Chapter Forty-one

3rd day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Dolosan

The disharmonious nature of Dolosan’s western reaches—including the approaches to Ixyll—disturbed Moraven in ways he had not expected. In his life he had seen many things, but nothing quite matched the Wastes. He found all of it hauntingly familiar, as if he were half-remembering dreams.

The western reaches seemed to be full of places apart from the world. It took them a day to get through a lush valley carpeted with maroon plants that bore massive blue blossoms. The stems and roots throbbed, and none of the horses would eat them or the flowers. Tyressa had picked one blossom, and a whole swath of flowers had snapped shut in a rippling wave. Keles had dug into the ground and, as nearly as any of them could make out, the plants shared a network of roots.

Even more interestingly, the valley began to shift. The land itself moved, deepening the valley and urging them forward. Things never got to the point where they were in danger of being crushed, for the land’s swelling came gently. Moraven just felt as though the valley was nudging them along the way a finger might nudge a caterpillar off a leaf.

He’d looked over at the Viruk trotting alongside them. “This valley can’t possibly be alive.”

“No more so than the gyanrigot, but that does not prevent them from moving.”

Things continued to get more strange, as if each valley or plain had been shaped according to a plan. One meadow they rode through caused Rekarafi to stop dead and just crouch amid the flowers. Moraven wasn’t sure why, but Ciras offered a quiet answer.

“On Tirat there are scrolls. They are very old and on them are pictures of plants that no longer exist.” He looked around. “They look like these.”

The swordmaster rode over to the Viruk. “We can linger here, if you wish.”

“And allow me to wallow in a past that will never return?”

“Let you refresh memories that once brought you joy.”

Rekarafi looked at him carefully. “Even happy memories hurt. It’s the separation.”

Moraven had ridden off to allow the Viruk some peace. The ancient one’s words had found resonance in him. There was something about the Wastes he did not like. He wanted to ascribe it to constantly feeling the tingle of magic, but that had never been an unpleasant experience before. Still, he was so used to controlling magic that the sensation had him constantly on guard, and that did wear him down.

But as unsettling as he found the land of wild magic, Ciras clearly found it more so, and this bothered Moraven. He had not been as young as Ciras when he first felt the tingle of jaedunto, and had been more fortunate in having had training in a variety of schools prior to that. He couldn’t remember that training, but it had existed and Master Jatan’s instruction brought the skills back to him, even if he could not recover the memories.

The serrian experience had given him discipline and had trained him how to evaluate experiences so he could learn from them. This he had done immediately, and learned how to expand his access to the magic of swordsmanship. Phoyn Jatan had recognized his potential and position. He also took measure of Moraven’s maturity and explained very simply that he was at a crossroads in his life. If he were to view jaedunto as power, as some sort of right that allowed him to do as he willed, the power would twist him. Though he would live for generation after generation, his existence would be an eternity of torment. He would never know peace.

Taking to heart Master Jatan’s teaching, Moraven slowly learned how to harness his power. His lessons did come slowly, however, mastered only over time. He could never forget the haunted look in the eyes of young Matut when he’d slaughtered bandits without a thought on the road to Moriande. From that day forward, if it were possible to avoid combat, he did. If it were possible to avoid killing, he did. Where he had to kill, he made it clean and quick.

Ciras had not yet reached the point where he could separate the desire to perfect his skill from the consequences of employing that skill. Ciras did argue that the slaying of ruffians in Asath really mattered little and, in fact, had been necessary to prevent any alarm about Keles’ escape. Moraven agreed with both points. Had he not agreed with the latter, he would not have slain those he faced. The former point, however, was not as clear-cut. While the death of a ruffian had limited consequences—grief to those who loved him being the most likely—that view failed to take into account the effect on the swordsman.

Moraven could not remember every person he’d ever slain, and believed the peace of jaedunto insulated him from many of those memories. It did not save him from all of them, however. He’d killed in battles, in roadside encounters, and in duels. He recalled how it felt when a sword stroked a belly open, or the scream when a limb parted company with the body. Each time he took a life, it weighed his spirit down. In realizing my full potential, I block others from realizing theirs.

Moraven was fully aware that one school of thought about jaedunto suggested this was entirely necessary. It suggested that the way one reached that lofty position was by assuming the potential of those slain along the way. The obvious contradiction of this was a skilled cobbler whose skill slew no one, yet grew daily and carried him ever closer to jaedunto. Perhaps there was more than one path to jaedunto, or just that with each masterpiece made, someone else was robbed of the chance to have created it.

Regardless of the theoretical source of the power, hard work, discipline, and patience were all seen as vital. In their wanderings, Ciras Dejote had developed a certain impatience which, while it had not yet entered the realm of swordplay, did bring with it a disturbing contempt. He had no use for Borosan Gryst and his gyanrigot. While Moraven had been impressed with the Naleni’s skill at creating and re-creating the devices, Ciras harped on how quickly they broke, or how other, more simple methods could accomplish what they did.

Moraven had tried to deflect Ciras by giving him a simple duty. In their survey they cut across signs of a bandit company scouring the landscape. They found evidence of raids at several small encampments. Thaumston prospectors had been murdered and any store of the precious mineral stolen. Likewise they’d discovered a number of small tombs—things from ancient cairns to tiny caves that had been walled shut—which had been opened and the contents rifled.

To Ciras fell the duty of recording all evidence of the band’s predation. This kept him focused. The idea of meeting and dealing with cutthroats, murderers, and defilers of the dead fueled him. It sharpened his powers of observation and even sparked his imagination. He watched the tracks so closely he could identify individuals based on their horses and footprints. He gave them names and would report back on their current states of existence.

Unfortunately, this duty also fed his impatience. Whenever they would find fresh tracks, he would want to set off immediately in pursuit. Moraven always forbade it, citing the need to help Keles. Ciras argued that their mission from Master Jatan demanded they intercept the raiders and should take precedence. Moraven reminded him that the mission had been given to him, not Ciras, and he would decide when the time to strike was at hand.

Finally, they had run across tracks that told a story that required investigation. Moving through lowlands, they came to a canyon splitting the face of an escarpment. The bandits had ridden into it, then most of them had come back and continued along the escarpment toward the northeast. Yet three of them had not returned, and Moraven found his curiosity piqued.

He chose to ride in the lead and studied the rock walls rising up so high the sky became but a thin ribbon of blue. He saw no one up there, nor any signs of climbing, but he remained alert. Moraven was fairly certain that the bandits had no idea they were being trailed, so the chances of their setting up an ambush were minimal—and using only three men to do so was foolish. Assuming, however, that the missing members of the group might be dead meant that something had killed them. Whatever or whoever that was will present a similar threat to us.

Three miles in, the canyon opened onto a narrow valley that continued for another couple of miles before closing in again. Moraven could not see to the far end, but found it easy to imagine that the trail led to the top of the escarpment. It looked to be a fairly convenient way to move to the highlands, and doubtless was used by people and animals alike.

It was not without its perils, however. Three hundred yards into the valley sat a small pool of water roughly thirty feet in diameter. Not a ripple showed on its surface, and the sun reflected brightly from it. Given that much of the water in the Dolosan lowlands had a brackish quality to it, this pool looked quite inviting.

The only thing that spoiled the image was the circle of bleached skeletons and fresh bodies around it. Most lay with their heads facing the pool but a few, including one of the bandits, had been running from it. The circle touched the valley’s east and west walls, and several skeletons huddled against the stone—including a couple of warriors in armor.

Moraven reined up, and the others spread out in the small safe zone nearest the canyon, with the Viruk squatting in a thin slice of shadow to the east. The horses stamped and shied, not wanting to linger in this place of death.

Keles patted his horse’s neck. “I don’t blame you for not liking it here.”

Ciras rode up beside Moraven and pointed his quirt at one of the bandits. “That is Pegleg and the dead bay is his horse. The other two are Cutheel and Solehole. Pegleg went down first, and Cutheel next, knocked out of his saddle. Solehole went down with his horse and tried to run. He may have even dived for Cutheel’s horse—that, or fell—then tried to crawl away before dying.”

“I think your reading is correct.” Moraven used a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and peered more closely at the bandits. From where he sat, he couldn’t see what had killed the horses, but Solehole had a hole in his overshirt right over his spine. It appeared to be a burn mark, with considerable scorching around it. One of the armored skeletons also seemed to have a hole in his breastplate, but it was too far distant for Moraven to figure out what had caused it.

He slid from the saddle. “There definitely seems to be a perimeter. Stay back. I want to see what happens when—”

“If I might make a suggestion, Master Tolo?”

Ciras spitted Borosan with a harsh stare. “Quiet, gyanridin. My Master knows what he is doing.”

Moraven laughed. “Actually, I don’t. I would welcome a suggestion.”

“It would have been easier had we not abandoned my wagon at Telarunde, but I’ll make do.” Borosan climbed down off his horse and walked back to the packhorse he’d been leading. He opened a pouch and pulled out the mouser. “We can use this to see what is out there.”

The swordsman nodded. “Excellent idea.”

The gyanridin bowled the mouser into the circle and it snapped its legs out the instant it stopped rolling. The little metal ball scuttled forward, then left and right, slowly closing with the dead bay.

The pool reacted. As if a rock had dropped at its heart, a ripple spread out in a perfect ring. It hit the edges, but instead of lapping over, it reversed and sped back in. It picked up speed, and when it converged at the center, a column of water shot ten feet into the air. A spherical drop leaped up and hung there, glistening in the sunlight as the column flowed down again.

The sphere throbbed and altered its shape. It flattened into a disk, then thickened in the middle. Sunlight flashed through it, and suddenly the mouser began to smoke. The little gyanrigot continued its dash toward the dead horse and the zigzagging course forced the disk to shift shape and reposition itself. Several black char marks dappled the mouser’s shell, but it reached the dead horse and hid between haunch and tail.

A final puff of smoke matched the curling of tail hair. The disk became a sphere again and floated there. Light played through it slowly and languidly. It appeared almost inviting and certainly benign.

And had I not seen what I have just seen, my thirst might have driven me to accept the pool’s hospitality.

The Keru crouched at the edge of the death circle. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it is alive, so I don’t know if we can kill it. I don’t know if we should even try, but I’ve grown to be fond of that little mouser.”

“It would be a pity to lose it.” Moraven ran a hand over his jaw, then glanced right at Ciras. “What are you doing?”

His apprentice neatly folded his overshirt and began to draw off his shirt, despite the chill air. “I am the swiftest among us. I will run to the mouser and retrieve it. If I dodge as it did, the sphere will be unable to kill me.”

Sacrificing yourself for something you despise? Perhaps there is hope for you, Ciras. Moraven held a hand up. “That may be a bit premature. Master Gryst, can you not recall your mouser?”

Borosan frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t. The last thing I used it for, if you will recall, was going into a hole to see if there was any thaumston secreted there. It went for the horse because, I would imagine, the saddle pack has some thaumston. Once it has detected it, it will keep going for it and I’ve not enough here to bring it back in this direction.”

The clatter of armor and bones sounded over by Rekarafi. The Viruk tossed a helmeted skull at the sphere, but missed. As the missile flew past, the water flowed into a disk and concentrated sunlight melted the helmet.

“No matter you are faster than us, Master Dejote, you need to be faster than it.” The Viruk shook his shaggy head. “You are not that fast.”

Ciras ignored him and began to stretch. “I will not fail, Master.”

“Wait, I have an idea.” Keles started to rummage around in his saddlebag, then dismounted. “Borosan, that thing was focusing sunlight to burn the mouser, right?”

“I believe it was.” The gyanridin smiled broadly. “Yes, how incredibly efficient. As long as the sun is shining, it has a limitless source of power, and if it can do the same with moonlight and starlight, which it must do since some of those skeletons are of purely nocturnal animals, then . . .”

Ciras shook his head. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Speed will be the key.”

Keles shrugged his shoulders. “You could be right. Let me look at something here, though.” He tossed his horse’s reins to Tyressa, then jogged around to the west along the perimeter of the circle. Almost opposite where the Viruk crouched, he dropped to a knee and studied the pool. He weighed the leather pouch in his left hand, then undid the thongs tying it tight. He clearly measured the distance to the pool, and Moraven had no doubt the cartographer could estimate it down to the inch.

Then, instead of coming back to tell them how far it was and calculating how fast Ciras would have to run, Keles sprang to his feet and sprinted. He drove straight at the pool, leaping over piles of bleached bones and cutting around the half-melted helmet. His legs pumped and sand flew with every step. With his head down and arms swinging, he ran faster than Moraven would have thought possible.

His speed really didn’t matter, though.

The motion in the sphere quickened. Ripples formed on its surface and the light swirled through it. The disk flattened as it had before. The center swelled. Sunlight silvered the edges. Because Keles charged straight at it, the disk didn’t have to swivel to aim. It just tipped down effortlessly, tracking him with all the cold deliberation of a raptor soaring above a rabbit.

Moraven would have shouted a warning, but a cry of “Brilliant!” from Borosan stopped him. For a heartbeat the swordsman thought the gyanridin was describing the disk’s performance, but then he saw what Borosan was seeing.

“Faster, Keles, you’re almost there!”

Keles laughed in triumphant panic. His chosen path started in sunlight, but carried him into a narrow wedge of darkness. An outcropping of stone high up on the canyon’s wall cast a slender shadow into the pool’s heart. Another minute or two and the sun would have shifted enough to rob him of this passage, but Keles had seen it and acted instantly.

But what will he do when he reaches the pool?

Chest heaving, the cartographer dropped to his knees, powdering an ancient skull at the pool’s edge. He flicked the leather pouch skyward. A black jet of powder shot out and peppered the disk. The disk boiled and darkened as Keles upended the bag and emptied its remaining contents into the pool. The same inky blackness that had flooded the disk flowed through the pool, rendering both opaque.

Tyressa clapped her hands. “Of course, ground inkstone.”

Keles, his face blackened by ink dust save for his teeth and eyes, laughed aloud. “If light can’t move through it, it can’t burn anything.”

Moraven applauded. “Well done, Master Keles.”

The swordmaster’s companion scowled. “How did you know that would work?”

Keles shook his head. “Running into the shadow just made sense.”

Ciras nodded. “I know. I had seen it, but it was not near the mouser. I meant the inkstone.”

The cartographer sat back on his haunches. “I didn’t think if it would work or not.”

“Perhaps we need to consider how long it will continue to work.” Moraven climbed into the saddle again and reined his horse around. “If it is alive, it might purge itself of the ink. If it is just magic, it may do so faster. I would suggest haste.”

Nodding, Keles scrambled to his feet and retrieved the mouser. “Do you want the thaumston, too?”

“Please, yes. Never can have too much.”

“Ciras, get what you can from the bandit bodies, including any other thaumston. Maybe there will be clues to let us learn who they are.” Moraven took the reins of Ciras’ horse. “Be quick about it. If this canyon does go through, we’ll be in the uplands ahead of them. Knowing where they are going and what they are planning will make our journey much easier.”

 

Chapter Forty-two

10th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron read Prince Eiran’s ire as if it were written in the blackest of ink on the most pristine of papers, but he did not care. Snow had fallen during the day—fallen pure and white, no longer something to scare children. Cyron could see it as a thing of beauty, not a harbinger of evil times, and greatly enjoyed walking in it in his garden sanctuary.

The rising moon made the snow glow, and provided enough light for him to see the nocturnal animals begin to stir in their enclosures. Some of them did not tolerate the cold well and remained nestled in their burrows until their keepers came to feed them, but his favorites heard his tread and his voice, emerging to watch him pass in hopes of a treat.

Cyron paused before one small cage and smiled. In it, a clouded linsang had crawled into a wooden branch. Tan-furred with thick black stripes and dots running the length of its sinuous body, it struck the Prince as a cross between a cat and a weasel. Much like you, Eiran, save you lack its grace, poise, and charm. Cyron clicked his tongue at it and the creature’s narrow head came up.

“This one, Prince Eiran, came from the southernmost reaches of Ummummorar. Jorim Anturasi brought it and its mate back for me. Though it tolerates being caged, it would much prefer I give it the run of the garden. I can’t, however, because it likes to eat eggs and that disturbs the birds I have.”

Eiran, looking poorly for his fast ride to Moriande and the fact that he’d not been received the night before, did not even attempt to feign interest. “It has something in common with my sister, then.”

“Your sister sucks eggs, does she?” Cyron opened his cloak and brought out a small basket that held a clutch of tiny blue eggs. He lifted one to the bars of the cage and the linsang sat up. The creature accepted the egg in its forepaws, then cracked it and began to lick at the oozing albumen.

“No, Prince Cyron, she, too, is a captive. Prince Pyrust has her. They are probably back in Felarati, living as husband and wife.”

“Thank you for reminding me. I shall have to send them a gift.”

Eiran began to tremble with rage, his pale face purpling. Had Cyron not long since mastered his own anger, his face would have been similarly contorted. He had not anticipated that the Council of Ministers for Helosunde would choose a prince to lead them so quickly, and he certainly never would have thought Eiran would be their choice. Jasai would have been a better choice than Eiran; but Helosundians only seemed to revere women as mothers, concubines, or the Keru, and she fit none of those categories. He had no doubt that Eiran had been advanced so someone else could move into the succession through marrying her, and Pyrust was doing just that. And the only way to blunt his claim on the Helosundian throne would be to keep Eiran alive, when he wanted nothing more than to toss the idiot and those who elected him to the tigers.

Cyron had thought that if the ministers were going to make a quick choice, they would pick General Pades. He had the military background to make him the logical choice. Pyrust had seen how dangerous he was, and had doubtlessly taken great delight in charging Eiran with bringing Pades’ severed head to Cyron.

The retaking of Meleswin had killed the most able military leaders outside the Keru, and had harvested the most able-bodied of the Helosundians. The mercenaries—termed Honor Guards to assuage the gods and appease human vanities—remained in their fortresses in the mountain passes. Pyrust still would be neither strong nor foolish enough to venture south, especially with snow falling, so the situation in the north would remain static until the spring.

I could but hope for a long and deep winter. Not only would it keep him home, but would give me an excuse to skip a shipment of rice. Cyron sighed as he dismissed that thought. The Desei people were as much captives as the linsang, and if Cyron did not feed them, they would starve. He did not want that happening.

He shook his head and moved on, hearing Eiran crunch snow beneath his feet as he followed. In the songs of heroes there usually was a verse or two about some great hardship a hero witnessed that prompted him to do great good later in life. Were he worthy of such a song, a bard somewhere would manufacture some incident that explained why Cyron did not let the Desei starve. Perhaps it would be his having rescued some exotic animal from the Moriande bazaar and nursed it back to health. He would have seen it as his calling to do that for the Desei and, perhaps, eventually, the whole Empire.

Cyron would have found it a comfort if such a thing had actually happened. If it had, he could have put it in perspective, defined it, and seen its limitations. He could work around it when necessary. Having his enemy weakened by starvation would be a benefit, but he could not bring himself to do that.

His father or grandfather could have, without batting an eye; but they’d grown up in a more difficult time, when ruthlessness was a virtue. For him, with his father’s program of exploration, he saw the world as one of expanding resources, not a limited supply that necessitated rationing. Trade was making his nation strong and providing benefits to all, which made most of his people happy—and those who were not were just impatient because wealth was taking its time in trickling down to them. Even they, however, had to admit that he was spending money on projects that benefited them, like dredging the Gold River.

Because his nation was master of a growing world, he had the time to look past the divisions that had separated the parts of the old Empire. During the Time of Black Ice, the Principalities had become fiercely nationalistic. They needed that sense of self to give them purpose and unite them in common adversity. The snows that fell all but isolated them, so they really had little news of and contact with the rest of the world. People barely had enough to survive, so trade was seen as a luxury, and wood more useful for heat than for building ships to explore.

The other Princes, when they did give thought to the old Empire, saw it as a place split up by a warrior-Empress and one that, therefore, would have to be reunited by the sword. There was no doubt that Cyrsa had divided the Empire among families that would compete with each other for power. She had done that because she assumed none of them would become ascendant and be able to oppose her on her return. What was expedient for a year or two, however, had become entrenched and unworkable after the Cataclysm.

Cyron didn’t see the need for conquest by the sword. The Helosundians seemed content to remain bought. Erumvirine enjoyed the expansion of trade and didn’t seem to mind that their access to the rest of the world came through Nalenyr. Their more moderate climate lent itself to a lifestyle that rewarded lazy indolence. The Virine slumbered like the Bear that represented them and, at this point, Cyron doubted the Bear would be much of a threat were it ever roused.

In another generation I could join the houses through marriage and merge our nations.

“My brother, you have heard nothing of what I have said.”

Cyron stopped and regarded Eiran coldly. “Look about you, my brother. What do you see?”

“Snow. A garden. Cages. Animals.”

“Now really look.”

Eiran slumped his shoulders beneath a snow-flecked cloak. “I see what I have told you.”

Cyron nodded. “Then tell me what you don’t see.”

“I don’t follow.”

“No, you don’t, which is why you are in the muddle you are in now, and why your nephews and nieces will have a half-handed man as their father.” Cyron waved a hand along the row of cages. “Do you know what you will not see here, Eiran? You won’t see a dragon. Everything else, you will see. A Desei hawk, a Helosundian dog. Do you know why you won’t see a dragon?”

The Helosundian snorted. “Because your vaunted Anturasi hasn’t found one?”

“Oh, I daresay that if I asked Jorim to find me one, he would. He would find me a dozen and bring them all.” Cyron lowered his hand and let his cloak close about him. “It is because I would not cage a dragon. A dragon would wither and die in a cage. A dragon cannot be caged, for a dragon has larger concerns.”

“So does the dog!”

“Ha.” Cyron reached out and grabbed Eiran by the front of his cloak. He dragged him forward a dozen stumbling steps, then tossed him against a cage. “There’s your Helosundian dog. He’s magnificent. My Keru take very good care of him. He is their pet.”

The dog, which had been huddled with his tail curled up to warm his nose, stood and shook his thick winter coat. Black with a white band around the eyes and white stockings, the long-haired animal had enough size and bulk to take a wolf. The Keru, when entering combat, painted a white mask around their eyes to honor their nation’s emblem.

The dog sniffed at Eiran, then backed, baring his teeth.

“The only thing a Helosundian dog cannot tolerate is cowardice, Eiran.” Cyron let his voice drop into a deep whisper. “If what you reported as passing between Jasai and Pyrust in Meleswin is true, then she accepted him as her husband without duress. Some would dispute that, saying she bought your life so you will be able to succor her. They would make her captivity a cause around which to rally support and send an invasion force north.”

“That is exactly why she agreed.”

“Look at him, Eiran; he still growls at you. He knows you are terrified of Pyrust. Your sister knew it, too. She knew you would never come for her. She knew you would use any excuse possible to avoid that. She’d seen your army slaughtered.

“No, she accepted Pyrust’s offer knowing exactly what it was. It affords Helosunde a degree of autonomy and relieves it of oppression. There will be no more war in Helosunde. I will continue to maintain the Keru and the other Honor Guards, and I shall even allow you to parade some of them about, but fear not. You are a hound that shall never go to war.”

Eiran levered himself away from the bars of the cage. “You will keep my people caged as you keep this dog, then?”

“In a cage you will be safe. Like this beast here, I shall find you a cousin of mine to marry and you shall produce children. One of my children by whomever I choose will marry one of your nieces, linking our houses. Your children I will have married into the Five Princes. I will make you useful, but not a threat, so Pyrust will not feel the need to have you murdered.”

The Helosundian stared at him, shock widening his eyes. “You can’t do that. I am not in a cage. I am not a pet.”

“No, you are not. You are just someone who is walking after he should be dead.” From deeper in the sanctuary came the piercing cry of the Desei hawk demanding to be fed. “Even it knows you should have died in Meleswin, and you likely would have died save that you cause me more trouble alive than dead. If Pyrust had slain you, I could have countered by forcing the Council of Ministers to make a new choice—someone who was tractable—or to make no choice at all. By sending you back, he gives me the choice of killing you or not. Which reminds me, when we see the tigers, try not to stand too close to the edge of their pit.”

Eiran shivered. “You wouldn’t!”

If he had any intelligence at all, he’d know he just saw past your bluff. “Not today, for the tigers have already been fed. You would do well to make certain you do the things I desire in the future, lest I invite you to walk again in my sanctuary.”

The Helosundian Prince’s face closed and he looked down. Little puffs of vapor were the only sign he lived. Then his head came back up, his eyes dull. “My life is over, then?”

Cyron shrugged. “Tell me, what was it you thought when they elected you Prince?”

“I thought . . . I thought I would look very heroic in the robes of state.” He sighed, exhaling two plumes of steam.

“Even the most resplendent robes will not a prince make, nor will mud-spattered rags unmake a prince. You were chosen, Eiran, to be manipulated and controlled. Those who followed you to Meleswin did not know that. They accepted your authority.” Cyron’s eyes tightened. “I am going to give you a chance—less because it will benefit me than because it will give Pyrust something else to worry about.”

The young man’s spine straightened. “What?”

“I am going to budget for you enough gold to buy a hundred thousand quor of rice. I want you to spend it on things to benefit the people who expect you to lead them. I want you to live with them, learn from them, determine what they need—not what they say they want, but what they need. I want you then to provide them the means necessary to attain those ends.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If that is the case in a year, I will find you a tower that will become a gilded cage. You will never need, want, nor fear in that cage, but you will never be allowed out of it.” Cyron reached a hand through the cage bars and scratched the Helosundian dog behind his ear. “Learn your duty, do your duty, then we will truly be brothers. Make yourself useful to me, and you will find that my resources and gratitude know no limits.”

 

Chapter Forty-three

13th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Stormwolf, off the Mountains of Ice

“Thank you for making the time to see me, Captain.” Jorim bowed in her direction. “I asked Iesol to confirm what I have discovered.”

Anaeda cleared her desk. “You’ve brought charts, so this is a problem of navigation?”

“Yes and no.” Jorim set the rolled charts on her desk and unfurled the first one. “This is a map of our progress. I’ve been incorporating data as best I can, from what we have learned and from the Soth map. I’ve already drawn in the coast of the Mountains of Ice, at least as much of it as we have been able to survey.”

Anaeda studied the chart for a moment, tracing a finger along the line the fleet had traveled. Their course had come down south and curved to the east, skirting the empty vastness of the ocean to discover the islands and to confirm the existence of the Mountains of Ice. “This looks accurate to me. What is the problem?”

Jorim drew in a deep breath and attempted to quell the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach. “You’ll recall how the islands on the Soth map were further apart than we expected? And you’ll remember me telling you that they’d drawn Cartayne smaller than it should be?”

“Something to flatter the Viruk, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. That bit of lore about the Soth is wisdom handed down to me from my grandfather, and I have no clue as to where he got it, but I know he believes it. He’s worked with Soth charts and, based on measurements, he’s made some determinations. He knows the world is a globe. Based on the measurements he’s been given, he’s even managed to calculate the diameter of the world.”

The captain nodded. “I am well aware of the hopes that by sailing east we could reach the western shore of Aefret. The logic of such a passage is inescapable, and the question is which path is shorter, sailing east or west? When you are on the sea enough, you also hear stories of those who claim to have found the place from which True Men sailed—the land of light eyes. Some think we came from another world, sent here after fulfilling some destiny. Others think we were just blown off course. Given the storms down here, I think that’s most likely.” She folded her arms. “I still fail to see what the difficulty is.”

“The difficulty is, captain, that my grandfather’s calculations were wrong.” He unrolled the second chart. “The art of measurement is not wholly accurate. Nautical miles and statute miles are not the same. Each of the Principalities uses a slightly different distance to define miles, and most people don’t worry about it. Other towns are a day’s travel, or a week’s, or just too far. Even the surveys my brother and I have undertaken are flawed. The further we go from Moriande, the greater the error, and it compounds.

“Now, the device your cousin created has allowed for more accurate measurements, but I realized I was making a mistake in calculating based on statute miles, not nautical miles. I communicated erroneous things to my grandfather, and when I corrected, suddenly the Soth scale for Cartayne made sense.” He turned and rested a hand on Iesol’s shoulder. “I asked the minister to check my math, and he put his students on it as well.”

Anaeda’s eyes narrowed as she studied the new chart. “How big a mistake?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

Her head came up fast. “A quarter of the world unaccounted for?”

“Yes.”

She sat down hard and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “So sailing east will bring us to Aefret, but it will take far longer than we expected.”

Jorim leaned with both hands on the desk. “That’s if we ever get there.”

Anaeda sat back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “Explain.”

“Currents. We’re south of the equator, and the current is running from right to left. Water warmed flows toward the south pole. North of the equator it goes in the opposite direction. If the world were of the size we thought it was, then the southern circle would carry us to Aefret. The upper current would have carried us to lands at the other end of the Spice Route. The difficulty we have is that the world is much bigger than we thought. We know water is cooler away from land and hotter close to it. I think if there were nothing in the unknown quarter, the current coming across the equator would have cooled too much to have the force it does coming in to our coast.”

The ship’s captain smiled slightly. “I am pleased your time aboard the Stormwolf has conferred upon you the information you now possess. Your knowledge of currents is admirable, but faulty. All that is required is for the west coast of Aefret to be shaped so that it intercepts this polar current, warms it, and directs it back west along the equator.”

She leaned forward and studied the vast expanse of ocean to the east of the Principalities. “Even as I tell you all that is required to invalidate your idea, I don’t believe it. In every quarter of the world—every quarter up to this point at least—earth and water are in balance. To assume nothing but water exists out here is as absurd as to think it could be a solid wall of stone reaching to the stars. And then there is the mystery of the land from which True Men came. We also might well wonder after the sea devils and what they call home. Is it possible some new world lies in the heart of this emptiness? Of course, but this leaves us another question.”

Jorim cocked an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“Why didn’t this emptiness or whatever is there appear on Soth charts?”

Iesol bowed his head apologetically. “Permission to speak, Captain?”

“Please, Minister.”

“The Soth were subject to the Viruk. They served them in all ways, including as educators and keepers of information. Perhaps they chose to hide this knowledge so that any peoples in this place would remain out of Viruk hands.”

“That is certainly possible, Minister, but the Viruk were capable sailors and explored much of the world. The idea that the Soth bureaucracy could keep knowledge of a quarter of the world from them is unsatisfactory.”

Jorim straightened up. “I have another idea, Captain.”

“What would that be?”

“Perhaps this quarter of the world did not exist when the Viruk Empire was its most powerful.”

Anaeda frowned. “The idea of bureaucracy sounds better at the moment.”

“No, think of it for a moment. We know how much the Cataclysm changed our world, but it really was very little compared to what happened when Virukadeen sank into the Dark Sea. The Viruk fought a war with magic—magic so powerful even our greatest legendary magicians could not begin to match it. Imagine, if you will, that the war changed what sank into something akin to thaumston. Anything could happen. We’ve seen volcanoes add to coastlines, so perhaps hundreds of volcanoes were triggered and were able to expand the world.”

“And you would then suggest, Master Anturasi, that the Soth chart you saw on Cartayne made the island smaller than it really is to reflect the fact that the Soth had determined the world had expanded?”

Jorim shook his head. “I don’t know, Captain Gryst. I make maps, I find animals. I am, as you said at our first meeting, an adventurer. I don’t care what would have put a landmass here. It could be the gods. It could be Viruk magic, it could have been hidden by sloppy Soth cartographers. All of that is immaterial. I would just like to get there and see what we find.”

Anaeda stood, then bowed to him. “I appreciate your scholarly approach to this problem. We have one duty for certain, and that is to survey the Mountains of Ice. I mean to continue that part of our journey. Where we go from there will depend on the answer to a question. Consider your answer before you speak.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Knowing the nature of your relationship with your grandfather, I assume you have not told him of your errors in measurement.”

“No, Captain.”

“I also assume you would have avoided it until our return. Discovering something out here—a new landmass, the home of True Men, anything monumental—might distract him enough that he’d overlook your error. It would save you a great deal of pain.”

“That’s true.”

“So, here is my question.” She watched him closely. “Are you willing and able to deceive your grandfather about what we discover?”

A jolt ran through him. Jorim had no qualms about deceiving his grandfather; he had lied to him about countless little things—errors of omission mostly—all of his life. Qiro knew nothing of the Fenn or the sighting of the Wavewolf. His grandfather had been abrupt enough that he didn’t probe, so Jorim had not needed to work hard to conceal information from him. He knew he could, but also that his own enthusiasm would make it difficult if such a momentous discovery were made.

“The duties I perform are not just for the Anturasi family, Captain, but at the order of Prince Cyron. If I deceive my grandfather, I deceive the Prince. You can see my reluctance to do that.”

“I can, but we have a larger responsibility to the Crown, and to Nalenyr. The other Principalities believe that if we are fortunate enough to return, at the very most we will have found another route to Aefret. This threatens them because it means more trade for Nalenyr, but it is a threat they are already learning to deal with. If we find a whole new continent, we open not just the wealth of Aefret, but that of an unimagined world. Nalenyr will instantly be able to beggar any other nation. That means they will all be folded into a Naleni Empire. Deseirion won’t stand for that, and likely even the Virine would have to react.”

Jorim slowly nodded. “We could sail back to a nation devastated by war. Nalenyr might not even exist when we get home.”

“If you will permit me?” Iesol looked up sheepishly from his chair. “ ‘As the Master said, “The danger of dreams comes when one acts on them as if they are prophecy.” ’ ”

The cartographer frowned. “Elucidate, please.”

“You touched on external threats, but with Nalenyr you have two other threats, both based in dreams of avarice. One is internal, for the inland lords will not allow themselves to be done out of whatever treasures might be found. They will spend great amounts to send out ships that will not return. It will ruin them. Peasants will leave the land and flock to the cities in hopes of crewing a ship, or working in a shipyard, so harvests will suffer and the nation will face famine. The whole fabric of society will be rent.”

The little man shivered. As a member of the bureaucracy he could have no love for the chaos of such upheaval. Jorim saw fear on his face and heard it in his voice as he spoke, then his voice shifted. Fear ebbed, and anger rose.

“The second threat is that of the Ministers. You, Captain, and you, Master Anturasi, have shown me more kindness and respect than anyone in the bureaucracy. The Ministers do cherish order above all else, and already resent the fact that great wealth provides power they cannot control. They are capable of anything to maintain order.”

Anaeda’s eyes narrowed. “Even treason?”

“More, though they would never define it as such. If Prince Cyron were seen to be allowing power to flow to those who are not worthy, it would be a simple task for them to find a noble who thought as they did, or who could be controlled. By falsifying reports, they could blind the Prince to a growing revolt, and they could even deliver him into the hands of his enemies—if they did not decide to kill him outright themselves.”

Jorim frowned. “That’s overreaching.”

“Consider history, Master Anturasi. The Council of Ministers for Helosunde has shown no desire to relinquish power, and their betrayal of the Helosundian Prince is accepted by many as fact. Establishing such a Council for Nalenyr might well seem a solution to a problem the ministers have not had to deal with before.”

And I am the only link back to Nalenyr. Jorim wondered if that were actually true, since a number of the scholars with the ship might well be able to establish a link back to blood kin in Nalenyr. Then again, none of them know where we are, so if we do find something and tell them it is West Aefret, that is what they would tell people back home.

Jorim looked at his two companions. “You realize that we are entering a treasonous conspiracy? When we return, the Prince might listen to reason and sanction what we have done. Or he might decide that the time wasted in our return has hurt Nalenyr and have us hanged for traitors.”

“I think, Master Anturasi, that you will be able to convince him it was all for the best. You know he loves the animals you bring for his sanctuary.” Anaeda Gryst smiled. “We’ll keep this secret so your gifts will be a surprise. How can he complain about that?”

“He’s not that simple.”

“No, but he’s reasonable. After all, it’s one thing for us to sail east. The trade route is only viable if we can make it back.” She tapped the new world map with a finger. “Let’s see what’s there. Then we’ll see if we can return before anyone gets excited enough to start killing over what we have found.”

 

Chapter Forty-four

17th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Dolosan

Keles Anturasi woke slowly, in the vain hope that doing so would make his head feel better. He didn’t want to open his eyes, because even the slightest bit of light would start his head pounding. He knew Rekarafi did not mean to cause him discomfort, and the nausea that he had first experienced around him had long since passed, but the headaches would not abate. They arrived as the sun went down and remained, disturbing his sleep, leaving him achy for the rest of the day.

He hoped the last of the venom would finally work itself out of his system. He had done everything the others could suggest to help him get rid of it, from eating the sort of odd foods they found growing around them to exercise. The feathered berries, once they were plucked, had been the most effective. They had a sharp sour taste which, if it didn’t actually cure the headaches, certainly distracted him from the pain.

Ciras had made it his personal duty to show Keles how to use a sword. The cartographer was fairly certain this was mostly because the Tirati was still embarrassed over his simple solution to the problem of the pool. Moraven had used Keles’ action at the pool as an example of the employment of intelligence over thoughtless action, and Ciras seemed to take it to heart. Sword instruction was a means of paying off a debt, and it did force Keles to focus on something other than how he felt.

Tyressa adopted a different approach, which entailed taking Keles off on little side journeys. These had the advantage of distancing him from Rekarafi as well as removing him from his logbooks and maps. She showed great patience in educating him about animals, the tracks they left behind, plants, their seeds and flowers, and how to determine if they were edible or not. She took great pains to separate fact from speculation, though later observations of creatures often confirmed what she’d assumed based on their tracks and scat.

He’d listened carefully and had begun to understand some more of what his brother found so engaging about his surveys. He could measure the land and draw it, but that didn’t convey a full knowledge of it. It felt good to fill his lungs with fresh air, and to feel delicate flowers, or spot a tuft of fur hanging from a thorn and know what it came from.

“It is odd, Tyressa, but I have always thought of the Keru as creatures of the city. This knowledge you have isn’t something you could learn in Moriande.”

She laughed and crouched beside some uplands heather, brushing a thumb over the purple blossom. “For the Naleni, we are of the city, but you only see us as a uniform company. I’m ten years your senior, but have only been in Moriande for seven years.”

“And before that?”

She frowned. “I was not in Moriande.”

Keles walked over and knelt beside her. “Tyressa, I remember your telling me that first night, on the Catfish, there were things I didn’t need to know. I want to respect that. I will respect that, but I am curious. I assume you learned a lot of what you’re teaching me in Helosunde. I’m not seeking to pry, but simply to find a frame of reference.”

The blonde woman turned her head and regarded him. Her glance cut at him more coldly than the winds, but only for a heartbeat. Then it warmed—fractionally. “Keles, I have come to respect you for your dedication to duty and even your inventiveness. You believe you only want a frame of reference, but past experience tells me that is not entirely so. I know what Naleni men grow up thinking about the Keru. I even recall you and your brother passing into your grandfather’s celebration—yes, I was at the door that night.”

Keles blushed. “I didn’t—”

“Don’t worry. You didn’t look at us any differently than any man, and your glances were far kinder than those of most women. The rumors you’ve heard shape what you think of us. We hold ourselves apart, you’re told. We take no lovers, bear no children, and have undergone secret rituals that allow us to draw strength from Helosunde. You also hear we only love women, or that the Prince is the only man we will accept in our beds. Some even think we have seduced this Prince and his father before him, and are raising an heir to the Naleni throne that we can use to replace him when we decide he no longer serves the cause of Helosunde.”

“I’ve heard those stories, but I’ve never believed them.”

She stopped, then lowered her eyes and nodded. “You probably haven’t, have you? Once you left behind adolescent fantasies, you didn’t contemplate any of that. Not much of a surprise, in fact; just a pity.”

He stood and brushed red dust off his knees. “A pity? How is it a pity?”

“It shows how insulated you are from life.” She turned and looked up at him. “Did you love the woman you took the scars for?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Why?”

Keles folded his arms over his chest. “Well, because she was pretty and she was from a good family and . . .” His voice trailed off. “My father married a woman from a merchant house, his father before him. It was expected.”

“Expected.” Tyressa snapped off a sprig of heather and tucked it behind her left ear. “You loved her because you thought you were supposed to love her. It fit into your conception of the world—just the way the numbers and distances allow you to quantify the world. You seek order, and she was part of that. She was the piece that would fit well into the mosaic you think your life should become.”

“That’s not true.” Yet he found no reason to back up his denial. He’d allowed himself to believe he loved Majiata because he wanted to love her. I needed to, because I needed someone to love me just as my mother loved my father.

She opened her arms and slowly turned a circle. “Look at this place, Keles. It existed before you ever thought of measuring and defining it. It will continue to be what it is long after your map has moldered to nothing.”

He shivered. “Great. Thanks. I get the idea. What I do out here won’t matter.”

She shook her head. “No, you fool, you have it all backward. It’s not what you do out here that matters. It’s what being out here does to you that matters. Right now, you’re nothing but a puppet performing for your grandfather. Worse, he’s trained you so well that even after he dies you will continue to perform the same way. A puppeteer could not wish for more of the dolls he leaves behind.

“You don’t seem to understand that everything you do out here will matter. Your maps will open this land to exploration. People will come—but unless you understand that the land is more than distances and elevations, you won’t be able to guide them where they should go, or show them how they should prepare for things.”

“This place, Tyressa, is a long way from colonization. Yes, there are scroungers and bonediggers who live here, but the land changes them. There is still wild magic.”

“Yes, Keles, but will it change you?”

“I don’t understand.”

Tyressa sighed. “I don’t suppose you do. Look, my world has been very small. Yes, I come from Helosunde; I grew up there. I killed a few Desei, which is why I was chosen to be one of the Keru. From there my world expanded to include Moriande. But now I’m here, seeing things I’ve never seen before, and I realize the whole of the world is not a captive nation. My people keep hungering for a tiny portion of the world that will cost them more than it is worth. Don’t look at me with that sort of shock—you know what I am saying is true. If instead of spending time plotting raids and complaining about how the gods have hidden their faces from us, were we to pick up lock, stock, and barrel to head out to Solaeth or Dolosan, or even up the Gold River, we could build ourselves a new nation. As it is, we let our past and duty to it define us. It limits what we can become.”

Keles slowly nodded. “And you are saying that my slavish adherence to my training and my grandfather’s wishes limits me in the same way?”

“Only in that they stop you from seeing the world as it is.” She smiled. “How can you think to define the world when you have a haze of numbers and an avalanche of scrolls to separate you from it?”

“I can’t, really.” He frowned for a moment, then looked up into her eyes. “What you’ve just said . . . It isn’t the sole result of your having come on this trip, is it? You were thinking these things before, which is why you were chosen.”

Tyressa turned and began to walk back to where their horses cropped heather. “That might have been a factor.”

“It makes for a lonely life, doesn’t it?”

The glance she gave him was daunting. “You’ll offer to relieve me of that burden?”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking.” He looked down. “You feel lonely because your thoughts are spreading wider than those of your companions. For me, it was the opposite. I kept my world small, and others were content to let me go my way. Even here, you were all ready not to bother me—and bother with me.”

“We might have, but then you dealt with the pool.” She smiled. “You didn’t tell someone else how to do it; you just did it. You did something for our common good. You joined us. You let us know we’re more than just gyanrigot.”

Keles joined her at the horses and hauled himself into the saddle. “If that’s what you thought, I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I was not thinking about the world; I was just thinking about what I was supposed to be doing.”

She nodded. “We understand. Most of us, anyway. Borosan is worse than you, and I’ve no idea what the Viruk is thinking.”

“Worse than me? Is that possible?” He smiled. “And, Tyressa, I’m sorry for thinking what everyone does about the Keru. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

The Keru slowly turned to regard him. “You mean you don’t find us alluring in the way no pillow-bred Naleni waif could ever be?”

“Yes. I mean . . . No, I mean . . .” Keles’ shoulders slumped. “Kill me now. It will save trouble later.”

Tyressa laughed. “The sleeping dragon has awakened. Slowly, slowly, but awakened nonetheless.”

She pointed out a multitude of things on their ride back—including the opening to a small cave that appeared to be breathing—and Keles drank in every word. When they reached the campsite Moraven had chosen, they found three scroungers had joined them. One, a wizened old man swathed in animal furs of a color not seen in Moriande, sat off to the side with Moraven and Borosan. The gyanridin often served as something of a translator with the prospectors and bonediggers. The other two, younger and decidedly more hale, tended the fire and were roasting something over it. Keles would have taken it for a rabbit save that it had seven legs.

Ciras sat with them and traded pleasantries, but the conversation remained strained. Rekarafi perched himself on a rock downwind of the campsite. The cool breeze ruffled his hair. He’d closed his eyes and lifted his muzzle. His slit nostrils flared as if he could inhale whatever they were roasting. His hands rested on his knees, and firelight flashed from his claws.

Ciras bowed his head as the two of them reached the fire. “We have visitors. They have seen no signs of bandits, but the winds have blown rumors. They are going to head for Opaslynoti, at the foot of the pass into Ixyll.”

Keles immediately wanted to ask them to describe the pass, but he refrained. “And Opaslynoti is?”

One of the bonediggers smiled, revealing a tangle of yellowed teeth. “A crossroads.”

“Once a Viruk town.” Rekarafi opened his eyes. “The tavam alfel melted it to human proportions.”

“Thank you, Rekarafi.” Keles smiled. “I look forward to seeing it.”

The evening consisted of shared fare, and Borosan entertained the visitors with a duel between his mouser and the small thanaton. Ciras sang a ballad from Tirat, and Tyressa offered a lament for lost Helosunde. Their visitors repaid them with the ribald songs that warmed the nights throughout Dolosan. It concluded with an agreement to travel together to Opaslynoti, and Keles crawled into his tent without a single thought about reporting to his grandfather.

Morning came quickly enough, and when he finally did open his eyes, his head began throbbing. He acknowledged the pain, then smiled. In the past it had been an impediment to his mission, but now it was just pain. It was just a small part of his world, so he set about doing all he could to make it as small a part as he was able.

 

Chapter Forty-five

18th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Nirati woke with a start. There had been no sound or movement, or even stray ray of sunshine to bring her from a dead sleep to consciousness. It was just the instant alert of one who had been long and fitfully asleep somehow realizing that the time for more sleep had ended.

She found herself facedown against her pillow. Dampness on the pillowcase felt cool against her cheek. It wasn’t from tears, though she was certain she had cried during the night. Instead she’d drooled, sleeping gape-mouthed. Her exhaustion had not even allowed her the dignity of composing her features in some semblance of beauty.

She slowly gathered her hands under her shoulders, but this was not as simple as it should have been. She ached all over, but especially in her shoulders and elbows. The dull ache seemed familiar, having the quality of a strain from repetitive motion. When she helped her mother with spring or fall planting in their garden, she similarly felt it in her shoulders and lower back.

Slowly she levered herself over onto her back, then lay there, panting with exertion. She knew that having something so simple exhaust her was ridiculous, but she felt incredibly weak. Her blankets seemed so heavy they might as well have been woven from lead. Her nightclothes had twisted around her legs, and though she plucked at them, she could not free herself. Being trapped sent panic through her for an instant, then she forced herself to remain calm.

The panic revived dreams. She slowly reconstructed the night in hopes of sorting fact from fiction. Somewhere in there she sought what had robbed her of strength—though she doubted she would find it. But there was little else for her to do than think, and she needed that façade of control if she was ever going to rise from her bed.

The evening before had been quite pleasant. Count Aerynnor had conducted her to the theater to watch the production of Jaor Dirxi’s The Feather Sword. It was the best of his satires, featuring a goosegirl who was so good at wielding a feather that she was able to defeat every swordsman she met. That the swordsmen wore costumes denoting their allegiance to Deseirion, or that her feather was gold and she was a fair maid of Nalenyr, added a degree of contemporary commentary that saved what was an otherwise mediocre production.

From there they had walked in public gardens, then returned to the apartments the count had rented once he had formally severed ties with the Phoesel family. There they had drunk wine and made love, then he had conducted her home. At least, she was certain he had, since she had no recollection of the trip, but here she was.

Her mother knew she was sleeping with the Desei noble. But aside from worrying about Nirati’s heart getting broken, she had approached the whole affair with practical good sense. She’d prepared the tincture of clawfoot and administered it before each evening meal. She invited Nirati to confide anything in her, and even suggested they might pay a visit to the Lady of Jet and Jade for advice.

Nirati had resisted that latter suggestion. Her prior sexual encounters had been with lovers as inexperienced as she. She had not taken much pleasure in coupling, save a joy that her partners were pleased and that they clearly desired her. Her own satisfaction she subordinated to theirs, because until Junel she had not known the ecstasy that could come from sex.

Junel had been a kind and gentle lover. He looked to her pleasure first, taking his time to undress her, to study her, to caress and kiss her. The warmth of his breath against her skin, the tingle of his caresses—whether touching her with fingertips, the back of his hand, or even when he wore thin leather gloves—started a fire burning in her. He talked to her, telling her she was beautiful and desirable, then asked what it was she wanted, how she wanted it. Faster, slower, more heavily or gently; whatever she desired he provided, and the times he made suggestions he opened whole new worlds of desire to her.

She would have thought, after making passionate love with him, that her dreams would be languid or peaceful or even torrid, but they had been something else entirely. Her limbs ached as if the dream had been real. She’d felt helpless, with her arms trussed behind her, her legs folded under. Thick bands restrained her. At first she thought they were leather, but as she studied them they became the coils of a furred snake. She could hear its hisses, and the crush of its flesh chilled her. She struggled to get away, but the snake merely laughed, saying there was no escape, would never be an escape. She was trapped forever.

Then her grandfather came and woke her. She was convinced that was a dream as well, but she drew her arms from beneath the blankets and could see red marks on her wrists and other bruises on her arms. She had struggled against him, she knew, for she could still hear his voice commanding her to be still.

She’d stared up at him. “Grandfather?”

“Yes, child. Yes, my little Nirati. I had to come.” He stared down at her, his eyes ablaze, then they softened. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his. “You had a bad dream.”

“Yes, I did; very bad.” She let him tug her up into a sitting position. “But how can you be here? It’s not possible.”

Qiro Anturasi shook his head. “The Prince thinks he has me locked away, but there are passages and paths of which he knows nothing. I know them all. Coming to you was not difficult. And that you needed me was reason enough to risk it.”

Nirati squeezed his hands. “Is there something wrong, Grandfather?”

The old man raised his head as if, by posture alone, he could deny that possibility. Then he sighed. “Truth be told, Nirati, I, too, have unsettled slumbers. Demons and monsters haunt my sleep the same as yours.”

She kept her voice quiet. “Is there something you’ve not told me about my brothers? Are they in danger?”

“Your brothers are as well as can be expected. They report to me as trained. Jorim is working hard at keeping his mind focused. Keles has always had that ability. I am learning much through them, which shall be to the benefit of all.”

“You’ve not answered my question.”

Qiro almost smiled. “No, I haven’t. Both of them try to keep things from me. It is not out of spite; that I would know. They keep it from me so I will keep it from you and your mother, but I know things. Keles, as expected, is encountering difficulties. He is ill—not seriously, child, have no fear. But he does not sleep well. At times he slips and I see things. The Wastes are stranger than I remembered. It is a challenge for Keles.

“As for your brother Jorim, he is excited about what he sees, but the journey is not progressing as planned. He has made wonderful discoveries, but there is also mystery. He seeks answers to questions that may not have answers.”

Nirati shivered. “You would know if something terrible happened, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, child, I would.” He stared her straight in the face. “But fear not. I shall let nothing befall a grandson of mine if it is in my power. Your brothers have resources they do not know exist. They will do well.”

She gave her grandfather’s hands another squeeze, for she knew not what to say. His voice, though distant as his stare, carried with it warmth and respect that she had never heard when Keles or Jorim were around.

“You love them, don’t you?”

Qiro shook himself, and his eyes refocused. “Of course. I drive them because I love them.” His voice began to rise and a strident tone entered into it. “The world is cruel and cold and hard. It resists the Anturasi attempt to define it, to tame it. It defies us, but it will lose. Their effort will help see to its defeat.”

He squeezed her hands, then let them drop to the coverlet as he stood. “But now you, my pet, are the heart of my concerns. I would not have your sleep troubled. Do you remember the game we used to play?”

Nirati smiled broadly in spite of herself. “Oh, yes. How could I forget?” When she was young and had shown no talent for cartography, she had been crushed. So during the times when Qiro gave Jorim and Keles little tasks to perform, he would sit and draw maps for her. They created the mythical land of Kunjiqui, and as she would describe it, Qiro would add symbols to the map, refining and defining the world of her creation.

Qiro had extended a hand to her and she had slipped from the bed. He led her to the wall and touched it. A section slid back silently, revealing a black corridor. “For you, Nirati, I have found a path to Kunjiqui. Come. It shall be your sanctuary from fear.”

She’d followed him down the corridor and into a sunlit meadow, which couldn’t possibly exist, since all the grass was silk and the birds singing in the trees were creatures of embroidery. The trees had limbs heavy with fruit, all mixed varieties, each huge and succulent. She smiled, seeing a pear with the rind of a lime, and knew that inside would be sweet flesh tasting of both.

Qiro released her hand and let her drift into the land they had created. “You are older now, so there are other things you may desire. The streams that now run with sweet tea may flow with wine. The stars will dance for your pleasure if you so desire. The fruit will be what you crave. The wind will always be gentle and warm. What rain falls will refresh. It will always be thus in Kunjiqui.”

His voice faded and she turned around to see him, but he had vanished like a ghost. That surprised her, but did not make her fear, for she did feel safe here in this land of her imagining. She sat down on the silk grasses and laid her head down, listening to the soft lullabies sung by the birds.

And she slept.

Fully awake now, Nirati summoned the strength to throw off her bedclothes and walked to the wall. She touched the cool stones, then pushed, hoping they would yield, but of course they did not. Not only was that an external wall, but it was three stories above the ground. I dreamed the whole thing. I dreamed his coming. I dreamed Kunjiqui.

Then she looked at her wrists again. The red marks remained, as did the bruises. Why and how they were there, she could not explain. She began to shiver. She turned and, pressing her back to the wall, slid to the floor.

Something was very wrong, but she could not identify it. She knew then that the only peace she would have would be that of an imaginary land created by a young girl.

“I hope,” she breathed, “that it will be enough.”

 

Chapter Forty-six

27th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Stormwolf, off the Forbidding Coast

The coastal survey of the Mountains of Ice had continued for two days when a storm boiled up from the west and blasted the fleet. The skies had darkened so quickly that even Jorim began to suspect that the gods hated them. Most sailors assumed they were close to the gate to the Underworld and that the storm was an effort to keep them away. That sort of idle speculation, however, only came in grumbles over cold meals. The shrieking winds and driving rains made thoughts of anything but survival a luxury.

For Jorim, the four days in which the ships were buffeted and blown eastward were times of sheer terror, relieved only by frustration. Having few skills that were of use in this situation, he was ordered to his cabin. Even his requests for data like speed and direction were rebuffed. He learned later that the device used to measure speed had been tossed into the sea once by a hapless young sailor. The knotted rope tied to it had been yanked so quickly from his hands that he had lost a finger.

The storm’s howl, the rattle of rain against the hull, and the creaking of every joint on the ship reminded him just how fragile the vessel was. Though the Stormwolf was the largest ship any man had ever built, the raging sea was enough to crush it like a paper lantern beneath a wagon wheel. The only thing which prevented that was the skill of the crew and the strength of those on the tiller. They kept the ship moving with the wind and through the towering waves.

Shimik had not taken well to the storm, and hid himself in a swaddling of blanket in the corner of Jorim’s cabin. The little creature mewed when thunder cracked close by and moaned in counterpoint to the ship’s groaning. Jorim wished he could have joined the Fenn in huddling safely away, but his pride and fury at the weather prevented him from doing so.

His mission, reinforced by Captain Gryst’s order, was to perform readings that would determine their position. He had the Gryst chronometer, which was keeping nearly perfect time—at least, by one clock measured against the other. He couldn’t determine noon, nor midnight, nor take readings from the stars, since the storm kept him in his cabin and the clouds hid the sun as well as the stars.

As annoying as the inability to take readings was, the storm prevented him from confirming a discovery he’d made during the survey. Just as the northern pole star was a useful point for navigation in the northern hemisphere, so his grandfather had charged him with selecting its equivalent to the south. He had decided that the Eye of the Cock would suit, and had intended to relay that information to Qiro as soon as he had confirmed it. While the Eye could not be seen from Moriande, the tail of the constellation could, and was known from old Viruk and Soth texts. Once south of the equator it would serve nicely, and was a discovery that would mitigate his error in measurements.

In some ways, being the keeper of the clocks became his only purpose on the ship. Captain Gryst would send sailors to ask him what time it was. And, as the storm wore on, those intervals degraded—as did the manners of everyone on board. Sailors had said a storm that intense could not last more than a day or two but, as it stretched into the third and fourth day, some came to think his timekeeping was mistaken.

After four days, the storm broke and the ocean became as placid as they had ever seen it. Jorim peeked out of his cabin and took readings. He did the math as quickly as possible, then double-checked it. His whistle of surprise had awakened Shimik, who sat up, rubbed his eyes, and awaited an explanation.

“We go longa longa.” Jorim sat back and studied the line he’d drawn on his map. The storm had blown them east over a thousand miles, and a bit north. It had carried them right into the unknown quarter.

It took two days for the fleet to reunite. Two ships had gone down, and the fleet’s survivors were uncertain if they hoped the ships had smashed into the Mountains of Ice or had just been dragged to the bottom of the ocean. The latter would have been a quicker way to die. Promises were made that they would look for survivors on their return trip, but everyone knew those promises were hollow. Currents had carried them further northeast, away from the Mountains of Ice, and getting back down there would be all but impossible.

For another two days the currents and light breezes continued, taking them to the northeast over featureless stretches of ocean. Jorim was about to despair of finding any land when a lookout spotted a line of clouds on the eastern horizon. By the time the sun was setting they saw a dark line beneath them which meant mountains, and the rumor rushed through the fleet that they had found Aefret. Fair winds and calm seas contributed to the buoyant attitude, and Captain Gryst allowed some celebration before she told the crew, “It’s time you did some sailing instead of just waiting for a storm to push us along.”

By dawn, the mountains had grown considerably—and everyone knew those mountains had to be very tall indeed. Jorim remembered Anaeda saying a wall of stone was as unlikely as open ocean in the unknown quarter, but for a day’s sailing it looked as if a wall was exactly what they were heading for. The mountains just kept growing, and none of the coastline looked the least bit inviting.

The fleet turned north and sailed up the coast. After several days, they had their first bit of luck. A gap in the mountains showed the outflow of a river, leading into a natural harbor. More important than the idea of safe anchorage and the prospect of freshwater, the Moondragon lay on the beach. It had been believed lost in the storm, and the sailors had felt that tragedy had just been part of the ship’s evident curse. It clearly had been brought up the beach for repairs. Its survival made many reconsider the curse.

But only as long as it took folks to realize that no people were actually on the ship. As the rest of the fleet came in, Jorim joined Captain Gryst on the wheel deck. He couldn’t see any signs of habitation—no fires or tents. Like everyone else, he assumed the worst—that the sea devils had taken the crew and were even now feasting on them.

“You’ll be thinking the sea devils mild compared to what I’ll do to the lot of you,” Captain Gryst barked. “Keep your eyes open for them and we won’t have another problem. Lieutenant Linor, get together two squads of soldiers to reconnoiter the beach and secure it.”

“Permission to join them, Captain.”

She turned and spitted Jorim with a sharp gaze. “Are you hoping to be eaten by sea devils, Master Anturasi, or to kill sea devils?”

“Neither. If there are sea devils about, we’ll find sign of them quickly. We know they use ships, so I’d imagine that if it were they, they’d be fixing the Moondragon. The reason I want to go is to take a look around. Exploring is exactly why you have me along.”

“I would prefer our soldiers to secure the beach first.”

“I don’t mean to argue with you, but I ask you to consider one thing before you make a final decision. Of everyone on this ship, I have the best chance of determining what is going on. I’ve been outside the Principalities in places that didn’t even have names.”

Her lips flattened into a line, then she nodded. “If you leave my sight, if you leave the beach, don’t come back. I’ll be leaving you here.”

“As ordered, Captain.” Jorim bowed to her, then retreated to his cabin. He strapped on his sword, then joined the soldiers as they descended into two of the ship’s boats. Captain Gryst watched from the wheel deck and Shimik peeked out from between her feet and the railings.

“Lieutenant Linor?”

The woman leading the soldiers looked up. “Yes, Captain?”

“Listen to Master Anturasi, but no one leaves the beach until I give the order.”

“Understood.”

Jorim took his customary place in the bow of the boat as the sailors rowed toward the shore. He studied the vegetation, which was lush, green, thick, and tall. The mountains, which jutted up into the clouds, surrendered less than a mile of land to the ocean, and trees had aggressively colonized that small crescent. He might have expected the ocean water to have killed everything off, but clearly storms dumped an incredible amount of water on the cliffs. That freshwater would have been enough to hydrate them.

And the river as well. The sailors cursed as they had to pull against its current. Jorim suspected the bay’s water was more fresh than salt, and wondered what sort of fish he’d find in it. Would they be riverine, marine, or some curious mix?

The boat rode a breaker into the beach and Jorim was out before oars had been shipped. He sank to a knee and let a handful of sand drift through his fingers. It felt normal, and the pieces of shell and strands of seaweed were recognizable. Even the calls of the birds he heard were vaguely familiar.

He got up and joined Lieutenant Linor as she walked the perimeter of the shore near the ship. “No tracks of the sea devils.”

She shook her head. “Nothing to show a fight.” As they walked along the beach she pointed to a path leading into the interior. “They off-loaded as much as they could and carried it inland. Maybe they found a cave or a hilltop where they could raise a structure to shield them.”

They paused at the river’s edge. Silvery fish swam in the current and birds waded in to knife sharp beaks at them. Jorim crouched and scooped up a handful of the water. He sniffed it, then poured it out. He rubbed a bit against his lips, but felt no tingle there or on his hand. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with the water. Save for the blue plumage, that bird could be an Emperor stork. If it’s drinking and eating, this place is probably safe.”

He stood and looked back at the beached ship. “They made it into this harbor four or five days ago. They off-loaded the ship, dragged it in, began to make repairs. Let’s say that took two days. Then something happened. Something that stopped them working and prevented the lot of them from returning. What could that be?”

Lieutenant Linor looked past him and her face drained of blood. Jorim spun and had the answer to his question.

A copper-skinned man stood at the entrance to the path. He was impossibly tall, and muscled as thickly as anyone Jorim had ever seen. He wore upper body armor woven from thick fibers, and a loincloth of finer weaving. Both had been decorated with geometric designs rendered in bright yellows, greens, and blues. Beaten copper greaves and bracers protected his shins and forearms. He had a small round shield in his left hand and an odd war club in his right. As near as Jorim could tell from a quick glance, black stone blades had been set in the club.

He made a mental note to study the weapon later, but that was only because the giant’s mask demanded immediate attention. It did nothing to restrain the man’s long black hair, which fell over his shoulders. The mask was made of gold, and had been inset with jade over all; jet likewise surrounded the open mouth and the eyes. A trio of long, gaudy green feathers with yellow eyes rose another three feet above his head, making him a full ten feet tall.

Jorim held a hand out, freezing Lieutenant Linor’s attempt to draw her sword. Realizing he might be committing the final and most foolish act of his life, Jorim bowed and held it, then tugged on her arm to draw her down, too. Straightening up, he smiled with far more serenity than he felt.

“Peace of the gods be upon you.”

The giant bowed his head, then his voice echoed from the mask. “May their smiles grace your life.”

Jorim blinked. “You have a Naleni accent.”

The man nodded. “Come. Your friends await.”

 

Chapter Forty-seven

27th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Opaslynoti, Dolosan

On the road to Opaslynoti, Keles Anturasi decided the place’s name was sufficient to be the foundation for any number of romantic poems. It was far enough from Moriande that poets didn’t need to care about the reality of it. The wild magics that raged through the area could have allowed it to be anything, and the name itself was a blend of Viruk and Imperial terminology that hinted at a grand history buried beneath layers of mystery.

But any romantic notions began to wither with the realization that there really was no road to Opaslynoti. A trade route did run from the seaport of Sylumak north-northwest to the city, but the shifting landscape of Dolosan’s western reaches meant the route seldom appeared the same twice. Whole hillsides might melt beneath black rain, turning valleys into plains on which would grow forests of thorn trees. The branches would sweep flocks of birds from the sky and the plants would devour them. Those who chose to enter such places on foot fared no better, and Borosan’s thanaton bore bright scars on its carapace from an aborted survey of such a thicket.

Travelers in the land remained few, with most coming up from Sylumak or overland from Dolosan, as they themselves had. To the south lay Irusviruk, but the Viruk wanted little to do with Men, especially those mad enough to dwell in Dolosan. If anyone came out of Ixyll, none of the scroungers talked about it, suggesting that way was as closed today as it had been when his grandfather had tried to visit years ago.

Rekarafi watched the scroungers carefully, not trusting them at all. They preferred to be known as thaumstoners or thaumstoneers—a generational split, it appeared—but he referred to them as talkiegio. He said it meant scroungers, but he seemed to inflect it the way Keles would lice, and the thaumstoners didn’t like it. They shot back that he must have been an outlaw, since outlaws were the only Viruk found in Dolosan.

Keles had quelled any dispute by simply noting that Rekarafi had been sent to see to his safety. Such a thing was unprecedented and gave the scroungers something else to talk about. This they did in mumbles and cant that made Keles wish for his brother’s facility with languages.

The path to Opaslynoti led them to the western corner of Dolosan, to the base of the uplift that marked the edge of the Ixyll plateau. As they grew closer and night fell, it was easy to see the magic curtain that shimmered along the heights, though the purples and deep blues did not shine that brightly. Mostly it obscured stars and colored the moons as they sailed through it, but sight of it sent a thrill through Keles anyway. To enter Ixyll, they would have to slip through that curtain and the gods alone knew what lay beyond.

One evening he’d stood apart, on a small hill, watching the curtain lights shift as if teased by night breezes. How long he watched he didn’t know, but he suddenly realized he was shivering. Yet even as he made that discovery, his rolled blanket hit him across the small of his back.

He turned and saw the Viruk crouched behind him, downwind. That sent a different shiver through him. “How long have you been there?”

Rekarafi, little more than a silhouette, shrugged. “Long enough to know you would be cold.”

“Were you watching me?”

“You mean was I stalking you? I noticed you begin to shiver. I fetched your blanket.” He reached out and pointed toward Ixyll. “I was watching that. Tavam eyzar.

Keles untied the leather strips holding his bedroll closed, then wrapped himself in the woolen blanket. “Tavam is magic. Eyzar I do not know.”

“Veil in your tongue, but more than garment. A veil obscures.” He lowered his hand to his knee. “This veil has died quickly. You reckon things by nine, for your gods, and we reckon by ten.”

“You have ten gods?” Keles looked to the sky to pick out a tenth constellation.

“No. Our slaves had ten fingers. We did not want them confused when they were counting.” The Viruk came forward, still keeping himself downwind. “Seventy decades ago, the battle that hung this tavam eyzar was fought. In those days, it could be seen in the sunlight. It outshone the sun—for there was little sunlight in the Time of Black Ice. In your Principalities you could not see it, but it lit Irusviruk so brightly we had no night. Reds and yellows, gold, silver, green and blue, the light would roil and boil, then magic would pour from the heights and wreak havoc.”

The Viruk’s shoulders rose in a hunch. “You are incapable of understanding what that was like, Keles. What you have seen so far has been incredible—so many things, all different. When the magic flowed out it dissolved everything, but also made everything. All the places you have seen, and more than you could imagine, all existed here at the same time. Past and future merged, realities merged, plants and animals merged, everything that was not somehow protected was remade.”

The cartographer closed his eyes and tried to make sense of his words. “You’re right, I can’t imagine.”

“Think of a pool, Keles, and what you can see when the water is still. That was the world. Then think of the water churned to a froth. What you see changes. Here, where the water was magic, reality was distorted. All things existed at the same time, but none persisted, for the magic was too wild.”

“It kept churning.”

“Yes, and could only be contained by a tavam eyzar.”

Opening his eyes again, Keles crouched. Though the Viruk had drawn close, his headache did not build. He expected it would, but did not mind. Rekarafi had maintained distance throughout the journey, and while Keles did fear him, the Viruk’s attempt at bridging that distance prompted him to honor it.

“You refer to this veil in a way that makes me think there was another.”

Rekarafi’s head swiveled toward him and cold pinpoints of reflected starlight glistened in his dark eyes. “Virukadeen was consumed in a conflagration of magic you could not comprehend. Your Cataclysm changed land and boiled an inland sea. Virukadeen’s death devoured land.

“Where your Dark Sea sits today, Keles, was once a range of mountains that caught at the stars. We lived there, and no matter how far we traveled from our home, we could still see it. The tallest peak should have always been buried in snow, for it existed above the clouds, but tavamazari bent the winds to their will and tamed the sun. Our home was as lush as Ummummorar, as warm as Miromil. It was paradise.”

Keles shook his head. “How could they destroy it?”

The Viruk make a crackling sound in his throat that sounded as if he were gargling bones. “We sit in a place your people destroyed and you can ask this? Do motives matter after three thousand years? Those who had power wanted more and jealously guarded what they had. Those who had none wanted some and would stoop at nothing to get it. Hardly noble or lofty, though each side crafted stories to cast their actions as both.

“As things unfolded, there were those who saw the result. They gathered tavamazari who remained outside the conflagration and raised a tavam eyzar to contain it. Virukadeen sank, and the Black Pearl rose into the heavens.”

The cartographer looked up. Gol’dun, the second largest moon, hung in the sky: a black ball with a silver-grey sheen to it. “Gol’dun is the treasure of the gods. It passes slowly among them because they cannot bear its being taken from them.”

Again the rattling sounded from the Viruk’s throat. “I could tell you of the true origin of your gods, Keles Anturasi. You would refuse to believe me. The Black Pearl did not float through the sky in my youth. Your name for it is a bastardization of ours. We call it ghoal nuan. The nearest translation for you would be soulstone. As with ’veil,’ it does not contain the nuances.”

“Tell me, please.”

Rekarafi slowly closed his eyes. “It will not help you to map your world.”

“But it will help me understand the world I am mapping.”

The Viruk remained still, his eyes closed, then he lifted his chin. Keles wondered what Rekarafi was thinking. He almost allowed himself to believe the Viruk was listening to ghosts and seeking their counsel before speaking. Perhaps he speaks with the ambassador as I do my grandfather.

Finally, he opened his eyes again. “It is our belief that upon death we are judged. Every evil we commit creates a black stone in our soul, a ghoal nuan. Every kindness creates a white stone, a ghoal saam. The judge collects these stones and weighs them. More black than white, a soul enters eternal torment. If the reverse, the soul passes to paradise.”

“If there is a balance?”

Rekarafi nodded. “The ghoal are discarded and the soul returns to the world anew.”

“So you believe—” Keles stopped as the Viruk’s hand rose and talons flashed. The faint scent of venom made him dizzy and he fell back. “What is it?”

“I tell you this for two reasons, Keles. The first is that we might find Viruk graves and if they are opened, you will see white stones and black. When a body is buried, often friends or enemies will throw stones into the grave to tip the balance. This lets you understand.”

Keles nodded silently, but hoped they would find a grave so he could see evidence of what Rekarafi had described.

“The second reason is that when I struck you, I created a ghoal nuan for myself. I came to balance it by serving you. I may do many things, like the slaying of the etharsaal, which grant me ghoal saam, but my service shall not end until you grant me ghoal saam.”

Keles frowned. “I think I understand. Thank you.”

“It is my duty to serve and protect you.” The Viruk cocked his head to the side. “Perhaps it will not be onerous.”

They left the hill and returned to the camp, guided by the glow of a blue thaumston lantern. Keles crawled into his tent considering all that the Viruk had said. There was much there he understood, and a great deal he did not. Paramount among them was exactly why Rekarafi had chosen to speak to him. Pondering that conundrum carried him into sleep.

 

The next morning came early and with it a headache as usual, but Keles worked around it. The travelers broke camp quickly and made their way across a flat plain whose thin coat of black snow kept the dust buried. Everyone in the group took the snow’s color as a bad omen, and the thaumstoners urged them on as quickly as possible. When Keles’ mapping efforts slowed them too much, the scroungers left them behind.

Following the tracks in the snow, the six of them moved into a canyon which, while much wider than the one with the pool, still reminded them of it. The glassy sheen of the striated walls suggested to Keles that a river of magic had carved the canyon, and that periodic floods kept the stones well polished. He even saw himself reflected in their surface, but as he rode he caught different images. Most often he appeared as a child, but an unhappy one, and a few times he saw himself bowed and beaten like his uncle Ulan.

Worst of all there were times his eyes stared back at him out of his grandfather’s face. Even the reflection of a skeleton wearing his clothes and riding a skeletal horse did not make him feel as uncomfortable as seeing himself as his grandfather. Past and future may no longer coexist, but these reflections show them.

No one else made any comment, but their pace did slow as they all studied the reflections. Keles only saw the others as they were now, but the expressions they wore, shifting from horror to delight, suggested they saw themselves as changed as he did. Only Rekarafi viewed it with disdain, though he did claw furrows across one flat surface.

They followed the twisting canyon down into a valley that spread out north and south as well as further west to Ixyll. Signs of human habitation began to appear, mostly in the form of discarded rubbish. Here and there pickaxes had chipped rock and shovels had turned soil. At one point Keles caught the reflection of someone digging, but in the real world all that existed was an old hole and the broken haft of the shovel.

Finally, cresting a small rise, they saw Opaslynoti. Borosan rested both hands on his saddle horn and smiled. “It’s grown.”

The last vestige of romance died in Keles’ heart. Opaslynoti was a city, but unlike any city he’d ever seen before. Nothing even hinted at its Viruk roots. He wondered what Rekarafi was seeing. Were Moriande reduced to this, I would wish to die.

Opaslynoti most closely resembled a trash midden, with people wriggling through it like maggots. Nestled there at an intersection of canyons two miles wide, it had been built against the southwest wall. In the days of its Viruk glory it would have occupied land at the conjunction of two rivers. Keles could easily imagine ships sailing down them and towers soaring, but then the truth of Opaslynoti reasserted itself.

When human settlement was small, the rock outcropping likely would have provided some safety against magic storms. Were water to run through the canyon, its location would contain nothing more than a gentle eddy. From there it had grown downward. The earth removed had been piled to the north, extending the outcropping to create a dike. The way sunlight reflected from parts of the midden revealed it had weathered some magic storms, but the fact that the downstream side also had been polished suggested the magic had slopped over, and the sunken pit of Opaslynoti would have been a perfect catch basin for it.

A closer approach did not make Keles feel any better. The diggings had been organized into terraces, so dwellings sank back into the stone. Up around the perimeter of the pit, looking like the caps of countless toadstools, domed buildings large and small provided shelter. Camels and horses stood in paddocks around some of the larger domes, and he assumed the animals would be driven inside to protect them from storms.

The odd thing about the domes was that they all had clearly been constructed of mud and straw, but had flat grey stone plates set over them. “Borosan, what are the stones for?”

The gyanridin rested his hands on his saddlehorn. “The stones are dug from deeper in the pits. They contain some thaumston and will absorb magic. After a storm, people take the dome shields down and sell the thaumston, but it is very low grade and not terribly useful.”

He gave his horse a touch of spur. “Come on. I have friends in the lower reaches. We will stable our mounts and they will take us in.”

Moraven cleared his throat. “Down is best?”

Borosan nodded. “Storms will whip around the edges, but seldom fill the Well to overflowing. As long as we avoid the falls during a storm, deep is best. Opaslynoti, despite what you might think, is not a place where we will get into trouble.”

Ciras, who had guided his horse off to the right to examine a separate set of tracks leading in toward the city, shook his head. “I do not think that will be necessarily true this time, Master Gryst.”

Moraven frowned. “What is it?”

“These tracks run to the largest dome. I know them.” Ciras dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. “Somehow the raiders are here before us.”

 

Chapter Forty-eight

27th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tocayan, Caxyan

Jorim was able to convince the warrior in the jet, jade, and gold mask to wait while they sent a boat back for Captain Gryst. The man seemed to understand the word Captain. Jorim dispatched Lieutenant Linor to the Stormwolf. The rest of the landing party took up a defensive position near the Moondragon and eyed the woods with suspicion.

Jorim crouched high up on the beach with the giant. Though he had rendered the greeting perfectly, his grasp of the Naleni tongue was spotty. He introduced himself as Tzihua and, at Jorim’s request, began naming common items in his tongue. In short order, the cartographer learned that Tzihua’s people called themselves the Amentzutl, their nation Caxyan, and that he was from a southern outpost called Tocayan. The Moondragon’s crew had been taken there for their protection since the Mozoyan—an enemy people—had scouts moving throughout the area.

Jorim began to pick up little bits and pieces of the language. The suffix “–yan,” for example, denoted a place. The Mozoyan were from outside that place, which meant they were as much outsiders as the Turasynd were for the Empire. It pleased Jorim that the Amentzutl tongue had an orderly nature to it, since that made it so much easier for him to learn.

Within an hour Captain Gryst came ashore, bringing with her Iesol and Shimik, as well as the fleet’s botanical scholar. Tzihua greeted her and was content to leave the fleet’s people at the beach while he conducted a small party inland to the outpost. He communicated to Jorim that they should have little fear of the Mozoyan with such fine troops in evidence. He waved a hand and summoned a half dozen young men and women from the forest depths and left them behind to “help,” but both sides knew they were hostages against the safety of those accompanying him.

Tzihua eyed Shimik carefully, but when the Fennych held his arms up and Iesol hefted him like a child, his concern lessened appreciably. He led Iesol, Anaeda, and Jorim into the forest, and within a half dozen paces the beach had disappeared in green gloom. Not much further on, other warriors joined them on the narrow trail that wound around past the boles of large trees. Golden monkeys and their smaller cousins screamed at them from the thick canopies above, rushing down, screeching, then darting away again to chatter with fellows.

Jorim and Anaeda said almost nothing, but Jorim was thinking what Iesol kept muttering. “Oh, my, oh, my,” fell from his lips so often that Shimik started chanting “Omaiamaia.” The Fenn wove into that some of the haunting, hooting tones of the monkeys and became loud enough that their arboreal stalkers would pause and cock their heads when Shimik returned their calls.

Jorim found the jungle to be a wondrous place, full of plants and animals the like of which he’d never seen. He was fairly certain he could spend a year or more and not even begin to dent the surface of all he could discover. Already he’d seen a dozen different varieties of brilliantly colored blossoms that were produced by plants growing on tree limbs, their roots hanging free in the air. The monkeys, as well as tracks of small deer and similar creatures on the trail, suggested there must be some larger predators around, but he saw nothing of them. This sent a trickle of fear through him, though he took heart that neither Tzihua nor his men appeared to be overly concerned with things lurking beyond the green walls that hemmed them in.

The trail moved parallel to the river. Jorim estimated that they traveled due east for three miles before the river curved south around a hill. The jungle made it impossible to see how tall the hill was, but the path broadened slightly as they climbed. Other paths fed into it, and suddenly the trail leveled out. They emerged from the jungle onto a broad green plain roughly five miles in diameter. The outer ring consisted of cleared fields up to the jungle edge. While Jorim did not recognize the crops being cultivated, other patches remained overgrown.

They practice crop rotation. He made that observation, realizing it set them apart from the people of Ethgi. The Amentzutl had enough science to realize that purposely letting fields rest one in five or seven seasons would mean it would never be played out. That observation occurred in a flash, suggesting to him a level of sophistication despite Tzihua’s lack of steel weaponry. In the next moment, as Jorim’s eyes focused beyond the fields and he realized that what he had taken for bare hills in the distance were not natural formations, his estimate of their sophistication expanded exponentially.

Tzihua had used the Naleni word “outpost” to describe Tocayan, but the word failed to encompass adequately what Tocayan truly was. In the distance he saw four stepped pyramids rising from the heart of the plain. It seemed quite obvious that the stones had been quarried from the nearby mountains, but that meant they’d been transported a minimum of three miles to where the pyramids were built. Moreover, the trail, which had become a full-fledged road, showed no signs of ruts made by wagon wheels. Nor did Jorim see any horses, though people working the fields did have with them beasts that looked like very small camels with no discernible humps.

In addition to the pyramids, which rose to a height of nearly one hundred feet, a number of circular buildings a third of that height dotted the landscape. They, too, had a solid stone construction. While they lacked the ornate nature of Imperial construction, they were clean and strong. What ornamentation they did have came in the form of carved stone blocks with serpent and bird imagery that reminded Jorim rather hauntingly of Naleni and Desei symbols.

“Tzihua, how many Amentzutl in Tocayan?”

The warrior held his right hand up, splaying out all five fingers. He closed that hand into a fist, chopped his left hand at his wrist, then again at his elbow. “Do you understand? Ten in hand. Ten more. Ten more.”

Jorim knew thirty could not be the correct answer. “I am not sure.”

Iesol spoke. “Master Anturasi, they use the Viruk system, counting by tens. The wrist would multiply by ten, and the elbow ten again. The shoulder another ten, perhaps? He is telling you there are a thousand people here.”

“A thousand people in an outpost?” Jorim shook his head. “How long has Tocayan been here? Tocayan yan?”

Tzihua’s fingers flashed and hand chopped.

A hundred and twenty years? Jorim glanced back at Anaeda. “Could they have done all this in a hundred and twenty years?”

“Not a thousand people, not unless they were far more industrious than even the Naleni are.” Her dark eyes narrowed. “That, or Minister Iesol might have offered a solution?”

“What?”

“If they count in the Viruk manner, perhaps they used Viruk magic.”

“That’s not . . .” Jorim fell silent and tried to reconcile two ideas he thought of as mutually exclusive truths. First, he knew the Viruk used magic and could be very powerful. The Viruk ambassador had cured his brother, and no Naleni physician could have done what she did. While Men had once worked hard to refine skills that would give them access to magic, the Viruk just played with magic all by itself.

The vanyesh had sought use of Viruk-style magic. Their quest had proven to be a disaster. Playing with magic had triggered the Cataclysm. That humans could practice magic and be productive with it—all without disastrous side effects—clearly was unthinkable.

But Jorim knew that magic was a skill that could be mastered. The vanyesh had some initial success. The Viruk likewise were skilled at it. Perhaps the Amentzutl had discovered a discipline that provided access to magic under controlled circumstances. If that were true, then their most powerful mages would be Mystics, and that would be a sight to behold.

Discovery of such a discipline would be worth more than all the gold and jewels we could possibly return to Nalenyr. The outpost and fields suggested that if magic were being employed, its harmful side effects were controlled. Just the ability to do that, to harness wild magic, would allow the opening of the Spice Routes to the west.

Jorim found himself becoming very excited by the prospect, so he quickly reined himself in. Speculation was all fine and good, but he still had no evidence that these people controlled any magic at all. Everything he saw could have been performed by massive armies of slaves, and their dead bodies could have been fertilizing the fields through which they walked. It could be that the Amentzutl didn’t even consider slaves to be people, so they weren’t included in Tzihua’s accounting. But regardless of how Tocayan had been created, for it to have been done in a hundred and twenty years was remarkable, and Jorim meant to have the secret of its history.

As they drew closer to the city, Jorim watched for evidence of magic, but saw none. In fact, what he did see reminded him very much of the Ummummorari. Women and men alike wore loincloths and, save for those wearing armor, strode about bare-chested. They wore their black hair long and braided into a single queue with brightly colored threads and the occasional bead. Field hands’ clothing had none of the colors worn by the soldiery or people encountered closer to the heart of the city. Certain colors seemed to denote caste, with green common to the soldiers, red to merchants, yellow to laborers, black to officials, and purple to individuals Jorim assumed were part of a priesthood. While a particular color would predominate, accent colors seemed to indicate other affiliations, and decorations woven into garments or beaten into armlets, anklets, bracelets, gorgets, and pectorals fell into the classes of Snake, Cat, and Eagle.

Tzihua led them to one of the large round buildings, which clearly was a dwelling complex, and into its heart. He took them to a central chamber and opened the door. “Here is your Moondragon.”

Within they found the crew of the Moondragon looking a bit haggard, but fed and rested. The circular room had a pool in the center for washing and waste stations around the outer perimeter. The crew had been given woven mats upon which to sleep and enough food that some fruits and meal breads remained stacked in a corner.

Lieutenant Minan straightened his uniform, approached, and bowed to Captain Gryst. “I deliver myself into your custody, Captain, for whatever discipline you deem appropriate.”

Anaeda returned the bow—along with Iesol, Shimik, and Jorim. She straightened first. “For what am I disciplining you?”

“The loss of my ship.”

“I think you will find it is where you left it. Repairs should be well under way by the time you return.” She looked around. “It looks as if your crew is all present.”

“Save for four we lost in the storm, Captain.” Minan looked down. “And two these people have housed elsewhere. We have seen one of them on occasion, but nothing of the other.”

Anaeda turned to face Tzihua, then glanced at Jorim. “I wish to know where my missing people are.”

Jorim began to relay her request to the Amentzutl warrior, but from behind him one of the two missing men slipped into the room. Dirhar Pelalan dropped to one knee before Captain Gryst and bowed deeply. “I have come, Captain, to be of help.”

Jorim half turned back to Minan. “The other missing person is Lesis Osebor?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

Anaeda frowned. “You had two linguists with you, Lieutenant. They took Master Pelalan to teach them our tongue. Master Osebor has been sent north, I assume.”

Tzihua bowed his head. “Nemehyan.”

She looked at Dirhar. “Meaning?”

“Master Osebor has been sent to the Amentzutl capital, Nemehyan. His task is to teach our tongue to the Witch-King.”

Jorim raised an eyebrow. “Witch-King?”

“The title in Amentzutl is maicana-netl. The maicana are the ruling caste, inheritors of a magic tradition of great antiquity and power. The King is the strongest among them. It is said he can freeze the sun in the sky and shatter mountains with a word.”

Jorim smiled. “That I would like to see.”

“And you shall.” Tzihua nodded slowly. “Now that your sea princess has come, we shall all travel north and the maicana-netl, wise beyond all wisdom, can decide what to do with you.”

 

Chapter Forty-nine

1st day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Opaslynoti, Dolosan

Moraven Tolo found himself no more at ease in the scavenger city after a week than he had been when they first rode into it. He realized that while he had lived a long time, his experiences had been largely confined to the old Imperial borders, and usually in Erumvirine, Nalenyr, or the Five Princes. He knew a great deal about people, and his experiences told him a lot about how they would react in certain situations. Those situations, however, had always been within the confines of what could have been described as a civilized area.

The very approach to the city alerted his sense of unease. He’d seen odd reflections of himself in the smooth stones. He appeared as a child at times, but he could not recognize himself. Another time he wore a complete suit of armor, trimmed in purple; but he’d never seen such a thin material, much less had it on. He saw himself with a full beard streaked with white and again as a moldering corpse with a gaping wound where his scar existed.

He wasn’t certain what he was seeing, and had no way to determine if it had significance or not. He wanted to dismiss it, but part of him could not. Ever since the healing, he’d felt different in an almost imperceptible way. The visions resonated with that sensation and fed it.

If he needed a sense of the normal to quell his sense of the unusual, Opaslynoti was not the place he would find it. Those living there took great delight in being the antithesis of the civilized east.

The six of them stood out, and the people of Opaslynoti acknowledged this and wanted little to do with them. Had Borosan not been with them, they would have been driven back into the Wastes and no one would have cared had they never been seen again.

But Borosan’s presence earned them some tolerance. While most said he was still too normal to really be one of the thaumstoneers, his skill at gyanri still earned him respect. And while his manner did fit in with Opaslynoti’s denizens, even Moraven agreed that, at least physically, Borosan was more normal than any of them would ever be.

Borosan’s friend Writiv Maos provided them accommodations in his home, which was on the third of the eight levels in the city. The ninth level was the Well, but no one dwelt there, to the best of anyone’s knowledge. Level three was the second nicest level. Anything above it was given over to visitors and newcomers, all of whom were viewed with suspicion. Below level four lived longtime residents who had no luck or ambition. They were content to grind out a meager and difficult existence working in the Well or in the ancillary industries that had sprung up to serve the needs of the gyanridin.

The Well became the focal point of the city and was, at once, revered and feared. When magic storms poured down from Ixyll, a certain amount of the wild magic would flow down into the hole at the city’s heart. No one knew how deep it was, and various stories suggested it opened into a vast underground complex of caverns, while others said the hole opened into another world. All Moraven knew was that the Well was filled with magic: a shimmering pool with shifting violets and blues that matched the curtain surrounding Ixyll itself.

The laborers of Opaslynoti performed three major jobs. The miners dug into the earth and produced raw thaumston ranging from chunks the size of a man’s head to buckets of dust. Many of the miners worked in Opaslynoti itself, but a significant number also worked independent claims outside the city. Prospectors roamed about looking for places where the thaumston already had accumulated a charge or was relatively free of impurities.

A second class of laborers cleaned and crushed the raw ore, mixed it with water and sand to create a slurry, then packed it into molds. The sheets were then set out in the sun to bake. The molds turned out pieces from a finger length to slabs suitable for using in a surface building. Most often, however, they were shaped into bricks nine inches long, three wide, and two thick.

The ingots of thaumston would then be loaded onto pallets or into baskets and lowered by means of cranes and pulleys into the Well. Moraven watched men performing that part of the operation for two days. The chargers worried about the day’s temperature, the depth to which they lowered the cargo, and seemed to constantly grouse about how this load would likely be the last until the storm season started.

The artisan laborers concerned themselves with fabricating a variety of devices that consumed the magic energy in thaumston. Many were simple things similar to the lights that glowed on some of the Nine’s finest buildings. Also popular were small mechanical animals with tin flesh and gaudy paint. For some reason, when Moraven traveled with Rekarafi through the market, an inordinate number of people offered him these small amusements.

Rekarafi dismissed the offers with a flick of taloned fingers, but only once spoke. “Do you not realize the Viruk no longer have children who would be entranced by these things?”

The remark shook Moraven. He had been cut off from his past, but he still had a future. If Viruk can no longer have children, they are cut off from any future. He wondered if it was that the Viruk could no longer reproduce, or just chose not to. Would I make that choice if my people had fallen from glory?

The easily attainable supply of thaumston made artificial light widely available. This allowed much of Opaslynoti’s life to take place deep in the earth. The marketplace, which had its surface opening beneath one of the domes, descended all the way to level five. Terraces provided permanent space for longtime merchants, while transient traders fought for space down on the central floor. Many of the merchants even invested in brilliant displays to attract people to their stalls, displays that could be considered works of art.

Light was not always useful, for many of Opaslynoti’s citizens had suffered horribly from years of exposure to the wild magic. It did things to them—occasionally subtle—but even voluminous robes and masks failed to conceal the grander changes. Worse, many of the people seemed to revel in these.

Yet others had clearly sought them. Just as the Turasynd had inserted feathers into his flesh so they would become part of him, some of the people here had done even more bizarre things. One family group had four arms, one pair set below the other. The story went that several generations earlier two brothers had been prospecting. One had broken his legs in a fall, and the other was carrying him on his back when a magical storm poured over them. The two men had merged into one and the change had bred true.

Others, it was said, had sewn the arms of corpses to their chests in hopes that the magic might affect them the same way. They had failed, but people with insect antennae sprouting from their foreheads or tiger-stripe pelts to keep them warm suggested that sometimes the experiments worked.

Moraven found these deliberate changes more difficult to accept than the random ones. That struck him as curious because he, too, through his discipline and study, sought to perfect himself. He thought back to Ciras’ comment about the disaster that would result from magic being made simple. What he saw here suggested Ciras might be correct.

He searched for patterns in the wild magic’s random effects. He saw many people who shambled along on legs that no longer bent in the normal fashion, or dragged an arm that had grown longer than its fellow. Some of them were barely recognizable as human. The most tragic cases were blamed upon being caught out in a magic storm, or a fall into the Well. Apparently some sought to commit suicide by diving into it. And while the Well never gave up its dead, it did let the living bob to the surface from time to time—though once they were rescued they undoubtedly wished they had not been.

He saw no formula to how people were changed, but he realized finding one might be impossible. As he had told Nirati and Dunos, a healing would take time. But here the magic would also use as its foundation who the person had been at the time of his change. In the case of the brothers, had it been their abiding love for each other, and the sacrifice of one for the other that enabled them to survive as they did? Did the man have one arm grow longer than the other because he was greedy and grasping?

And, more importantly, could the discipline of the swordsman’s art allow Moraven to control the magic and the change it would make in him? The tingle had grown to a distraction. It felt as if he had been sunburned. He hated the sensation. When he could no longer bear it, he sought distraction—and Opaslynoti had much to offer in that regard.

As with most other towns, hard work and spare money meant many recreational occupations flourished. Plenty of taverns had been dug out of the earth. None of them approached the simple elegance of taverns in the Nine, but this did not seem to bother those who filled them all hours of the day and night. Two breweries served the city, transporting kegs of beer on the backs of gyanrigot the size of draft horses. Houses of carnal pleasure did not seem to rely on gyanrigot, though Moraven would not have ruled it out. Though he did not survey the houses, he assumed that each would cater to a certain clientele and really had no desire to visit the more venerable establishments.

The largest centers of recreation, however, were the arenas. They ranged in size from a small pit dug in the back of a tavern to large amphitheaters capable of seating hundreds. Their presence did not surprise Moraven, since duels between men had always attracted a crowd. When Ciras heard of them, he wished to be given leave to enter a fight, and Moraven was almost tempted to let him do so.

Yet here, the arenas were not meant as places where life could be lost. The only combatants accepted were gyanrigot. Large and small, rigidly classified by weight, the machines battled to the delight of spectators. Gyanridin throughout the city proudly displayed their creations. Arenas accepted bets, and vast sums of money changed hands among the spectators. The combatants and their creators won fame and small purses for their efforts.

And while it might have seemed natural for the misshapen to battle each other like beasts, that was precisely the reason they did not. While the citizens might eschew civilization, they had no intention of abandoning their humanity. Their resolution not to kill one another united them, and murder was punished by staking the killer out where the storms could get him. The magic that changed them all would judge him guilty or innocent, and all would live with the result.

Borosan Gryst had created a new version of his largest thanaton and had lost little time in scouting out an arena where it could fight. Moraven, Ciras, and Rekarafi accompanied him to a medium-sized arena on the third level. Keles had been felled by one of his blinding headaches and Tyressa had remained behind to tend to him, but both bid them go and enjoy themselves. The quartet paid for admission in gold, which seemed to strike the ticket taker as unusual; most others bought their way in with nine grains of thaumston dust.

The quartet moved along the upper tier and finally found a place to watch the battle down in the arena. Centered in the reddish sand, a gyanrigot looking a lot like a scorpion scuttled around in a slow circle. Its six small legs held its belly a yard off the sand. The two larger forelegs ended in massive claws with serrated inner surfaces. A curved tail, complete with a wickedly sharp stinger, rose over its middle.

It battled a smaller gyanrigot that had a domed shape, the edges of which plowed the sand as it moved. The tracks it left revealed some sort of wheels that provided mobility, but it didn’t move very fast. Spikes festooned the dome, and a number had tapered heads that spun. By some mechanism, it could extend some of those spikes if it got in close, piercing the enemy. Several of the spikes had been sheared off, presumably by the scorpion’s claws.

Borosan kept his voice low. “Both of these battlers are built for close combat. But you’ve seen my thanaton. It is nimble enough to stay out of range, yet can still damage its foes. It’s accurate enough not to miss at this range, which means I should win.”

Moraven nodded. “You have spent time scouting these fighters?”

“I have. Skorpe should win and will be the tougher kill, but I can handle Quillbeast, too.”

Ciras managed to strain most of the disgust out of his voice. “Curious names. What will you call your thanaton?”

The gyanridin blinked as if he did not understand the question. “Name?”

“So we can bet on the battle, Master Gryst.”

“Bet?”

Moraven rested a hand on Ciras’ shoulder. “Perhaps you should call it Serpentslayer.”

“I-I suppose I could. I just call it thanaton Number Four. I mean, you know it is really the third one with modifications, but there were enough that I felt it had become a new gyanrigot.”

The Viruk rested his hands on Gryst’s shoulders. “Perhaps you would honor me by calling it Nesrearck.”

Borosan smiled. “Is that Viruk for Serpentslayer?”

“Similar, and appropriate.”

Nesrearck it shall be.” Borosan jerked his head toward the action. “I’d best get down there. Nesrearck is waiting, and I need to tinker so I can defeat the winner.”

As he departed, Moraven looked over at the Viruk. “You will forgive me, Rekarafi, but I heard you use that word before, as a curse—or so I thought. You applied it to the things merchants offered you. Did I mistake its meaning?”

The Viruk laughter sounded like breaking bones. “Permit me a jest. It means ‘bad toy.’ ”

Ciras snorted.

Moraven watched Skorpe feint left, then cut right and catch Quillbeast with a claw. Quickly the larger gyanrigot surged forward and flicked its claw upward. The domed gyanrigot flipped over, scattering sand, and landed heavily on its back. Its spikes dug into the earth and its little wheels spun madly.

Remorselessly, Skorpe shifted around and began to pick the wheels apart with its claws. The tail quivered and everyone in the arena seemed to hold their breath waiting for it to punch straight through Quillbeast’s belly plate. Before that could happen, however, a clanking length of chain was tossed noisily into the arena, then bells sounded and Skorpe withdrew to the arena’s far side.

Moraven’s apprentice looked at him. “Master, it is obvious that these machines are a perversion of life. Master Gryst’s thanaton had its uses; I will not deny this. The mouser aided in the survey. But this is wrong.” Ciras waved his sword hand at the arena. “Do you not see that this is a mockery of what you and I seek to perfect in life? Look down there. You have two combatants in a circle. They fight, but for what? The pleasure of a rabble and a few ounces of magic dust?”

“There are those, Ciras, who enter the circle and fight for pleasure.” Moraven smiled. “It is a common enough entertainment, sometimes fought to the death.”

“But, Master, we fight to perfect our skills. If we succeed we become more than we were. If these succeed, they have the dents pounded out and return to fight again for no real purpose.”

The Viruk lowered his head. “Would you say, Master Dejote, that it is better to have people shedding blood and dying than it is for metal to be twisted? It is easier to recast metal than to reanimate the dead. Would not wars fought between armies of these gyanrigot be preferable to the conflict that triggered the Cataclysm?”

“Can you imagine that these machines would not make war on people?” Ciras lowered his voice. “We know the men who have been raiding the area and we know they are in Opaslynoti. They must see these combats and realize the potential. With enough thaumston, would it not be possible to create a Skorpe large enough to carry men? Would the claws not be employed against houses, livestock, and people? If we wish to keep the world safe, we should slay every gyanridin we can find.”

The Viruk leaned forward, resting his weight on his fists. “We have a saying: ‘The ocean’s water cannot return to the mountains.’ Gyanri exists, and there will be no destroying it. Furthermore, I think you should welcome it.”

Ciras’ eyes grew wide. “How can you say that?”

“You complain that these machines do not have the ability to make decisions as do you. That is their weakness. Study them as you would any foe. Exploit that weakness.”

Bells clanged, drawing their attention back to the arena. A man in red robes strode to the center and raised his voice for all to hear. “In this battle we have the challenger from far Nalenyr. Borosan Gryst brings us Nesrearck the Serpentslayer.”

Scattered applause broke out, but Moraven was not surprised by how sparse it was. Nesrearck just sat in the sand like a featureless ball. He’d have thought Borosan didn’t want to reveal anything about the thanaton’s capability to his foe, but Borosan was not that subtle. He simply had no sense of the theatrical.

Skorpe’s owner, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. As the announcer welcomed the champion, the scorpion dashed toward the center of the arena, claws raised and clanging loudly. It then backed away slowly, strutting, claws and tail up. The crowd began to chant “Skorpe! Skorpe!”

The announcer scrambled away through a door in the arena’s wooden walls, then bells sounded. Skorpe again raced toward the arena’s heart and for a moment Moraven feared Nesrearck had broken, for the sphere lay there inert. Then panels slid back, legs popped out, and the harpoon’s barbed head appeared to point at the larger gyanrigot. Before Skorpe recognized any sort of a threat, the harpoon shot forward and pierced the scorpion’s face, popping out just above the last set of legs.

Skorpe rocked back, then its legs collapsed beneath it. It flopped down in a clatter of metal, and a cloud of red dust rose to obscure it. The claws clicked at random, and the tail slackened. The left claw closed on the harpoon’s shaft, but made little headway in tugging it loose.

Nesrearck circled Skorpe twice, moving laterally to keep the next projectile—a much smaller bolt—pointed at it. Aside from the claw’s grinding at the haft, the champion gave no sign of even being aware of its foe. Legs twitched, but at random.

Nesrearck circled one more time, then the bolt withdrew. The panels that had concealed the crossbow mechanism slid shut with loud clicks. Moraven thought, just for a moment, that he’d heard an echo, then noticed that Skorpe had finally snapped the harpoon shaft.

Quickly, the champion rose. It darted forward and almost effortlessly caught two of Nesrearck’s legs in its claws. As if a bhotcai pruning a tree, it snipped the legs off, canting the spherical gyanrigot to the right.

Though severely wounded, Nesrearck did not give up. It pushed off with its left legs and tried to roll out of danger. But Skorpe closed too quickly, catching the severed stumps in its right claw and holding Nesrearck on its back. The crossbow panels again snapped open, and the shot should have ripped up through the larger gyanrigot. The only difficulty was that the crossbow relied on gravity to keep the bolt in place, so that while the mechanism functioned, the bolt spilled harmlessly onto the ground.

Skorpe’s left claw rose and plunged deep into Nesrearck’s belly. The legs spasmed, then curled in. The chain clanked into the sand not far from where Borosan stood. Someone else had clearly tossed it, for Borosan’s shock was all too evident on his face.

Moraven tapped Ciras on the shoulder. “Go to his aid. Gather his device and see him back to our home.”

“As you wish, Master.”

Applause thundered through the arena and Skorpe scuttled around in a circle as attendants gathered up Nesrearck’s broken parts and rolled it from the battleground. Skorpe returned to where its creators waited. They drew the harpoon from it with a screeching of metal. They tossed the harpoon into the crowd and one man raised it triumphantly in a clenched fist.

The announcer returned to the center of the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, I am assured that Skorpe is yet battleworthy, but we have no more combatants registered this evening. If any of you would challenge our champion, please come forward now. If not, we shall move to the smaller class of gyanrigot.”

Rekarafi rose to his full height. “I would challenge Skorpe.”

Heads turned as the Viruk’s bass buzz sliced through the hubbub. People shrank back, giving the announcer a clear line of sight up to the top tier. “It has been a long time since a Viruk has offered a combatant. Bring your gyanrigot here and we will—”

“I offered no rearck. I will challenge it.”

The announcer hesitated. “We don’t let men fight—”

“I am not a man.”

Across the arena a chant of “Die, Viruk, die,” began, and picked up volume as it spread. The announcer looked at Skorpe’s creators, who nodded adamantly. The red-robed man waved a hand. “Come on down, Viruk.”

Moraven grabbed Rekarafi’s arm. “Why?”

The Viruk laughed. “Your apprentice fears toys. I do not.” He turned and galloped on hands and feet down the narrow stairway and leaped the nine-foot wall. He landed in a crouch, red dust puffing lightly around his feet. Rekarafi extended one hand and crooked a finger.

The announcer fled the arena. The champion gyanrigot approached, but slowly and cautiously. The Viruk clearly did not appear to be its normal sort of foe. The fact that it did orient on him, claws wide, tail high, confirmed Ciras’ prediction that these machines could and likely would be used against people.

Ciras appeared at Moraven’s left shoulder. “What is he doing?”

“He is proving to you what he suggested. He has found a weakness and will exploit it.”

“What if he is wrong?”

“Then you will see what color a Viruk bleeds.”

Rekarafi stayed low and moved in a crouch to the right and left. He let Skorpe dominate the center of the arena as seemed to be the gyanrigot’s wont. He extended first his left hand, then his right, and watched the claws rise to fend them off. He cut to the left more quickly, as if to take advantage of the machine’s blind eye. Skorpe spun fast, keeping the Viruk centered between its claws.

The Viruk brought his hands back in, resting them on his knees. He hunched his shoulders, then raised his rump, thrusting his face forward. He snapped his jaws open and shut, and the machine responded by clicking its claws. Like him, it leaned forward slightly. Then, in a blurred burst of speed, it charged.

Rekarafi leaped up and forward, his powerful legs propelling him well above the claws and beyond their grasp. As they closed noisily on emptiness, he soared above even the tail and its spike. As he began to descend, he extended his right foot and twisted in the air.

His left hand whipped around behind him as he turned and caught Skorpe’s tail, right beneath the thickened bulb from which the stinger sprouted. With a flick of his wrist, the Viruk flipped the gyanrigot over onto its back. Planting his left foot, he completed his turn as his left hand stretched and locked on the tail. His right foot came down at the point where tail met body and snapped the appendage clean off.

Contemptuously he smashed the tail against the gyanrigot’s lifeless hulk. “Nesrearck!”

Utter silence greeted his victory, but the Viruk did not seem to care. He strode to the wall and pulled himself over it as easily as he’d vanquished Skorpe. He let spectators flee before him, laughing almost gleefully.

Ciras frowned. “How did . . . what did . . . I don’t understand.”

Moraven smiled. “He found the weakness. The gyanrigot looked like a scorpion, so Borosan struck at its head with a shot that would have killed a scorpion. It failed. Therefore, whatever drove Skorpe was not located in its body. The bulb on the tail, on the other hand, was far from damaged, and never used the way it should have been.”

“I see that now, Master.”

“Then you should also see something else, Lirserrdin Dejote.” Moraven pointed at the gyanrigot and the men dragging it from the arena. “Disgust and dismissal prevent you from understanding your enemy. Gyanrigot may never be something you have to fight, but by understanding them and their limitations, you can be certain they will never defeat you.”

 

Chapter Fifty

2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

The sun had reached its zenith, but Prince Cyron still could not shake the dream that had awakened him nine hours earlier. He seldom had nightmares, and never believed in the prophetic powers of dreams, but this one disturbed him. As he recalled flashes of it, his mouth went dry and his head began to pound.

He had been the dragon and had lain in twisted coils on the ground—a rocky, desolate ground that had cracked beneath the sun or the impact of his fall, he could not be certain which. Every bone in his body felt equally cracked, and when he tried to move, the grating pain of fragments locking and shifting clawed through his brain. The frustration of his being crippled pained him even more than the agonies of movement.

His body lay rent and bleeding. Looking down his length he could see limbs impaled on stone spikes. Black blood welled up around them and flowed over him. He thought of the Black River and tried to remember Desei geography, to see if he, the dragon, lay with his spine shattered on the banks of the Black River, or if there was some other symbolism he was missing. It struck him as ironic that he was the master of the world’s greatest power because of the Anturasi charts, and yet his knowledge of geography had become so poor he could not identify where he lay in the dream.

While the significance of the land escaped him, none of the rest of it did. A massive hawk landed on his chest and dipped its sharply hooked beak into his entrails. It tore at him, supping on liver. Its left wing had two feathers clipped, but that had not hindered the bird. Down below it, a dog lapped at black blood. At his tail the Virine bear nibbled lazily.

Those symbols needed no translation, but two others did. Swarming around him and the bear, a living carpet of black ants moved steadily forward. Mindless and relentless, they devoured everything, and somehow he knew the desolation surrounding him was something they had caused. They attacked the bear and it yowled as white bones appeared, picked clean of meat and sinew. The dog barked and retreated, and the hawk took wing.

The black ants approached from his tail, but he could not study their progress too closely because of the vultures seated on his snout. He could snap his jaws at them, but never quickly enough to catch and crush one. They, in turn, struck at his eyes and ears. They tore bits from his tongue. The vultures blinded him. They made him deaf. They silenced him so he could not even scream as the ants ate him alive.

“Are you well, Highness?”

Cyron blinked and let the world swim back into focus. He sat on his throne, with Pelut Vniel kneeling off to his right. Both men wore white mourning hoods, though far enough back on their heads that conversation was not precluded. “Yes, Grand Minister, I am well.”

“I know, Highness, that Grand Minister Lynesorat’s death is a surprise, for we had all expected a great many more years from him. And the proper waiting period would have been observed before I was elected to serve you in the capacity he did, save that his widow’s request and dire times superseded convention.”

Cyron nodded. Yes, best you think I am truly mourning than believe I am lost in ruminations about a dream. “I have no fear, Grand Minister, that you will serve well in his stead. Serve greatly, even, for you know me better than he did. And you are more attuned to the needs of state.”

The man bowed and pressed his forehead to the floor before coming back up. “My only wish is to free you from the mundane so those decisions that only you can make become your primary concern.”

And there are many of those, to be sure. Vniel undoubtedly referred to the Helosundian problem, which had become a tangled knot. Prince Eiran had taken Cyron’s orders to heart and was actually winning the loyalty of his people. As he stepped into his responsibilities, the possibility of assassination increased. Pyrust would never do it, but Eiran’s Helosundian rivals might, as well as Naleni malcontents.

But Cyron had a more pressing concern. Qiro Anturasi had continued to generate charts, but reports from the Stormwolf and the Ixyll expedition had become short and terse. To make matters worse, reports came from along the coast of raiding by ghost ships. His navy had been unable to find, much less engage, the ghosts. Merchants didn’t want to send ships out without protection, and the resulting disruption in trade threatened to destabilize his government. Without money, he could not move forward. And, eventually, he would fall prey to Deseirion.

Vniel frowned. “You are preoccupied, Highness?”

The Prince hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “I have a concern, yes. Tell me what you know of prophetic dreams.”

A little shiver ran through the minister, but otherwise he masked his reaction. “There are those who set great store in the symbolism. Prince Pyrust, as well you know, is one. I had not thought you believed in such, Highness.”

“I do not, Minister. Have no fear for my sanity.”

“I had none.” The man smiled. “Was it a dream of yours, Highness, that concerned you?”

Cyron half closed his eyes and waved the suggestion away. “Hardly. I merely wondered if Prince Pyrust ever suffered nightmares?”

“I can inquire, Highness.” Grand Minister Vniel let his smile broaden. “I do think, however, that Prince Pyrust will soon have news that disturbs his sleep. It is likewise my hope that this news will allow you to sleep that much more soundly.”

“Thank you. I hope you are correct.” Cyron gave the man a slight smile and hoped it covered the trickle of ice running up his spine. You’re one of the vultures, aren’t you? I hear what you say, I see what you want me to see, and what I say goes through you. A sense of peace came over him as that bit of the mystery cleared up.

Now, who are the ants and from whence do they come? His eyes sharpened. And when they come, can I stop them?