but you did so without discipline. If there is no discipline, there is no order. If there is no order, there is only chaos. Chaos destroyed the world and only we, the bureaucracy, have been able to remake it by establishing order.”

Hisatal bowed deeply, pressing his forehead to the floor.

Pelut allowed him to remain down until sweat began to drip on the floor. “Enough.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Pelut shook his head. “You are Fifth Rank, Hisatal, and you have forgotten all you learned when you were but Third as is our friend here. ‘The house stands, but dry rot invites the disaster of a breeze’s caress.’ Do you know that?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Have you not listened, or have you become truly stupid? Iesol, the citation.”

“Book Three, Chapter Eight, Verse Four in Meditations on collapse.”

“I knew that, Minister. It is that I am distracted.”

Pelut half closed his eyes. “Undistract yourself, Minister, or I shall find the means to provide you focus. I would assign you to join Keles Anturasi in Ixyll, but you are as unsuited to that expedition as he is. He is being sent off to die. Though you have displeased me, I see no reason to have you die quite so soon.”

“Thank you, Master.” Hisatal’s mouth hung open for a moment more, and Pelut knew he was searching his memory for a suitable Urmyrian quote.

Pelut declined to restrain himself. “ ‘The wise man is content to be thought a fool, rather than to speak and have the opinion confirmed.’ ”

Hisatal just nodded, once, curtly, and said nothing.

“We have an immediate problem, Hisatal, which is this: we need someone on the Stormwolf. As Jorim will never head House Anturasi, it need not be someone important. Indeed, the most competent and wily must be retained, as the next two years will prove most tricky. Have you a candidate who might suffice? Someone loyal to you, perhaps?”

Hisatal sat back, but before he could say anything, Iesol cleared his throat.

Pelut glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “You have something to offer?”

“ ‘And the Master said, “Though the neighbor’s fruit looks more plump, the wise man harvests his own crop.” ’ ”

A smile slowly grew on the elder minister’s face. “By this you mean?”

“Master, Minister Hisatal will require his retainers to deal with the gift of rice. You have in your household one who could be your agent on the Stormwolf.”

“Whom did you have in mind?”

“I would advance myself, Master.” The man bowed low and stayed down.

Pelut played a hand along his jaw. Iesol was useful and even competent at a variety of tedious tasks, which few mastered and fewer cared to remember once they had. He could have gone far save that he lacked any dynamism. He could neither command nor inspire and until offering his services now had never exhibited anything beyond the most mundane of ambitions.

“You have concluded no arrangements to profit from the expedition?”

“No, Master.”

“You are fleeing no entanglements or feuds?”

“No, Master.”

“Raise yourself, Iesol. Look at me.” Pelut shifted around to face the functionary. “Why do you wish to go?”

“I have seen the ship, Master. I know the glory it will bring Nalenyr. In my soul I know I could perform no greater service to our nation than to contribute to the expedition’s success.”

“You think you can make a contribution?”

“ ‘Without kindling there is no fire.’ ”

Iesol’s use of Urmyr’s words stung Pelut, and he should have broken him for being so bold. He did not because he knew the man was not being bold, merely earnest; and rewarding him with a position Hisatal wanted would reinforce the need for Hisatal to adhere to the codes promulgated by Urmyr. Besides, I can rid myself of him later.

“Do you imagine, Iesol, that your action will cause this Ministry to recognize you upon your return?”

“My place is to serve, Master, not to dream.”

“Reward shall be considered, if I am pleased with your work.” Pelut put emphasis into his words, so Hisatal would know they were for him, too. “Serve me well, the both of you. The future is known only to the gods. If I am blessed, so shall you be. Through me you serve the nation. Do not be a disappointment.”

 

Chapter Fifteen

5th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Xingnakun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Nirati shivered as she strode toward the hulking dome of Xingnakun. The structure, built on the city’s northwestern quarter, had once been an outdoor amphitheater. Construction had long since enclosed it with a mushroom cap, and eight buttresses sent arched arms to cross over the center. A tall spike rose from the intersection and there, at the top, a blue gyanri light burned. Barely visible in the day, at night it rivaled the lights high on the nine bridges—though most people fingered their talismans when they caught sight of it, even accidentally.

Her shiver had nothing to do with the day, for it had dawned bright and warm. It came from her experience that morning, setting out from Anturasikun and walking through the streets. While they were crowded for the Festival, people moved out of her way as she went. Some dug for talismans, others toed small circles in the dirt, while the few who knew her looked past her as if she did not exist.

Another time she would have been offended, but circles could hurt her, even social circles, so having friends turn away was more of a blessing than a curse. Besides, I could not abide the pity in their eyes.

It was not hard to tell that she and others were bound for the Tower of Magic and the healing. Because circles could be proof against magic, their robes had been specially woven of coarse cloth, with snags and dropped threads. No sash closed them; instead, square buttons or short ties were used, with hard knots and no loops. Sleeves were slashed from shoulder to wrist and none of those wandering northwest wore jewelry. Rings, bracelets, and necklaces had circles and had to be eschewed.

More noticeable than the robes, however, had been the effort to disguise the circles in their faces. Black crosses slashed diagonally over both her eyes, and another in red decorated her mouth. Some people clipped their nostrils closed and stuffed cloth in their ears, but Nirati thought that an unnecessary precaution.

Drawing closer to the dome, she entered a bizarre realm where merchants had set up small booths or sold things from the backs of wagons. Circles abounded, large and small, from the tiny talismans many wore daily to hoops large enough to circle the waist. One man offered crystal disks through which things could be watched safely, while others touted potions and unguents that would ward folks from magic, or do for them immediately what the magic might do later. One man offered to store money for those who had come with purses laden with circular coins. She doubted he or his wagon would be there after the ceremony, but she admired his boldness.

He lost most of his business to another man who, with hammer and anvil, just squared coins up for a sliver from each one.

In a few places knots of hale and hearty individuals pointed and laughed at the sick and injured shambling forward. “Good luck, old One-leg,” or “Not enough magic in the world to heal you,” they’d call, then dissolve into laughter. One stepped along with a lame man leaning on a crutch, mocking his limp. Nirati hoped the man would be healed, then come back and beat his tormentor silly.

If any of them recognized her, they probably wondered what she needed healed. It wasn’t obvious, but she needed the greatest healing of all. Nirati had no talent and while everyone told her she just had yet to discover it, she had long since lost the ability to believe them. Even Majiata had a talent, and her squandering it angered Nirati. Even as poor with plants as Majiata was, she could have been more help with Keles’ care than Nirati.

Nirati snarled and refused to let herself sink into self-pity. She had done what she could. She’d sat with Keles while he slept, softly reading to him from the tales of Amenis Dukao. He’d always enjoyed the stories when he was a child—all three of them had—and he’d slept easier as she read. Her attending him let her mother get sleep, and that, too, was a blessing. But Nirati would have given an arm to be able to do more.

A blush rose to her face as she came into the area around Xingnakun and saw a young boy with a withered left arm. At least I have an arm to give.

Someone she took as his father crouched beside him at the edge of the first stone circle surrounding the dome. The man tousled the boy’s hair. “Dunos, you know I can’t go in with you, but you’ll find me waiting here for you. Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not really, Father.” The tremble in the boy’s voice undercut his reply.

Nirati walked toward them and bowed. “Peace of the Festival to you both. Might I ask a favor?”

The man rose, then bowed, and his son joined him. “Peace with you as well, my lady. What would you have of us?”

She smiled at the father, then pointed at the vast and empty courtyard around the dome. “It is distant yet to Xingnakun, and I worry about being able to make it without an escort. Might I be so bold as to ask your son to accompany me?”

The man nodded, then wiped a smudge of black on his son’s cheek, keeping an eye line crisp. “Dunos would be pleased to accompany you.”

The boy nodded and Nirati took his hand in hers. “Thank you. I shall have him lead me back here. I am Nirati.”

“This is Dunos and I am Alait. I will find you here. Thank you.”

“Bye, Father.”

Nirati and the boy crossed the courtyard. A granite circle broke the line of the cobbles every hundred yards. Black at the outside, then grey and white, the circles warned people to stay away. Whereas the other streets and courts in the capital teemed with people, Xingnakun’s courtyard remained empty save for the broken wandering toward it. In the midst of a Festival full of joy and hope, the hopeless and desperate trickled in slowly.

Dunos looked up at her. “Why are you going to be healed, my lady? You look okay.”

“Not all of us have visible injuries.”

“Are you talking woman stuff? That’s what my mother calls it before she tells me to go help my father.”

Nirati smiled. “Perhaps. I just hope I bear my trouble as well as you do.”

Dunos nodded, then let his withered arm swing forward. “Once I get this healed up, I’m going to be a swordsman.”

“That’s a fine ambition.”

A little tremor ran through his hand. “Have you seen Kaerinus before?”

She shook her head. “You can only do this once, Dunos.” She’d heard from many that the omen of the years combined with a spike in the cyclical magic activity promised much from this ritual. It was thought that if a dead body could walk into Xingnakun this year, Kaerinus might even cure it.

“Why do you ask, Dunos?”

The boy shrugged. “Well, it’s not that I’m afraid, you know, but I have heard stories. He was with Prince Nelesquin in Ixyll. He’s the last of the vanyesh. He lived through the Cataclysm. He’s really old and he’s a monster.”

“I’ve heard all those things, too.” She gently pulled him in front of her as they started up one of the narrow ramps leading to an entryway. The entrances were all circles, unbroken, with a low lip so one had to step over them. Though she had never seen it herself, she had heard stories of magical energy guttering out of these holes during the ceremony.

He stepped in first, then held her hand as she crossed. “I think, Dunos, that he might be a monster, but if he is willing to heal peo-ple, he is not entirely bad.”

The boy nodded, then looked back again. “For the healing, you’re not going to have to get naked or nothing, are you?”

She smiled. “No.”

“Okay. I’ll have to take my robe off, so he can see my arm.”

“Okay.”

They strode through the tunnel and paused at the top of the steep stairs. Back in Imperial times the area closer to the earthen circle would have been reserved for the nobility. Dunos tugged her toward the left, preparatory to climbing up to the higher reaches where the poorer people gravitated, but she shook her head.

“We’ll go down and get closer.”

“But my father said—”

“You’re my escort, remember?” She winked at him. “We’ll get closer so we get a good healing.”

Nirati started down, intent on taking a place right at the circle’s edge, but she stiffened. Majiata had preceded her and stood there, head high, black hair shining. Her robe, while poorly woven and cut, had still been made of silk. Not wishing to speak with her, but interested in watching her, Nirati chose a place several rows back and directly behind.

More people filed in and Dunos looked around, his eyes wide. He freed his hand from hers and waved to a man. Nirati turned and looked at him, wondering why he had come since he looked no more injured than she was. He moved easily down and toward them from the row in front.

Dunos smiled hugely. “Why are you here, Master?”

“We all bear our wounds, Dunos.”

The boy nodded. “This is Nirati. She’s here for woman stuff.”

The man smiled. “I am Moraven. Peace of the Festival to you.”

“And you.” Nirati smiled, but kept her voice low. At the mention of her name Majiata’s head had half turned. Just ignore me, Majiata, or I’ll go down there and give you some bruises that will really need healing.

From somewhere deep in the building’s bowels, drums began to pound. Nirati actually felt the vibration before she heard it, but as the crowd quieted, the echoes filled the dome. As each sound rippled through the throng, waves of fear rose in its wake. In a few places, people started to run toward the exits. Their fear became contagious and still others fled.

Nirati expected Majiata to run, but she didn’t. She did glance back again and Nirati realized her game. As long as I am here, she won’t run. That reason alone would not have stopped Nirati, but if she’d left, the boy would have gone, too. And he needs this more than I.

Yet her resolve to remain faced stiff opposition, for remaining there—inviting the attention of a magician—had, since the Cataclysm and even before, been considered foolhardy. Kaerinus was the last of the vanyesh and, having existed for so long, clearly had reached a mastery of magic that allowed him to work miracles. It was said the gods remained in the Heavens for fear he would find them and send them back.

The sort of power he could wield had destroyed the world. It had triggered the Time of Black Ice, killing millions—flattening mountains, erasing cities and towns, and threatening humanity with extinction. Stories of wandering xingnaridin frightened children into good behavior, and rumors of them banded men into mobs. The dome had been created to contain Kaerinus’ power against the fear that he could initiate another Cataclysm.

A light grey mist began to pour from a circular entrance across the arena. Little tendrils of intense blue color played through it—part flame, part lightning—that cracked when they winked out. Nirati’s flesh tingled. The fog deepened, filling the opening, then a blue light built inside it. Fire flickered faster, and little spiderwebs of lightning flashed.

All around her people exposed their injuries. Dunos clumsily tore at the buttons on his robe. She bent to help him slip it off and noticed the blue lightning playing up and down beneath his flesh, outlining veins and arteries. In front of them, Moraven took off his robe, revealing a hideous scar on the left side of his chest. Nirati and Dunos both stared at it for a moment and she wondered how someone strong enough to survive that could ever imagine himself needing healing.

Beyond him, Majiata let her robe slip down to beneath her shoulder blades. She clutched it modestly closed at her breasts and Nirati shook her head. That makes a circle, silly girl. Had it been anyone else, Nirati would have said something, but looking at the red worm of a scar on Majiata’s shoulder blade disgusted Nirati. Majiata’s stupidity had earned her that scar, and her stupidity would see to it that it remained.

A gasp rose as Kaerinus emerged from the tunnel. He wore a purple cloak with a high collar that hid the lower half of his head. A hood covered it and shadowed his face, but could not hide the blue fire burning in his eyes. No decoration adorned his cloak, though azure lightning cascaded down from his shoulders.

Two things became immediately apparent to Nirati and knotted her stomach. The first was that Kaerinus’ head had not been bowed when he left the tunnel, nor had his shoulders been stooped, but now he stood at least ten feet tall. His shoulders, she felt certain, would have brushed either edge of the tunnel. Even as she made that judgment about his size, he grew larger—until he could have dwarfed a Viruk warrior with ease.

The second thing she found even more frightening. He moved forward at something slower than a gentle walking pace, but gave no sign of moving. She could not see foot or knee press against the cloak. Instead, he drifted forward on the grey fog. He could have been the figurehead on a ship sailing serenely down the Gold River.

Then, suddenly, in the center of the earthen circle, he stopped. The cloud around him did not continue to roll forward; it stopped, too. He remained unmoving for a heartbeat, then slowly spun. Some people shrank from his gaze—a few broke, others fainted. Dunos slipped his hand into hers and squeezed and even Moraven shifted his shoulders uneasily. As her gaze met the mage’s, she felt a hint of recognition, but only a cursory one. As if he is a trader inspecting livestock, nothing more.

The drums faded and the lightning no longer pulsed through the fog or his cloak. The light in his eyes shifted from blue to purple. The fiery tongues twisting through the fog likewise changed, matching his eyes. From somewhere within his hood—or in him—words rose. Nirati didn’t think she was even hearing him speak, and the idea of words seemed wrong as well.

Is this what my brothers share with our grandfather?

Images boiled through her mind quickly. She caught sight of a boy’s hand reaching for a glowing crystal. She felt the weight of a lash against her back. The searing-hot pain of a sword slicing flesh drew a line over her ribs. Those things she guessed came from Dunos, Majiata, and Moraven; so she assumed the other things came from the rest of the crowd. Beneath them all, however, came a chorus of screams—Men, animals—all in pain, horrible pain.

Nirati found herself screaming as well. Everyone did, filling the dome with a horrible sound that doubled back on itself, increasing and pulsing, drilling through her more powerfully than the drums. They had shaken her physically, but this reached inside and touched her pain, her fear. Before, she had been unlike anyone, for she had no talent, but here she now was like everyone—she was broken and was afraid she could not be fixed.

The fog around Kaerinus thickened into tentacles that lashed out full of sizzling electricity. One thick rope hit a crippled crone, lifting her off her feet. Purple lightning wreathed her limbs, shocking them straight. Her head flew back, her dowager’s hump vanished as her spine untwisted. She shrieked and the fog left her a crumpled heap, vapor rising.

Again and again the tentacles flicked out, swirling to the left. A lower disk of fog spread out to fill the arena. Kaerinus rose with it and the tentacles spun faster, stirring the fog so it would slop over the arena’s edges. One wave crashed into Majiata and her scar burned so intensely Nirati could not look at it. Majiata screamed and dropped her robe, her back bowing, then her whole torso snapped forward. For a moment it looked as if she would pitch headlong into the opaque vapor roiling below, but she clutched at the edge and sagged down, half-naked. Purple fire filled vacant eyes as she sprawled sloppily—looking as if she were drunk and had been ravished by a Turasynd horde.

Nirati had but a heartbeat to relish Majiata’s dishevelment before a larger wave surged up and engulfed her. In an instant it felt as if she were naked in a stinging steel rain. She looked down, expecting to see her flesh freckled with blood, but her eyes no longer registered reality. She saw herself as a child again, viewing herself from both a distance and within her skin. She was walking hand in hand with her grandfather through the gardens of Anturasikun. The sun shone on them both, and the sting melted into warmth.

She half remembered the incident, but it crawled from her memory with the reluctance of a Soth ripping free of its cocoon. Qiro let her hand drop and turned to face Ulan. Only her uncle was much younger than now; her grandfather was still his powerful, white-maned self. Ulan unscrolled a chart for Qiro to inspect. Before she had enough time to even begin to recognize shapes, Qiro savagely berated Ulan.

Nirati did not hear the words, but rather saw them as arrows flying straight into her uncle. They ripped into his chest and blood gushed. One transfixed his skull and another sank in through his left eye. A small bolt pinned his tongue to his lower jaw, and yet another emasculated him. Ulan crumpled the same way the chart crumpled in Qiro’s hands.

She looked up at her grandfather, tears forming in her eyes. She bent to pick up the map and smooth it, but Qiro took it from her hands and threw it away. He smiled at her, turning her from Ulan, and led her deeper into the gardens. Flowers poured from his mouth, though they were ghosts of those blooming around her.

And around her heart slid an armored sleeve. She did not say it then—she had not known the words to say it then—but now she knew. I determined then I would never let him hurt me as he did Uncle Ulan. I am not without talent. I hid from my talent.

That knowledge exploded in her. Everything she had tried to do had been a failure. She had worked diligently at it, but never had connected with anything. I’d not let myself connect. I did not want a talent. I did not want to be judged, to be skewered and crumpled. Perhaps I never needed healing.

Her vision returned to her and there, in a grey sea, she saw the purple light burning in the arena’s heart. Kaerinus had risen high enough that the fog could fill the dome and touch everyone. Is that it? Did I never need the healing, or was this the healing I needed?

She felt his awareness sweep past her, but she got no reply. Instead, she felt herself beginning to drift upward. She glanced down and saw her body. Around her, as if phantoms, she saw Dunos and Moraven, even Majiata. Of others she became only dimly aware. When she looked up again, Kaerinus had become a black pearl with purple fire swirling around its middle. It rotated down as if an eye, with a fiery purple pupil mirroring what had become the corona. It saw her. It saw her and she saw herself reflected and distorted in the orb’s dark surface.

She reached a hand out and traced a finger over the sphere. She felt something ancient in there, and knew she should fear it, but she did not. She caressed it again, and the illusion of a smooth surface vanished. Tiny glass teeth tore at her flesh. Violet lightning lashed her. She yanked her hand away, screaming as she severed contact.

Her eyes snapped open as Moraven and Dunos both crouched beside her. She started trembling, then bit her lower lip. “W-what happened?”

Moraven smiled uneasily. “I suspect it was different for each of us. One moment we were locked in the magic. In the next, it and Kaerinus were gone.”

Nirati let them help her into a sitting position. She looked toward where Majiata had fallen. “What of that woman?”

“She wandered out, dazed.”

Dunos nodded and lifted her robe in his right hand. “She forgot this.”

Nirati half smiled, but stopped quickly. Dunos’ arm remained withered. She glanced at Moraven and saw the end of his scar. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, Mistress?”

“You still have your scar, and Dunos . . .”

The boy frowned and tears glistened in his eyes, but none rolled down his cheeks. “It’s okay.”

Moraven leaned across Nirati and caressed Dunos’ left arm. “Have you forgotten what I said on the road, Dunos?”

“You said I would be healed.” His lower lip trembled. “You can’t always be right, Master.”

“I was not wrong, Dunos.” The man’s voice, though soft, carried confidence. “The magic promised only to heal us, not give us what we want. It gave us what we need.”

“But I wanted to be a swordsman.”

“And you may yet be.” Moraven smiled, then tapped the boy on the head. “First, though, you have to find out what was healed. That will tell you your true destiny.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

Nirati looked at Moraven. “Have you been given what you need?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“That doesn’t sound very definite.”

Moraven smiled, stood, and helped her to her feet. “Healing is always a process, magical or not. It will take time for me to figure out what has changed. The same for Dunos. Do you know, Mistress, or will you need time as well?”

“I think I will need time.” Nirati paused for a moment, then nodded. “Time to heal, then time to discover what it is my healing will allow me to do.”

“Best fortune in your search.” The swordsman shrugged his robe back on. “You’re embarked on a journey most never realize they need to take. If that realization were the only thing you got today, you would have been the most fortunate of us all.”

 

Chapter Sixteen

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

When Keles awoke again he found himself in a larger bed within a dim room. The sheets were fresh—likewise the straw in the mattress. He could smell the poultice and other herbs. Their scents did not make him want to gag. He felt stronger somehow, and though he noticed the pain in his back, the tightness of the flesh across the wounds superseded it.

He turned his head and found his mother sitting in a chair beside the bed, concentrating on embroidering an emblem on cloth. She looked up as the rustle of bedclothes betrayed his movement. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

She poured him a small cup of water, then held his head, raising the cup to his lips and only allowing him tiny sips. He wanted to suck it down greedily, but knew it would come right back up, so he settled for allowing a cool trickle down his throat. He drank as much as he could, then nodded, and she withdrew the nearly empty cup.

“How long have I slept?”

“A long time, which is good. It’s the Festival’s sixth day.”

Keles concentrated. “The Prince’s ball is tonight.”

Siatsi laughed lightly and brushed hair back from his forehead. “Your brother and sister will represent us well.”

“You should have gone, Mother.”

She shook her head. “And have every crone in the nation asking me how you were, what I thought of what happened? No, that would not do. You are the talk of Festival, Keles, but I need not be the one doing that talking.”

Keles nodded, or thought he had. He did hear the rustle of pillowcase against his cheek. “I remember the ambassador. What happened?”

Siatsi sighed. “I’m certain your brother has told you of frogs and toads in Ummummorar that exude a poison. Wildmen use it to hunt with, but it protects the creatures from predators.”

Keles nodded.

“The Viruk apparently have a similar thing. Just as our sweat becomes acrid when we are nervous, so their personal humors change. When the warrior cut you, his claws poisoned you. Mildly, of course, but you were poisoned nonetheless. The ambassador’s magic was able to deal with the more virulent aspects of the venom, but some things will take time to work out. It could be a year or more. Until then even the scent of a Viruk could make you sick.”

“Luckily there will be no Viruk on the Stormwolf.”

“Lucky for some, Keles, but not for you.” In quiet tones Siatsi told him what had happened that night and of his grandfather’s pronouncement. Keles’ skin puckered as she spoke. He did not so much fear the trip as he did his grandfather’s wrath. The Stormwolf’s voyage might have been meant to kill him, but a trip into the depths of Ixyll surely would.

Even in the dim light he could see how his mother had paled, and her fingers quivered as she stroked his hair. “I have spoken with Qiro, but he is adamant. I cannot shift him, no matter how I try.”

“Give it time, Mother.”

“Dear boy, there is not that much time in the world.” She frowned. “I could tell you all the ways in which he felt compelled to act, but the simple fact was that he made that pronouncement at his birthday celebration. Princes heard him. For him to relent now would be a dishonor. It would suggest one or both of you are weak, and he will tolerate neither.”

“Do you think he wants me dead?”

“He is capable of it.”

“Did he want my father dead?”

Siatsi frowned for a moment, then sighed. “The years and rumors have made it easy to accept the simple answer, but Qiro and Ryn were more complex. Your father pushed his father hard. Your father had a gift, one greater than Qiro’s, if you can believe it, and Qiro realized that Ryn would be able to cement the Anturasi place in history if he would focus that gift. But your father was not patient. Like your brother, he had other interests. Qiro tried to focus your father on cartography. That led to the last voyage.

“Part of him probably did want your father dead, for they fought furiously. And part of him mourned piteously when your father died. He grieves still.”

“Does he want me dead?”

“No. He wants you to return after doing your work.” She smiled. “Your grandfather is not entirely heartless.”

Keles frowned. “He has condemned me to a journey of over two thousand miles as the hawks fly. I will be traveling through lands where wild magic has held sway and heroes refuse to go. The only people who venture into the realm of Ixyll are the insane, or the gyanridin, who act insane. I will have to cross the Dark Sea, risking storms and pirates, and I’ll be passing close enough to Irusviruk to see many more warriors. Some will be kin to those Jorim killed, and all of them will make me ill. Grandfather may not be coldhearted, as you say, but he is showing me little of his warmth.”

She laughed.

“I did not think I was being funny.”

“No, Keles, I know that.”

“Well?”

Siatsi smiled. “Rumor had it that Majiata had described your journey similarly, but without regret.”

“She did?” His heart ached slightly. “You didn’t tell me if the Prince had her lashed.”

“He did. She fainted and bears naught but a tiny scar on her back. Your sister saw it when she went to the healing ceremony.”

Keles blinked. “Nirati went? You let her go?”

“It was important to her to go.” His mother sighed. “Nirati’s been here by your side a lot, Keles. She does all she can to help, and she has been a great help, but she feels her lack of talent. She watches me mix herbs and roots for your poultices and would give anything to be able to do that. She went hoping she would find her talent. “

“I keep telling her she’s like Empress Cyrsa. She will find her talent.”

“I know, Keles. I agree, but Cyrsa’s story is one that salves the wound for children.”

“How did it turn out for her?”

His mother shrugged. “She said it was good, but talked more about a little boy from the south. You talk to her, see what you can learn.”

“I will. So there was no change?”

“There might have been, but she said it might take time. You know your sister. She’s no more patient than your brother in most things.” Siatsi smiled. “In fact, she is impatient in everything save dealing with your grandfather.”

“That’s true, but I would rather she followed your footsteps than his.”

“So would I, but she would gladly be a cartographer. You’ll have to be kind to her. I think had she found a talent for mapmaking, she would have offered to go in your place.”

“If anyone is less suited to go than I am, it would be Nirati.”

His mother smiled. “I agree, but your brother didn’t.”

“No?”

“He said you were equally ill suited to it. He said if it didn’t kill you or maim you, the journey would drive you insane. Then he said he would give anything to be going in your place.”

Keles managed a chuckle. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, but he knew you’d not let him—though he did advance a plan where you could trade identities.”

“Wouldn’t work. As I send information to Grandfather he would know of the deception.”

“Jorim agreed that was true, but thought if the deception were maintained, only the family need know.”

“No. Too many others would know, from the crew of the Stormwolf to whoever accompanies me.” Keles sighed. “Unless Qiro changes his mind, or the Prince issues orders to the contrary, I shall be bound for Ixyll.”

His mother nodded solemnly. “Jorim said you would feel honor-bound to go.”

“He knows me well.” But does he know me well enough? He doesn’t think I can even survive. Is he right?

Keles had made journeys for years, and had conducted surveys, but always close to or within Nalenyr. It had not been because anyone thought he could not have gone further, but because things like the survey of the upper reaches of the Gold River were vital, and Keles remained focused on the task at hand. Being able to focus like that had made him successful, but he had to wonder how useful that skill would be on a trip into places where magic could and often did warp the landscape.

He laughed. Even wondering about that showed his focus—and the problem with it. The wild magic out there warped everything—plants, animals, relics—and yet he was concerned about the geography. It was not going to be a mountain becoming a plain that would kill him, but the weirder, less predictable curiosities in that land.

He smiled at his mother. “Jorim will take a trip that will test his skills to the utmost, for he will have to do what I do well and what he does well, both at the same time. On the other hand, I will have to learn to survive the way he does and how to change quickly and adapt, as fast or faster than the realm into which I wander. Not an easy job for either of us.”

“Indeed not.” Siatsi smiled, then kissed Keles’ brow. “Sleep. Heal. That is what you must do now, if you are to stand any chance at success later.”

“Do you think I will succeed, mother?”

She nodded. “Beyond the ability of any of us to dream.”

 

Chapter Seventeen

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

“Sister, you worry too much.” Jorim Anturasi slowly shook his head as they passed through a gantlet of Keru guardswomen to reach the large reception hall in Kojaikun. “The least the healing could have done was cure you of that.”

Nirati quickly stuck her tongue out at him.

The sixth day of Festival was always given over to the honoring of heroes. To make a point and annoy Prince Pyrust, Prince Cyron had chosen to hold it in the tower most associated with Helosunde. Prince Pyrust had sent his regrets and the Helosundians viewed that as a victory of sorts.

Nirati, wearing a green silk gown with yellow, red, and blue birds embroidered on it, gave her younger brother a hard stare. “There is not a night of heroes I can recall when you did not end up in some sort of fight.”

“Youthful indiscretions.”

“Would that a healing could cure you of those.” Her expression softened ever so slightly. “Mother has entrusted us with the family honor, so please be careful.”

“Yes, Nirati, I will.” Jorim paused with her at the doorway to the long, rectangular hall. It had been finished entirely in blond wood, with lighting coming through panels papered over with ivory rice paper. The color of the wood reminded everyone of the Keru and their dedication to the Prince’s service.

He surveyed the room and the gaily robed guests, then gave his sister a smile. “I see no Viruk, so I doubt there will be trouble.”

Nirati’s green eyes became slits. “You remember what you were instructed to say about that?”

Jorim sighed. “Keles is resting comfortably, full recovery expected, in no danger, won’t even see the scars, looking forward to his journey—which he doesn’t even know about unless he’s come awake in the last hour.”

“Jorim!”

“I know, Nirati. I will not say what I should not.”

“And you won’t get into trouble.”

He gave her a hard stare, but she had learned well from their mother. And I have always been her younger brother, which gives her an advantage I cannot undo. While she might be hard on him, she was also protective, and that was something he was reluctant to surrender no matter the cause.

“I won’t get into trouble.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, go have fun.”

“As if that’s possible. I’m going, I’m going.” He smiled into her reproving glare, then moved into the hall and let himself drift. Not for the first time he studied the gathering the way he viewed savage peoples. He didn’t do it with a sense of superiority, only curiosity.

I bet even they don’t know what they reveal about themselves, they are so busy playing their games. To Jorim, a great deal was obvious just from a casual glance. The most important people had taken up positions around the room where they could be seen easily, but not cut off. Rarely was anyone with true power in a corner, though several people who wished to be perceived as having power had taken up positions there.

Lesser personages usually had someone with them—someone of a higher social station—to lend them some sort of legitimacy. Had Jorim chosen to extend an invitation to various women of his acquaintance, he, too, could have had someone on his arm. Women would have fought for the honor—not to be seen with him per se, but to be seen by older men who might take them as mistresses, or dowagers who were looking for someone to bear grandchildren for them. As he watched, that very scenario played itself out a dozen times or more.

Politics and politicians ran a circuit through the room. Likewise the social pressures caused currents, and gossip of both varieties raced. Courtiers and sycophants jockeyed for position awaiting the arrival of the Prince, in hopes they would be able to get a word with him, or at least be noticed.

While friends did meet friends at the gathering, the greetings were brief and fulfilled the minimum demands of social intercourse. There would be time for true friends later in Festival, after the day of Mourning and before the glory of the Prince would be celebrated. On the night of heroes, all those gathered wished to be seen as heroes, so acted in a way they thought full of mythic import.

Jorim didn’t see himself as a hero, though he hoped some people did—and he acknowledged that as a paradox springing from self-deception the moment it occurred to him. He had gone places, seen and done things that few in the room could match. While many of them would thrill to his exploits and claim that someday they would like to do the same thing, they preferred the safety of their homes and stable lives. He couldn’t blame them for that, and he didn’t despise them for it.

He just knew it wasn’t for him.

There were those who would claim that it was hatred or fear of his grandfather that prompted him to go so far away, but they were wrong. First off, they didn’t understand that his journeys required him to be very close to his grandfather. The skill for cartography ran strong in the Anturasi bloodline, and with that came the ability—through training and study—for both Jorim and Keles to enter a sort of mental communion with their grandfather. By concentrating very hard and holding information in their minds for a time, they could share basic data with him. He would immediately add it to his maps of the world. Sketching in vast vistas had to wait for their return; but distances traveled, the height of mountains, and other such information could be transmitted over the miles.

Keles was much better at it than Jorim, primarily because he had worked so hard to train his twin. In Nirati’s case the training had been for nothing, since she did not possess that skill. That was not all bad. It meant Qiro did not see her as a threat and, therefore, saw no reason to put her in danger. Jorim, while being able to send information to his grandfather, was not as precise as Keles, and whenever he returned to Moriande, he braced himself for discipline.

No, Jorim went out into the world not to escape his grandfather, but because he loved experiencing the variety of things out there. He allowed his curiosity to govern him, and trusted in his luck to keep him safe. No matter how close he had come to death, his desire to see more and do more had not been squelched.

And now I get the Stormwolf. The ship’s keel had been laid before he went on his last expedition. Jorim had fully expected that Keles would be given the honor of that trip, and that had made him jealous. That was why he’d mentioned the Gryst device to Qiro, in the slender hope it might win him a berth on the ship, too.

Jorim was at once elated and apprehensive about the trip. It would allow him to sate his curiosity. They would be going into a part of the world no one knew existed outside fable and legend, from the Mountains of Ice to whatever lay beyond the Eastern Sea. He would be able to discover things, bring back samples, and add to the world—shaping and defining it with every mile traveled. What was rumor would become fact, what was legend would be proved true or false, and whatever was unknown would become known. He would be there to make all that happen, to the greater glory of his nation and his family.

At the same time Jorim had hoped Qiro would keep Keles close and train him to take over. He’d looked forward to actually communicating data to his brother instead of his grandfather, for he was certain the bond would be tighter and allow for a faster exchange of more information. And speed in the race to discover the world could not be underestimated.

Keles’ journey into the wastelands scared Jorim, for he’d gotten far enough into the wilds to see places where the Cataclysm had changed things, albeit centuries ago. The wild magic unleashed when the Empress’s troops had met the Turasynd hordes had exploded out of Ixyll and washed over half the known world. Skies had darkened, and black snows had fallen early and deep. The histories told of years without summer, which is when the die-off of peoples began. Before the Cataclysm, the Empire had boasted tens of millions of people. Within a decade, the Principalities had been reduced to maybe hundreds of thousands. Most of them clustered in the central river valleys of the three largest Principalities, while others clung to existence however they were able.

Unpredictable weather, coming from the northwest where titanic magical storms raged, had battered the Principalities for another century, with the nine days of the Harvest Festival being the closest approximation to summer. Imperial civilization all but collapsed, and chaos would have reigned had the bureaucrats not maintained order. While the histories of those hard times praised the ministers and functionaries, Jorim realized they must have been much like their modern counterparts. While annoying, they had served a purpose, and that purpose kept people alive long enough to begin a slow recovery.

Jorim knew his dismissal of their efforts was overly harsh, and based on discussions he’d had with Keles when they were younger. Keles had said that just maintaining order and organizing shipments of food was a heroic effort. Jorim had replied that the ministers had been too complacent, seeking order above all else, thereby smothering the sort of ambition that might have allowed the Principalities to recover faster. Each brother had to allow that the other might be right; but with no way to prove their arguments, it became a difference of opinion they both acknowledged and somehow found comforting.

Jorim got himself a small cup of wine and sipped it as he moved through the crowd. He looked for others who, like him, remained detached. A few, by their dress, were foreigners who knew no one. Others were famous or infamous, depending upon how one chose to view them. He found the Lady of Jet and Jade along a narrow wall, protected by several of her protégés.

He hid a smile behind his cup. She was still gorgeous despite her years. He’d heard stories suggesting she had been the concubine to princes even before the Komyr dynasty was founded. He wondered if that were true, or if the woman presiding over the House of Jade Pleasure inherited the title and assumed a role as part of a legend. He was not certain why she would be considered a hero, but many were the heroes who visited her house of entertainment.

I wonder if the Prince will send me to her when the Stormwolf comes back? He considered approaching her and introducing himself, but her aides seemed very selective. So he kept his distance and saved himself the humiliation of being turned away.

Wandering further, he noticed two men in the crowd, the younger one holding a cup of wine but not drinking, the older one watching with restless eyes. The younger one’s belt had been knotted with a swordsman’s knot, but neither of them wore swords. No one would be allowed to do so in the Prince’s presence, so this came as no surprise, but the younger man looked uneasy. Even with that discomfort, however, he did seem more accustomed to such grand surroundings than his companion.

Jorim looked through the crowd again and discovered a couple more individuals who looked equally like swordsmen, but they stood with their employers. None was as watchful as the older man, but he put that down to a familiarity with such gatherings and their confidence that nothing untoward would unfold. Anyone mad enough to start trouble there would find it ended by the Keru.

No one in this city is that insane, save perhaps Kaerinus. Jorim, as with every child in Nalenyr, had grown up fearing the last of the vanyesh. He’d once asked Keles why the sorcerer had been allowed to live, if everyone feared him so, and his brother just gave him a hard stare. Then he lowered his voice, and said, “If they could kill him, don’t you think they would have? He can’t die.”

This had made him more terrifying, and Nirati’s description of him hadn’t eased Jorim’s mind at all. The official story, which people told but did not believe, was that he had returned from the west with his mind shattered, reduced to that of a child. While incredibly powerful, he wished only to heal and do good things. If that were true, however, why would the Naleni princes keep him captive in Xingnakun?

Not for the first time, the parallel between Kaerinus’ fate and that of his grandfather struck Jorim. The sorcerer had been imprisoned because of the harm he might do, and Qiro’s freedom might be similarly harmful. Were his charts to fall into the hands of the Virine or the Desei, they could compete with Nalenyr. The Naleni economy would collapse, but before that, Prince Cyron would have to go to war to destroy his enemies.

Jorim took a big swallow of his wine. Perhaps Keles had not been so wrong. While it might take a great deal of effort for Jorim to hack his way through a swamp, capture some lizard, and bring it back to the Prince, the more heroic effort might be required to make sure there was a Nalenyr for him to return to. When I come back on the Stormwolf how much of Moriande, how many of these people, will still be here?

He looked around, uncertain how to answer that. He pushed the dark thought away. He could think on that tomorrow, on the day of Mourning. Tonight was a time to celebrate and enjoy. As this might be the last night of heroes any of us ever sees, I shall make the most of it.

 

Chapter Eighteen

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Nirati let her brother go reluctantly. She felt confident he would not seek trouble, but also she knew there were times when it sought him. Still, at this gathering, he was more likely to be lionized as a hero and questioned about his exploits than to be challenged by someone in his cups. She wished him a night of peace because the coming voyage would likely afford him few.

She moved into the room and around to the left, taking a course that would not bring her around to Jorim until the far side. The robe she had chosen had all the artistry of the one she’d worn at her grandfather’s party, but not the formal cut. The silken trousers beneath allowed her freedom of movement that would make dancing a pleasure instead of a battle against gravity and the entanglements of a longer robe. She’d even done some of the embroidery herself and took pride in it.

She took a good look at the embroidery and tried to evaluate how good she was at it. Since the healing, she’d been reexamining her life, looking at the world with new eyes. My talent is there, I’m sure. Now I just have to find it. But where?

She caught sight of the Lady of Jet and Jade and wondered at her skills. So many possibilities opened up. Nirati might be able to do anything. Could I be a concubine? She wondered what it would be like to be one of the Lady of Jet and Jade’s students. Would it be possible to be so learned in the art of love that it would become a magical experience? For Nirati, whose carnal experience was limited to the inept fumblings of servants and drunken noblemen, that idea seemed as wondrous as it was distant.

She knew the stories about those who were jaecai—the legendary masters of any discipline. It was said their lives were extended and their vitality increased as they perfected their skills. Looking at the Lady’s flawless beauty, the delicate serenity with which she stood against a wall sipping wine, Nirati wondered how old she truly was. Had she really been the concubine of the prince whose dynasty fell to the Komyr cohort? The woman barely looked older than she—save for her silvery eyes, which had an ancient, alluring quality.

“I would guess eleven enneads, would you not?”

Nirati’s head came around, a rebuke on her lips that remained unspoken as she recognized the voice. “Count Aerynnor, would you think me so common as to be speculating about a woman’s age?”

“I beg your pardon, my lady Anturasi.” The black-haired Desei bowed his head. “I betray my rustic nature with such thoughts, and my lack of manners by attributing the same to you.”

“If offering me one of those cups of wine would be an apology, sir, I should be happy to forgive you.” Nirati smiled and accepted the cup he passed to her. “Have you come alone? Is poor, dear, frail Majiata up from her sickbed yet?”

The man smiled easily. “Shall we drink to her health?”

“The Lady of Jet and Jade? Please.”

Junel Aerynnor’s smile broadened. “I can see that keeping up with you will not be a simple matter.”

“Oh, you meant Majiata?” Nirati raised the cup. “May she soon be feeling herself again.”

“Indeed.” He drank. “She was supposed to accompany me tonight, but she heard a rumor that the jaecaitsae who disciplined her would be here, demonstrating his skill. She thought that would be too much for her.”

Nirati smiled. “I doubt he would be asking for volunteers. Did you see her punishment?”

The Desei noble’s face closed. “I did; I felt it was my duty. Your brother took the stripes that should have been mine. I confess to quailing as the Viruk moved. So quick, so large.”

“You may have quailed, my lord, but I was there. I saw you act, and saw no hesitation. You spun Majiata around and shielded her with your body. Had my brother not acted, his stripes would indeed have been yours.”

“I shall be certain to thank him. He is recovering, I hear?”

“Yes, he is, thank you. He would enjoy it if you came to visit. I sit with him often to let my mother rest.”

“I shall pay my respects then.” Junel sipped at his wine. “The Prince would not allow another to accept Majiata’s punishment, but the jaecaitsae cut her only once, and her family has sought every manner of salve to see that it will not scar. She even went to be healed by the vanyesh.”

“It didn’t work?”

“I have not looked that closely, but I have seen no disfigurement. But Majiata and her family see through the lens of disgrace.” Junel grimaced. “I took no pleasure in watching her punishment, but there is yet a part of me which believes she had long been due such treatment.”

Nirati smiled. “Are you abnormally perceptive, or is this a trait shared by your countrymen?”

“I simply learn, my lady.” He smiled uneasily. “I would have been hard-pressed not to hear the tales told of Majiata since the party. What the rumors suggest, I have seen. On my last visit, she asked only if her scar had made her hideous. When I mentioned that I had heard your brother fared well, but would bear four scars, she said she was glad of it.”

“She wanted my brother in order to advance her family. It took him a long time to see it. You are lucky to have discovered it so quickly.”

“Her family has graciously provided me lodging, so I would have to be blind not to have discovered it.” Junel glanced around the room. “I am seeing many things that are new. Coming from Deseirion, there are things here I have not seen before—and am not certain I understand.”

“Such as?”

He inclined his head toward the Lady of Jet and Jade. “While we have such individuals in Deseirion, I do not think one would be welcomed at such a celebration. Not that she isn’t beautiful—and not that many present would not visit her domain and avail themselves of her skills—but they would not want it known.”

Nirati sipped her wine, savoring the sweet bite. “In Nalenyr we have a bit more freedom. It fuels us.”

The count frowned. “That could be taken many ways. Please, explain.”

“Carnal desire, my lord, can be approached in two ways. One is to deny its existence, to claim that fidelity is the highest standard possible and turn a blind eye to the covert assignations many enjoy. By making it forbidden, one increases its allure, and that is what makes it such a destabilizing influence. Most would not care if one enjoyed liaisons outside of marriage provided that the marriage was not put in jeopardy by it.”

“Since so many marriages are really dynastic alliances, they have little to do with those who are involved in them. This is certainly the attitude and reality in my nation.”

“Here it is viewed for what it is: a sensual experience. We all acknowledge that variety is to be desired. If one only eats one food, or drinks one wine, hears only one song, or smells only one flower, those things quickly become lifeless. No one limits themselves in that manner for anything save physical attraction and desire, clearly running counter to how we function as people. By having the Lady of Jet and Jade as an outlet for such desires, with all parties knowing what is expected, boredom is avoided, as is destabilizing influence.”

Nirati looked at him past the rim of her cup. “If you forge an alliance with Majiata’s family, I’m sure you’ll need the release.”

Junel raised an eyebrow. “You are even more perceptive than I thought, Mistress Anturasi. But, tell me, you are not suggesting that there is never a marriage destroyed because a client and a courtesan fall in love?”

“No, but that shift in affections could occur no matter who is involved, for whatever affection was present in the marriage would have long since died, else the desire and need for emotional fulfillment would not have been present.”

“I am very impressed with your argument.” He nodded respectfully. “You think deeply and express yourself very well.”

“It’s years of having debates with my brothers. We have discussed every issue from as many points of view as possible. It is great fun.” Nirati swirled the wine in her cup and looked down. “You’ve not been here long, but you already know of the Lady of Jet and Jade. Have you considered engaging her services?”

“I? Well, no, but . . .”

Nirati covered a smile as she saw the man blushing. “What is it?”

He snapped his mouth shut, then looked down. “I would lie if I did not say that I have not entertained the idea. You will think me provincial, I suspect, but it goes back to where our conversation started. I would be uneasy being with someone who could have known my great-grandfather.”

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I understand that, though some maintain the best wines are those that have aged to perfection.”

“Very true, but there are also those who enjoy younger vintages.”

Nirati sipped again and felt herself relaxing in the Desei count’s presence. He knew few people and seemed content to talk to her, yet his presence kept others away, and that was good, too. She didn’t mind that the people who saw them together would probably accuse her of stealing Majiata’s suitor. Half of them would think it served Majiata right, and the other half would speculate as to what this would mean concerning the Anturasi maps, the Desei, and the fortunes of House Phoesel.

But she found the count easy company. She slowly guided him around the room, filling him in on who was whom. She refrained from outright gossip, but indicated which people were feuding with others. The only time she relayed salacious information was when his eyes grew distant and she imagined all the facts becoming a jumble in his head.

Before she saw her brother again, a gong sounded and the room fell to silence. A half dozen Keru guards with long spears bearing purple dragon pennants cut a path through the crowd. Prince Cyron walked in their midst and mounted a small dais at the far end of the room. The guards took up positions around it and the Prince bowed to those assembled.

The bow was returned by all present. Nirati held the bow for the polite count of fifteen, extended to twenty since this was the dynasty’s anniversary, and was willing go to thirty because of the Prince’s punishment of Majiata. But when she reached twenty-five, one of the Prince’s cousins rose and, with audible relief, the others in the room followed.

The Prince opened his hands in greeting. “Welcome to you all. This is the night of heroes, which is especially hallowed in a nation of heroes. All of you present are worthy of that title, or will earn your place in their ranks. Our nation and our course is one that will both demand and reward heroes. I know none of you will shrink from that calling.”

Two protocol functionaries produced a chair for the Prince and set it up in the center of the dais. A minister of protocol—a senior underminister by the cut of his robe—came forward and addressed the crowd. “Entertainments have been provided for this evening, spectacular entertainments.”

As he spoke, he moved into the crowd and shifted his ceremonial staff from vertical to horizontal. The crowd withdrew slowly as he grasped the staff in his right hand and began to turn, describing a circle. “If you please, respect the circle drawn, and you will see things of which most only dream.”

The count, through stern glances and an open-faced refusal to understand those with a Naleni accent, did not withdraw as others pulled back. Instead, he placed his hands on Nirati’s shoulders and brought her in front of him, placing her at the front rank of observers. She smiled, realized that the last time she’d had so clear a view was with her father’s hands on her shoulders.

The entertainments were more than fantastic. They started with four Keru who performed a ritual dance with spears. Pennants snapped, the spear butts cracked crisply on the stone, and the shafts whistled as they were spun about. The women moved so precisely, with strength and fluidity, they seemed more animal than human. When confederates lofted apples and other fruits into the air, the spear blades skewered or split them, filling the air with sweet fragrance.

Jugglers followed, then acrobats whose ability to pile themselves higher seemed limited only by the ceiling. Contortionists twisted their limbs into patterns that it seemed would never come undone, and dancers flowed into and through music until their bodies were little more than vibrant blurs.

Each entertainment surpassed the one that preceded it—as impossible as that seemed. The minister pointed out whoever had brought the entertainers, and applause rewarded them for their efforts. But the minister cut them off if they offered anything more than a few words of praise for the Prince, then announced the next act.

He kept his voice even as the last troupe of dancers melted away. “As our final entertainment, we present something as special as it is appropriate for the night of heroes. We have with us two dicaiserr. They will present for you a display of swords skill as has never been seen before. The Prince welcomes Moraven Tolo and the Turasynd, Chyrut Scok.”

Nirati smiled. From their encounter at the healing, she knew Moraven was a swordsman. She’d taken Dunos’ praise of him as childish hyperbole, but clearly the youth had been right. To be selected to entertain here means he is very good. Perhaps he’s even jaecaiserr.

A jolt ran through Junel’s hands. Nirati turned enough to look up into his face. “What is it?”

“Moraven Tolo I have never heard of, but the Turasynd I have. They may think he is here to demonstrate his skill, and he is—but not in the way one would expect.”

“What do you mean?”

He nodded as a tall, gaunt, dark-haired man moved into the circle. “When he removes his shirt, you’ll see the mark of the black eagle on him. He belongs to a barbarian cult. No matter what he is told, when he draws his blade, the fight is to the death.”

 

Chapter Nineteen

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron sat forward in his chair as the two fighters came through the crowd. The Turasynd was easy to spot, for he stood head and shoulders above the others. His clothing bespoke origins in the Turca Wastes, though Chyrut himself had been born in Solaeth. Clean-limbed and very lean, he wore a half-sleeved leather shirt that showed off arms scarred from fighting. The white scars stood out starkly on his red skin. A strip of leather circled his brows, and his long, black hair had been braided with the ends of it.

The guests began buzzing when the Turasynd moved into the circle. For most of them, he was the embodiment of terror. His people had caused the Cataclysm, and many of those assembled had been raised with threats of Turasynd raiders coming to steal them away. Even the Prince had heard tales of Turasynd infamy that had him mindful of their threat—despite the fact that Deseirion and Helosunde insulated Nalenyr.

While Chyrut looked to be no more than fifty years old, which was young even for a Turasynd, the Prince wondered at his true age. That he was a master of the sword was well documented, and some reports even hinted that he might be jaecaiserr. If so, he could be considerably older than he appeared. The Prince doubted he could have been one of the barbarian survivors of the Cataclysm—rumors of them did exist, but it was said they had all returned horribly warped. He could, however, have been old enough to learn his art from such survivors.

A smaller percentage of the crowd hissed because they knew the Turasynd worked for Black Myrian, one of the shadowy figures who profited from criminal enterprises in Nalenyr. The underworld lord had occasionally done a favor for the Crown—like exposing or destroying Desei spies—so the Prince saw no value in eliminating him. In return, Black Myrian kept his activities largely benign—at least when it came to enforcement.

These are odd times when one must conspire with criminals to preserve society. There really was no other way, however, and Cyron had long since resigned himself to that. There would always be those who existed outside the law, and if one of their own could maintain order, they had a use. Myrian stabilized what could have otherwise been a very chaotic situation, and the Prince’s ministers valued stability above all.

The man who entered the circle to oppose the Turasynd moved with a fluid economy that seemed humble—especially on a night meant to honor heroes. He wore an overshirt of white trimmed in green, with green trousers over black boots. A black shirt and sash completed his outfit, and his black hair, which was not as long as the barbarian’s, hung loose. He bowed easily to his foe, then turned and bowed deeply to the Prince.

The Prince’s eyes narrowed, for the smaller man seemed overmatched, which meant he wasn’t at all. The black and green marked him as the entertainment provided by the Lady of Jet and Jade, which further indicated he was present for more than just his skill. His overshirt bore no sign of national allegiance, which impressed the Prince—for in Moriande during the Festival, one was either of Nalenyr or proudly displayed signs of one’s homeland. Tigers had been embroidered on the overshirt as a personal crest and Cyron recognized the crest—though the man’s name had meant nothing to him.

This is the xidantzu I remember. The Prince smiled as he bowed his head to the swordsman. The Free Company had no leadership nor allegiance. Its members might act as mercenaries or bounty hunters, and in any conflict one or more could be found on either side. More than heroes for hire, they traveled as they wished and, as long as they broke no laws, they did as they wished, too. And occasionally will serve the Crown, as long as it suits their purposes.

Cyron wondered why Moraven Tolo traveled under a new name and had been presented as a gift from the Lady of Jet and Jade. Had the Prince known of his presence in Moriande he would have long since summoned him, but one could never be certain a xidantzu would obey. He glanced at the Lady of Jet and Jade, wondering if Moraven’s presence was her gift to him, with the coming display of skill an added benefit.

I will find him useful, if he survives this fight.

The Turasynd pulled his leather jerkin off, and even the Prince gasped. It appeared as if a black eagle had been tattooed on the man’s chest, shoulders, and back. The shape was correct, but light shimmered from the design. No ink in the world—even that applied by a Mystic tattooist—could have reflected that way.

A chill ran through Cyron’s guts as he realized the truth. The design had not been inked, it had been fletched. Feathers, hundreds of them, had been plucked from black eagles. Their tips had been sharpened, then plunged into Chyrut’s flesh. It had been part of some Turasynd ritual, and had been performed in a circle where—for days—Chyrut had dueled with other warriors. Their fights had released magical energy the ritual had trapped and channeled into a force that fused the feathers with his flesh.

Cyron had heard of such things, and had dismissed them as wild tales from the Wastes. But for someone to subject himself to such magic willingly . . . The Prince shook his head. He’d even found the risk of the healing ceremony unacceptable, but that tradition predated his dynasty and doubtless would continue well after it.

Two Keru moved to the edge of the circle. Each bore a sword and handed it to the closest combatant. The Turasynd used a slightly curved Turasyndi saber. It came to a sharp point that could be used for lunging, but had been primarily made for sweeping and crushing strokes best delivered from horseback. A pair of green cords ending in satin tassels dangled from the hilt, but the worn scabbard suggested the blade was old and had seen much use.

Moraven Tolo accepted his sword, which surrendered length and breadth to his opponent’s weapon. He slid the slender scabbard into his sash, so the hilt rose at his left hip. Nothing decorated its pommel. Just the way he put the blade away without looking marked how well he had grown accustomed to its presence.

Both fighters bowed to the Prince, then to each other. As they straightened, Chyrut bared his blade and tossed the scabbard aside. He roared and slashed the air. People at the edge of the circle withdrew, and one man fainted. Hatred twisted the Turasynd’s face, and even the Prince’s breath caught in his throat for a moment.

Moraven Tolo did nothing. He did not draw his sword. He did not smile. But the Prince could see this was not the same as ignoring his foe. While he did not move, his blue eyes studied the barbarian—measuring him, judging him.

The Turasynd sailed in, aiming a slashing blow at the smaller man’s head. Had it landed, it would have trimmed Moraven’s skull at the level of his ears, but it never came close. The smaller man ducked his head and drove forward, passing beneath the cut. Had he drawn his sword and pivoted on his right foot, he would have been able to slash through the barbarian’s middle, from back to front.

Chyrut flipped his right wrist and pivoted on his right foot. Feathers lifted on his right shoulder, aiding him in the turn. He brought the blade around in a backhanded cut that should have split Tolo’s spine. But Moraven had, by that point, drawn his sword and thrust it down behind himself, blocking the slash. The swords clanged and the smaller man flew forward, tucking into a roll and coming up at the edge of the circle furthest from where he had started. He turned quickly, his blade coming up in a guard that covered him from navel to crown.

Again the barbarian roared and charged, but Moraven did not wait for him. They met in the center of the circle, not standing to exchange blows, but flowing through an intricate series of exchanges. The Prince’s scalp tingled and the hair stood on his arms as the two combatants lunged, cut, blocked, parried, spun, and leaped. The fighters’ forms blurred and their blades became silver-grey phantoms, appearing and disappearing almost faster than the eye could follow.

The Prince had, as was to be expected, studied the way of the sword. And while never as good as his brother, he knew enough to be able to unravel some of what he was witnessing. The two of them were master swordsmen—and perhaps even more. Their actions required more skill than he had ever seen. They seemed to anticipate each other, with Moraven Tolo again and again turning a blade or sidestepping a cut a heartbeat before it would have opened him.

As Cyron watched, he became aware of one other factor in the battle that made it all the more spectacular. The Turasynd, mindful of the fact that this was just a demonstration of skill, fought without fear that his enemy might actually hurt him. Both of them had such control that the only way blood would be drawn would be by accident, and Chyrut left himself open over and over again to speed cuts at Moraven. The smaller man parried, blocked, and evaded, but never riposted no matter how vulnerable Chyrut left himself.

Frustration boiled in the Turasynd. He snarled and redoubled his efforts. His blade screamed through the air, and metal rang with a peal that would have drowned out a signal gong. Sparks flew as he attempted to batter his way through Moraven’s guard. His size, the weight of his blade, and the pure fury of his attacks threatened to overwhelm his foe.

Moraven gave ground, but this only seemed to further antagonize the Turasynd. His slashes became more wild and determined, and came close to wounding a few spectators who had crowded back close to the circle. The blades twisted through the air, seeming to have lost all rigidity.

The barbarian cried out in triumph as he whipped his blade through a diagonal slash. A triangular tidbit of cloth hung in the air for a second, then fluttered to the floor. It had come from Moraven’s right sleeve, and the Turasynd roared as if it had been the xidantzu’s heart that had been pricked.

No one moved. All eyes studied the ragged piece of cloth. It lay there, slightly rumpled, dark against the light wood. For everyone in the room, save the Turasynd, it seemed a dire prediction of a return of the hordes, and the destruction of life as they knew it.

Then the tip of a single feather floated down to land on the cloth.

The Prince rapped his knuckles on the arm of his chair. His protocol minister looked at him, caught his nod, then clapped his hands. “The entertainment is ended.”

If the Turasynd had been able to hear him above the din of applause, he did not heed the command. Moraven Tolo leaped above a low slash that shaved curls from the floor, then blocked the return cut. He fell back, slowly arcing around the edge of the circle. The Turasynd followed, then slowed beside the protocol minister.

The minister again announced that the entertainment had ended.

Chyrut’s left hand came around in a backhanded slap that spun the minister full circle before dropping him. As his body hit, the Turasynd drove at Moraven Tolo again. His saber came up in a two-handed strike designed to cut the man in half, yet left his belly open.

The Prince squinted, not really wishing to see the aftermath of Moraven’s obvious avenue of attack. While he didn’t object to the Turasynd’s death, having him kneeling there keening as he tried to stuff entrails back into his stomach really would put a damper on any festivities. Still, Moraven Tolo really had no choice. It is just a matter of how he chooses to do it.

The Turasynd’s sword began to fall. Moraven Tolo reversed his grip on his sword, letting the blade rest along his forearm and extend past his elbow. He danced forward, inside the arc of Chyrut’s blow. Another step in and a sidestep to the left would let him slash right across the barbarian’s stomach. Tolo’s body would even shield much of the audience from the spectacle. Had I his skill, that’s how I would do it.

Even the loud thud of Chyrut’s sword chopping into the wooden floor could not completely disguise the sharp crack of Moraven’s pommel smashing into the barbarian’s jaw. The larger man’s head snapped back, then his knees buckled. Moraven Tolo spun outside the circle of his foe’s arms and brought his blade up high at his left shoulder. The Turasynd wavered for a moment, almost holding himself up on his hands, and with the flick of an arm Moraven could have taken his head off easily.

Chyrut tried to say something, but his misshapen jaw did not function well. He pitched forward onto his face, the feathers on his back rippling briefly. The Turasynd’s breathing was labored, but the smaller man seemed barely winded.

A young man came from outside the circle and lifted the barbarian’s blade from the floor. Moraven frowned for a moment, then dropped to a knee and laid his sword on the ground before the Prince’s dais.

“The entertainment is ended, Highness.”

Cyron stood and nodded down at the man. “Was he a worthy foe?”

“One of the best I have ever been given the opportunity to fight.”

“Were you ever really in danger?”

The swordsman canted his head slightly. “In the circle, one is always in danger. Your foe can only hurt you as much as you allow him to. And any mistake can be your last.”

The Prince smiled. “Thank you, dicaiserr Moraven Tolo. Before you leave Moriande, I would appreciate your calling on me at Wentokikun.”

“You honor me.” Moraven Tolo turned and glanced at the younger man who was fiddling with Chyrut’s sword. “If my aide learns manners by then, might I present him to you, Highness?”

“Indeed, yes.”

Moraven’s words brought his aide’s head up. The man quickly knelt and laid the sword on the ground. He bowed, but did not raise himself until Moraven lifted his heel as a signal. The younger man then straightened, but did not leave his knees.

The Prince opened his arms. “I thank you all for being so attentive during our entertainments. I would have you continue to enjoy the bounty this harvest has brought our nation. You have seen heroes here tonight, and from them we can all learn. First, we know that our best effort can only be produced through dedication and practice. Second, that to fail to do our best means we have been defeated before we begin to act.”

 

Chapter Twenty

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

At the Prince’s word, the musicians struck up a tune, and the circle that had contained the night’s entertainment slowly filled with people dancing. Keru came and took both swords and the Turasynd swordsman away. Moraven Tolo allowed himself to smile at the congratulations offered, then melted into the crowd with Ciras in his wake.

When Moraven stopped, Ciras moved around in front of him, bowing deeply. “I beg your pardon, Master. I did not mean to be an embarrassment.”

“This I understand. You may be able to redeem yourself.” Moraven kept his voice low, then pointed toward an unoccupied corner. Without a word, Ciras preceded him there. When the youth positioned himself to watch the room, Moraven took him by the shoulders and turned the younger man to face him, reversing their positions.

“Forgive me, Serrcai Moraven Tolo.”

“Perhaps. Tell me what you are to be forgiven for and why you did it.”

The younger man’s brows tightened. “I was presumptuous enough to assume you would present me to the Prince.”

“Why?”

“I am of the nobility of Tirat. I assumed you would present me, as I would be presented to nobility.” Ciras’ head came up. “And this is a contravention of the lesson you taught me in the graveyard. Here I am nothing.”

Moraven smiled. “That is all well and good, from your point of view, but you must see it from mine. Do you think me so poorly mannered that I would not have presented you to the Prince?”

“No, Master, but—”

An upheld hand cut off Ciras’ reply. “Then what reason would I have for not presenting you?”

The young man’s brow furrowed with concentration. “I am at a loss, Master.”

“I do not think you are.” Moraven allowed himself to lean back against the wall. “You saw everything you needed to, and you know all you need to puzzle this out. Concentrate. What did you see?”

“You defeated the Turasynd monster, but that was not a question even from the beginning.”

“Why not?”

Ciras’ eyes widened. “How could you have had a moment’s doubt? The man was strong and fast and big, but he had no classical training. He showed no recognized forms, he did not flow from attack and defense. He just attacked relentlessly. As you said, he knew you would defend yourself and not kill him, so he did not have to worry.”

“But was he trying to kill me?”

“No. Wait . . . was he?”

Moraven nodded slowly. “That was his intent. The Black Eagles and xidantzu have little love for each other.”

Ciras smiled. “That’s a known fact even in Tirat.”

“Usually their conflicts occur in the provinces. I’ve not fought them, but I’ve talked to those who have. You might think him an undisciplined fighter”—Moraven held his right hand out to display where his sleeve had been trimmed—“but he was good. Better than most.”

“If you say so, Master.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It is not that. He was good, but not good enough to have done as well as he did.”

“That is also true. What does this tell you?”

Ciras wrapped his left hand around his right fist and pressed both hands against his mouth as he thought. Moraven watched his eyes narrow and widen again as he reviewed the fight in his head. A realization began to dawn on Ciras’ face, then several more things fell into place.

“Oh, Master, I am truly sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“The sword. It must be one of those which has been enhanced by a gyanridin. I touched it, you feared it might affect me, so you had me put it down and used my breach of etiquette to draw attention away from the weapon.” He rubbed his hands against his robe as if to rid them of the weapon’s taint. “Is that not it, Master?”

“Very close, Ciras, very close indeed.” Moraven pressed his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Many fine warriors followed the Empress into the Wastes to destroy the Turasynd. Their skill led to the Cataclysm. They were all slain.”

“You do not believe that the Empress and her surviving guards will return when we need them?”

“Perhaps, but if they have not returned in seven centuries, why would they return now?” Moraven did not allow his apprentice to answer. “While a weapon does not improve when wielded by the best swordsman, one that has been used by a superior swordsman can make it easier for another to attain higher levels of skill. It is an aid to the obtaining of jaedunto.”

“I know, Master. I used such a blade for some of my training.”

“Excellent. Then you will understand the importance of what we saw here. There has been a rumor, which Master Jatan shared with me, that, in the Wastes, certain caches of such weapons have been found. I saw enough of the Turasynd’s weapon to know it dates from before the Cataclysm. Someone has been seeking these weapons out.”

“The Desei?”

“Perhaps, or others. But what of that I have just told you does not make sense?”

Ciras thought for a moment. “There should be no vast caches of such weapons. They would have been entombed with their owners or sent back to their families. They would not just have been piled up.”

“And this means?”

“Any number of things.” Ciras frowned. “At the very least, someone is out there digging up graves. And that means—”

“Go ahead.”

Ciras shook his head. “It is foul beyond imagining.”

Vrilxingna, the darkest of arts, and most dangerous. While it was common knowledge that even the most skilled magician could not raise the dead, it did not mean the dead were wholly useless. Vrilxingnaridin made a practice of locating and despoiling the graves of those known for great virtue or skill. They would take a corpse, grind it down into a powder, and sell that powder to be inhaled. It was believed that the corpse powder would grant one the skills of the deceased. Other vrilxingna practices were still more unspeakable, but the idea that the corpses of the world’s greatest heroes could be made into a powder that could be given to an army was enough to strike terror into the hearts of any who heard it.

“The Deathbreathers are foul, but think on what you have seen here. A lord of the underworld has announced to all present that the means to manufacture heroes are available. Helosundians would desire such wares to help reconquer their nation. Inland Naleni nobles could see this as a way to raise an army that could overthrow their prince.”

“It is a good thing the Desei prince was not here.”

Another voice, light, replied to Ciras’ comment. “Do you not think, Lirserrdin Dejote, that Prince Pyrust has been given his own showing of what is for sale?”

Moraven turned to his right and bowed in her direction. “You honor us, my lady.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled easily, yet not without restraint. “You are the one who has honored me by acting as my gift. I trust you did not find my offer presumptuous?”

“It was yet another honor.”

She held her left hand out to him, and he took it in his right. “Let us walk. You will be entertained, Lirserrdin.” At her word two of her aides each took Ciras by an arm and steered him toward the dancers, while others created a circle around Moraven and their Mistress.

“Should I be angered that you have not come to see me, or shall I assume that you thought, with your new name, I would not recognize you?” Her words came sweetly and softly, wrapping in jest the hurt they conveyed. “I have often wondered if you have stayed away from Moriande because of me.”

Moraven slid her hand to the crook of his elbow and led her through a set of double doors to the small courtyard garden. Strains of music followed them. The garden, dark and empty, carried the scent of night-blooming flowers. Their perfume complemented the scent she had chosen to wear.

“Not because of you, but because of the tragedy of my last visit. Whenever I thought I would return, an omen reminded me of it.” He smiled at her. “I have thought the gods strove to keep us apart.”

“And so fearing the gods is why you have spent nights at the House of Three Pearls after you did arrive?”

“Do not affect that hurt tone with me, my lady.”

“So formal and cold.”

“And now you seek to deflect me.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a familiar name you wish me to use?”

“For you there is always one.” Her hand came up and she delicately caressed his cheek. “You are never far from my thoughts. I do like your new name. I shall use it, Moraven. It suits you much better. It bespeaks more deliberation, a passion that is subsumed but available.”

“And your name, Paryssa, has always meant passion to me.” Moraven looked down into her perfect face, with its pale, infinite eyes. Thousands had looked into those eyes over the years, but how many of them had seen what he had? Beguiled by her beauty, seduced by her certain movements, the skills she employed with the same facility as he did a sword.

He shivered, the memory of their first union bringing a flush to his cheeks. He had been young yet—not as young as Ciras, but young, and so was she. He had fought a duel over her honor—less because he was concerned for it than that the man he fought deserved death. It was not the first time he’d felt the magic of the sword, but it was the first time he remembered its remaining with him so long, and the first time he was certain it would not leave him.

She had reached that same place as they coupled. Together they attained a height neither had known before, and it thrilled them. And each time after, it came faster and harder, shaking them. For any two people who had stumbled upon it accidentally, the ecstasy would have been addictive. It would have consumed them utterly, but the two of them had the discipline of their art to fall back on. In the same way as it opened them to the possibilities, it dictated how they were to avoid consumption.

Her fingers lingered on his face, then she slid them down to grab hold of his robe and laid her face against his breast. “We both know why you have stayed away, and why I have not come after you. On a night like this, however, a night to reward heroes, would it not be more wrong for us to be apart than together?”

“Yes, it would, though my status as a hero may demand a few things more this evening.”

“Such as?”

He lifted his hand to her chin and tilted her face up. “Jatan told me of the rumors about the Wastes. You clearly chose me to oppose Black Myrian’s champion to alert me to what is going on. You and Jatan did not collaborate?”

“No, Moraven. I was led to believe that you visited him to be given your apprentice.” Her grip tightened on his robe. “I did collaborate with Black Myrian. A favor was repaid, but I would have demanded more had I known his man would try to kill you.”

“Black Myrian wanted to let everyone know what he could get, but did so before the Prince, and on this night, to let Cyron know he could be counted upon to forestall trouble.”

“But for a price. His loyalty is for sale.”

“Prince Cyron knows that.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade kissed his throat. “Black Myrian has treated with many of the inland nobles. The capital merchants grow fat with profits, but the provincial lordlings see very little of that money. They were reluctant to invest in trade ventures initially, and the merchants are now loath to reward them for withholding money in the past. The lordlings want the spices and other goods that come in, but lack the gold to pay for them.

“On top of that, they feel the Prince is far too concerned with Helosunde and the Desei problem. The harvest this year was quite abundant, but the Prince did not reduce taxes. Had the lordlings kept more grain, they would have been able to trade more. Instead, the Prince takes their grain, and still demands their troops to defend against Deseirion. There are some who think a private army will keep them safe from the Desei, if they ever invade. Others believe an army will be needed to overthrow the Prince if he does not become more realistic.”

Moraven nodded slowly. “I imagine, in the city, there are also merchants who have not profited as much as others and so feel a private army of their own would be useful to disrupt the business of others. The only thing that keeps the tensions from soaring out of control is the general prosperity that trade has brought?”

“Yes. The Prince is aware of the discontent, and is forcing some merchants to take on rural investors if they want to use Anturasi charts. Those who don’t have had horrid luck—to the point where several houses of cartography have been ruined. All it will take, however, is a disaster with an expedition the state is mounting. The economy will crash, and the knives will come out.”

“And that would be the Stormwolf expedition?”

She smiled up at him. “For one who has not been in Moriande for a long while, you understand the politics well.”

“Moriande today, Kelewan ages ago.” Moraven frowned. “The difference then was that swordsmen were being bought, so the forces gathering were easier to see. Here it would be weapons and dust, which could hide an army in a warehouse with no mouths to feed and no one the wiser.”

“Do you have a means to deal with this?”

“Not as yet, no.” He bowed his head and kissed her forehead. “There is much more to learn, but I have a little time. The Stormwolf cannot fail before it is launched.”

“And you will spend some of that time with me?”

Moraven lowered his mouth to hers. “Could there be better use than spending it with you?”