Chapter One

32nd day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Imperial Road South

Nalenyr

Moraven Tolo reached the crest of the hill a few steps before his traveling companions. The half-blind old man who wheezed up behind him gasped involuntarily. He looked back as his grandson and great-grandson joined him, then gestured at the city in the distance. “There it is, Moriande, the grandest city in the world.”

The swordsman nodded slowly in agreement. The road ran down the forested hillside and glimpses of it could be seen twisting through the Gold River valley to the city. It had been years since he’d seen Nalenyr’s capital, and it had grown, but was still easily recognizable. Wentokikun, the tallest of the city’s nine towers, dominated its eastern quarter, and using that as a landmark made fixing the other places easier.

The old man, his wispy beard and hair dancing in the light breeze, nodded toward Moriande. “The biggest tower, there to the east, is the Imperial Palace. I may not see well now, but I see it clear. It makes me remember when I last saw it.”

Moraven remained silent, though the sight of the capital filled him with much the same awe as it did the rest of the pilgrims. Moriande’s growth reflected the change in the world. As wild magic decreased in civilized lands, and trade brought prosperity, Moriande became a symbol of hope. While people always feared a return of the Time of Black Ice and the magic that had spawned it, they dared believe it could be held at bay. Moriande had grown not because of magic and superstition, but because of a victory over it.

The pace of that growth had surprised Moraven, and it clearly had accelerated in recent decades beneath the Komyr Dynasty. Many times over the last week Moraven had heard about how the old man had come to Moriande eighty-one years earlier, for the first grand Festival celebrating the Komyr Dynasty. It had survived nine cycles of nine years then, and twice that now. With this being the ninth year of the current Prince’s Court, people knew that the Festival was a double blessing. The old man’s hope to capitalize on that blessing was the reason for leading his scions on the long journey north.

The city was so huge that it seemed far closer than a two-day walk from where they stood. The Gold River split the white sprawl down the middle, with a broad oxbow curving to the north. Six of the city’s nine towers stood in the northern half, and the other three—including the Prince’s Dragon Tower, Wentokikun—lay on the southern side. Equally magnificent, though harder to see at that distance, were the nine soaring bridges arching over the sparkling river. Their height allowed even the grandest ship to pass beneath them with ease, and their width made the Imperial Road look like a game path.

Matut, the old man, tousled his great-grandson’s hair with an arthritically twisted hand. “I was ten when I came to the Festival. You are but nine, as old as the court and a tenth my age. I’m sure the gods will make something of that. Your little problem will be dealt with easily, Dunos.”

The little boy nodded solemnly. His right hand rubbed at his withered left arm as he looked over at Moraven. “It will be as my grandfather says, won’t it, swordsman?”

Moraven crouched and gave the brown-haired boy a nod. “He is correct, but as my Master’s Master told him, ‘The gods grant the tools and talent, yet yours is the effort.’ The gods will heal you, I have no doubt, but you will have to work.”

“I’ll work. Then I can be a swordsman, too.”

“We might need more than a swordsman in the mill, son.” The boy’s father smiled and tapped a belt pouch that rang with the muffled sound of coins. “We will do this right, make our offerings to the gods, then enjoy the Festival.”

“Of course, Alait, of course.” The old man chuckled himself into a wheeze. “There will be pleasures a young man like yourself and our friend here can enjoy. I was too young last time, and am too old this time.”

Rising, Moraven smiled and smoothed his long black hair at the back of his neck. “You are of a blessed age, grandfather. There will be many who will seek your touch for fortune’s sake.”

“May they all be as comely and soft as the Lady of Jet and Jade.” The old man looked at him with rheumy brown eyes and flexed a stiff hand. “It might be I don’t see so well anymore, but I can feel.”

Alait laughed and Moraven joined him. Dunos looked puzzled, and a richly robed merchantman’s wife sniffed. She had often done so when conversations had revolved around Matut’s stories of the Festival and all the carnal pleasures he’d seen there. She, they had been informed, was going to the capital at the invitation of “people” who, they were also told, would get her husband an imperial appointment—though she had always remained vague on what it was and why he wasn’t with her.

The rest of the traveling company was a fair mix of people from within and without Nalenyr. Four were entertainers coming up from Erumvirine, while the rest were from Nalenyr itself. They’d all agreed that traveling in a company of eighteen was a very good omen, and numerous offerings had been made in the shrines scattered along the roadway to ensure the favor of the gods. Each made offerings according to his means, with the peasants clad in brown or grey homespun being a bit more quiet and circumspect in their devotions than the more extravagantly dressed. And many made extra offerings for Dunos in payment for little chores he performed on the road.

The merchantman’s wife had neither made offerings for Dunos nor employed him, running him off with waves and snorts. In his grandfather’s words, she had been “Loud in prayer, but in offerings spare.”

Moraven Tolo fell into the middle of the two groups, being neither rich nor poor. Black woolen trousers were tucked into leather boots and his shirt had been made of undyed linen. Only his quilted sleeveless overshirt of white silk, with the wide starched shoulders and the black tigers embroidered breast and back, hinted at any prosperity. It wrapped closed and was belted with a black sash.

He’d slipped his sword into the sash, only just having reclaimed it from the boy. Dunos had proudly carried it for him, and Moraven had made offerings to the gods in recompense. He alone in the company bore a sword, though he was not the only one armed. Two of the farmers had flails, which they carried over their shoulders.

Matut’s eyes half lidded and the old man shook. “It was here it happened on that first trip. I remember it now.”

Dunos clutched at his grandfather’s left hand. “The bandits?”

The merchantman’s wife hissed. “Be quiet, child. Don’t give the gods ideas.”

Moraven glanced further down the road as three figures—two male, one female—slipped from the woods to the center of the road. “The mind of gods was not the womb of this idea.”

The female bandit, wearing black beneath an overshirt of scarlet and gold, drew her sword and led her two companions lazily toward the pilgrims. To her left the smaller one, wearing a motley collection of greens and browns, fitted an arrow to his recurve bow. He hung back slightly and positioned himself for a clear shot.

The third figure wore a ragged brown robe that might have come to midshin on most men, but barely covered the tops of his thighs. A long tangle of unkempt hair matched the giant’s scraggly beard. Dirt caked every inch of his exposed flesh and drew black lines beneath his fingernails. As imposing as he was, however, the long-hafted mallet he carried made more of an impression. With a head as big around as a melon and an irregular darkness staining the face, it was clearly intended for crushing skulls.

The bandit woman tried to smile, but a scar on her left cheek curdled the expression. “We welcome you to the Imperial Road. We are your servants, who keep it open and free of banditry. Surely you will want to show your appreciation.”

Conoursai, the merchantman’s wife, waved them aside with a courtly gesture full of arrogance. “This is the Prince’s highway. His troops keep it clear.”

The highwaywoman shook her head. “Clearly, then, they are negligent in their duty, grandmother.” She offered the honorific to shock Conoursai, and was rewarded with an offended hiss. “But, as we are not the Prince’s troops, we must be highwaymen. Will you pay tribute and be honored or suffer as victims?”

Matut moaned. “This is how it began last time.”

Moraven patted him on the shoulder. “This has long been known as a place where people stop in awe to look at the city. Bandits sneak up unawares.”

The little boy stooped and picked up a rock. “I’ll fight them.”

“No need, brave one.” Moraven Tolo moved again to the fore, slipping effortlessly past Conoursai. He motioned to the two farmers to stay back. Taking a position in the center of the road, he bowed toward the bandits.

“I am xidantzu. I wish harm to come to none. These people are under my protection. It will cost you nothing to walk away.”

“Xidantzu.” The woman spat contemptuously and plucked at her overshirt. “The last wandering meddler coming through here gave me this and those he protected gave us their gold.”

Moraven’s eyes sharpened. The scarlet overshirt had bats on the wing woven into it. He knew the man to whom it belonged. “Did you steal it, or was Jayt Macyl slain?”

She gestured with her sword to the west, then swung the blade in a short arc. “There are pieces of him all along here. He was Sixth Rank only. I am Pavynti Syolsar, and I am ranked Superior.”

He considered for a moment. Jayt Macyl had indeed been a swordsman of the Sixth Rank. Her defeating him might well make her Seventh Rank, or just someone who had gotten lucky. He was tempted, given her relative youth, to believe it was the latter, but he also knew appearances could be deceiving.

“I am Moraven Tolo of the School of Jatan.”

The bandit woman snorted. “Macyl was of Serrian Jatan. This holds no fear for me.”

Moraven shook his head. “Macyl studied under Eron Jatan. My Master was his grandfather.”

Her face slackened slightly. “Phoyn Jatan?”

“Yes. I am somewhat older than I appear.” Moraven did his best to ignore the murmurs coming from his traveling companions. “If you still wish to fight, name your terms.”

“I am not afraid of you.” Pavynti’s brown eyes narrowed. “To the death, of course.”

He nodded. “Draw the circle.”

That stopped her for a moment. It also brought gasps from his traveling companions and a joyous shout from Dunos. His father cut that short by clapping a hand over the boy’s mouth as he dragged his son back. Most of the company likewise retreated, putting the crest of the hill between themselves and the combatants. Those who did not drew little circles around themselves or dug out previously hidden talismans against magic, and one farmer slid off a horsehair bracelet, which he held up to one eye so he would be safe as he watched the fight.

“The c-circle?” Pavynti’s expression tightened.

“You heard me correctly.” Moraven slid his sword, still in its wooden scabbard, from his belt. “It would be best.”

Shaken, she began to toe a line in the roadway’s dirt. Her companions, understanding the import of his request, acted. The archer loosed an arrow and the giant bellowed and began to charge. By the time the giant had passed Pavynti, the archer’s second and third missiles were also in the air.

Moraven Tolo twisted his right shoulder back, letting the first shaft pass harmlessly wide. The second tugged at his overshirt’s sleeve, passing through it, but missing flesh. He slid forward a half step, letting the third arrow pass behind him, then ran at the giant, clutching his sword midscabbard in his left hand.

The giant’s mallet rose above his head and his mouth gaped in a horrid display of misaligned, yellowed teeth. Black eyes shrank. Veins throbbed in his forehead and neck. His incoherent war cry took on the bass tones of a water buffalo’s challenge. The mallet, its haft bending beneath the incredible power of the stroke, arced up and smashed down at Moraven.

Ducking low, Moraven moved inside the mallet’s arc. He plunged the hilt of his sword into the giant’s middle. Planting his right hand on the lower part of the scabbard, he pivoted the sheathed blade into the man’s groin. As the bellow rose into a squeak, Moraven lifted and twisted, flipping the giant over his shoulder. The man smashed down on his back and bounced once. Another spin let Moraven crack the giant in the head with his scabbard as a fourth arrow flew past.

Completing the spin, Moraven let the sword shoot forward until the hilt filled his right hand. He tightened his grip, deliberately letting momentum bare the blade. The heavy wooden scabbard flew off in a flat arc and cracked the archer’s left hand. As the swordsman intended, it crushed fingers against the bow and knocked the fifth arrow flying. The archer screamed, dropping his weapon, and turned away with his broken hand nestled beneath his right armpit.

Moraven Tolo’s sword came up, the silver blade pointing straight at Pavynti’s throat. “Have you finished that circle yet?”

She threw her sword aside and dropped to her knees, then fell to her belly with her face in the dirt. “Jaecaiserr, forgive this wretched one for her arrogance.”

“Which arrogance was that, Pavynti? Claiming ranks you do not have? Believing those who travel to the capital are your prey?” Moraven let his voice get cold and deeper. “Or the dishonorable arrogance of letting your friends attack me before we could engage in our duel?”

“All of them, Master.”

“Up. Remove that overshirt. Take up your sword.”

Disbelief widening her eyes, the woman rose, dusted the overshirt off, then removed it. Hesitantly she leaned over to pick up her sword, and a little circular silver talisman fell forward, dangling on a rawhide thong. She slowly straightened. “Do I continue drawing the circle?”

He shook his head. “Scorpion form, the first.”

Pavynti blinked, then moved into that stance. He nodded then called another form, and another. She flowed through them quickly enough, doing best with Crane and Eagle, least well with Wolf and Dog. He kept her at it for a full nine minutes, which was all the time it took for his traveling companions to crest the hill again. The two farmers positioned themselves to thump the giant soundly if he regained consciousness.

When she was dripping with sweat, he called a halt, and she dropped to one knee. He could tell she was tempted to stab her sword into the ground and hang on to the hilt, but she knew better than to show that level of disrespect to her weapon. Breathing heavily, she glanced up. “What else would you have of me, Master?”

“The answer to a question.”

“Yes?”

“You have Jayt’s overshirt, but not his sword. What became of it?”

The flesh around her eyes tightened. “I am a bandit, Master, but not a barbarian. The blade was sent on to his family, for their shrine.”

Moraven said nothing, but crossed to where the archer cowered and kicked the bow into a tangle of thornbushes. Resheathing his sword, he slid it back into his overshirt’s sash and waved the archer further from his weapon. By the time he turned around again, Conoursai had advanced and raised her quirt to lash the bandit.

“Don’t do that.”

The merchantman’s wife sputtered indignantly. “She was going to kill us all. She should be punished. You should kill her.”

Moraven slowly shook his head. “A life broken can be mended. A life taken cannot.”

“Then break her.” The woman gestured imperiously, though not quite as confidently as before. “Have the farmers thrash the giant and the archer.”

“They struck at me, not you. Their fate is in my hands.”

“By what authority?”

Moraven frowned, then looked past her to where Dunos had collected Macyl’s overshirt and neatly folded it. “Why can you not be like the child? As it is said, ‘One action accomplishes more than ten thousand words.’ ”

“Her action was to slay us.”

“No, her action was to show respect to a fallen foe. Her words, as yours, are nothing. Now, be silent, lest I be forced to act.” He turned from her scowl and eyed the archer. “How much have you stolen from the Festival pilgrims?”

“Not a prince’s ransom. Not even his petty spending.”

“It is still too much. You and your giant will take all you have stolen and go to the Festival. You will give alms to the beggars until you have nothing, then you will leave for the west.”

“But there are Viruk and Soth there, and wildmen. The chances of our survival . . .”

“. . . Are better there than here.” Moraven smiled. “Chances are excellent I shall never see you again if you go west.”

The archer thought for a moment. “It is very crowded here. West, then.”

Conoursai snorted with outrage, but said nothing. Moraven continued to ignore her and turned to Pavynti. “And now your fate must be decided.”

“My lord’s will be done.”

“You will go to the town of Derros, south, on the Virine coast. You will present yourself at the School of Istor. You will tell the Grandmaster I have sent you to join his school. He will see to your training. When he releases you, you will be xidantzu for nine years. You will wander and entertain bandits as you have been entertained.”

“Yes, Master.” Again she put her belly to the dirt in a deep bow.

“Care for your companions tonight, then go tomorrow. This is my will.”

The farmers, between the two of them, lifted the mallet and broke the haft. The others in the group started forward again, following the farmers and allowing Conoursai to join them. All of them gave Moraven wide berth. Moraven moved past the bandits, but did so slowly, waiting for the old man and his kin, who were bringing up the rear.

Moraven smiled at the boy. “When you get to Moriande, you will deliver that overshirt to Macyl’s family. They will honor you for it. Ward it well.”

“I will.” Dunos nodded, then narrowed his eyes. “Are you really a Mystic?”

“Dunos, hush.” Alait settled his hand on the back of the boy’s neck. “Don’t be offended, Master. He is just a boy.”

“I’m not.” Moraven crouched again, looking the boy eye to eye. “I have studied many years and am blessed with skill. I am jaecaiserr, but you cannot believe all the stories.” He reached out and caressed the boy’s lifeless left arm. “If I could use my magic to heal you with a touch, I would have done so on the eve we met. My magic is not for healing, to my regret. Others have that skill, and you will find them in Moriande.”

The boy nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Master.” He looked up at his father, and the two of them moved on.

Matut reached out a hand and rested it on Moraven’s shoulder as he rose. “A moment more of your time, Master.”

The swordsman nodded and let the two younger men get further down the road. “What is it, grandfather?”

The old man kept his voice low. “In this place, when the bandits stopped us nines of nine years ago, a young man of our company challenged them. He told them to draw a circle, and they did.”

“And what happened?”

“He slew them all. An autumn breeze works harder stirring leaves than he did slaughtering them. He did not wear your name, but he did bear the crest of the black tiger hunting.”

“That would be something hard to forget.”

“I never have.” The old man sighed. “If my eyes were good, I could see that you are the same man, untouched by the years. Why didn’t you kill them this time?”

“As you agreed, grandfather, that was something hard to forget.” Moraven’s blue eyes gazed again toward Moriande. “I haven’t forgotten, and I have learned.”

 

Chapter Two

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi leaned against the marble balustrade in the elevated garden at Anturasikun. The stone felt cool beneath his hands and he knew, almost by touch, where it had been quarried and how long it had taken to reach the capital. Solaeth, shipped over the Dark Sea, then down the Gold River. He smiled to himself, his hazel eyes bright in a handsome face with sharply sculpted cheekbones and a nose that had been broken once when he was a child. He’d known many a happy day in the garden, and knew today would be happier still.

He looked over the city, casting his gaze to the southeast and toward the Imperial Palace. Through his mind flashed half a dozen routes for getting from the Anturasi stronghold to the Prince’s demesne. He could travel through the wide streets that now thronged with Festival visitors, or wend his way through warrens, alleys, and places where, were he wearing his own Festival finery, he would have been prey. He had traveled them all since he was a child, learning the city fearlessly—or at least fearing it less than incurring his grandfather’s wrath if he did not.

That was an Anturasi’s lot in life. His family had shown a talent for cartography, which was all but useless in the Time of Black Ice. It didn’t matter that you knew how to get from one valley to another when you had no idea what sort of horror you might find there. As the world emerged from the years of ice, snow, and wild magic, the Anturasi gift took on greater significance. Until the time of his grandfather, however, Nalenyr had neither the leadership nor the resources to exploit it.

Fifty-six years ago—when his grandfather was only his age and the world was smaller—a tiger-sized wolf was ravaging herds in the northern mountains. The then–Naleni Prince—Prince Cyron’s father—was set to go hunting and had a dream that he would slay the beast. Try as he might, year after year, the Prince failed to fulfill his dream until Qiro Anturasi performed a minor miracle. Qiro had undertaken a survey of the area and presented the Prince with a map that took the Prince directly to his prey. The Prince slew the wolf and granted Qiro a private audience as a reward.

The story had become part of family legend, along with other tales of Qiro’s subsequent travels west to reclaim the Spice Road. Though he failed in that latter mission, the Prince still showed great favor to the family. Qiro moved to its head, eclipsing his own father. He browbeat his brother, Ulan, into absolute obedience. Qiro’s iron-willed control of the family soon extended to all Ulan’s progeny and his own grandchildren. Keles and his siblings knew very well what Qiro expected of them and complied at one level or another.

At my level, compliance; at Jorim’s, none. Nirati cannot, though she does what she can. Keles shivered. His sister did not have to worry about Qiro’s ire, and both the older siblings did what they could to shield Jorim. Without their efforts, Qiro would have broken him, chaining him to a drafting table beside his cousins, shutting away someone who lived to explore the world.

Keles knew, someday, there would be no protecting Jorim and that even he would fall under his grandfather’s suspicions. Qiro had usurped his own father’s place. Ryn Anturasi, Keles’ father, had fought horribly with Qiro until his death. The old man clearly expected that Keles or Jorim would try to replace him and, if the family’s fortunes were to be maintained, one day one of them would.

Not something to think about. Not today. Not before the Festival. Not before she gets here.

Keles cleared his mind of dire musings and studied the city again. Bright pennants and brighter coats of paint made the city new again. It had been a good year, with a number of sailing vessels returning to the capital, their holds bulging. They carried exotic items from places as far as Tas al Aud and Aefret, including dyes for clothes, spices, artworks, and strange animals for the Prince’s preserve. Envoys from distant nations likewise took passage on the Prince’s Wolves, sailing to Moriande to celebrate the dynasty’s anniversary.

The Imperial duties levied on those cargoes would easily pay for the Festival. More importantly for the Anturasi, since those ships used charts created by Qiro, a percentage of their profits came to him. While any one merchant might profit when a ship returned, Qiro profited when any ship returned. This fact was not lost on anyone, least of all the Prince.

The crunch of footsteps on the gravel at the garden’s edge brought Keles around. A shaven-headed servant in brown bowed. “Pardon, Master Keles, but Lady Majiata Phoesel has come.”

“Please, bring her here.” The invitation was but a formality, for he could see Majiata waiting in the shadows of the tower’s entrance. Formalities had to be observed, however, as she was nobility. Despite their being betrothed and of intimate acquaintance, familiarity would not do. He bowed low in her direction and waited until the hem of her blue gown came into view before he straightened, fighting to hide a smile.

Taking tiny steps, she entered the garden, bypassing stone planters brimming with the finest examples of bhotri in the capital—outside the Imperial Palace, of course. Several of the plants had been grown by jaecaibhot, whose skill reached magical proportions. The miniature pine tree at her right elbow perched on a rock and trembled with a breeze that went unfelt. Other dwarf trees would produce bountiful harvests of pea-sized fruit as succulent as their normal-sized cousins regardless of the seasons, so skilled was the Mystic arborist in the Anturasi employ.

Majiata, as always, surrendered little in comparison to the brilliant blooms in the garden. Gold silk trousers and sash complemented the deep blue of her robe. A sapphire set in gold rested at the hollow of her throat, and smaller examples of the same stone in gold settings shone from her earlobes. Her dark hair had been gathered and swept up, restrained by a gold chain around her brow, with a sapphire dangling at her forehead. While her features were not as delicate as those of most hereditary nobility, she had an undeniable beauty. Heavy eyelashes and lids blackened with kohl accentuated her cerulean eyes, and reminded him of how she looked in the dimness of the midnight hours.

“Welcome, my lady Majiata.”

She inclined her head only slightly in his direction, giving him the first inkling of trouble. “You are kind in your greeting, Keles.”

“Mai, what is wrong?”

He took a step forward, raising his hands toward hers, but she did not return the gesture. For a moment he thought it might be that she objected to his attire, for his bright yellow shirt did not match the gold of her robes, and his trousers and overshirt of green were far less rich in hue than her gown. He let his hands drift back to his sides and lifted his head, straightening his spine.

No anger flashed in her eyes, but he fully expected it. Her reply came softly, but even whispered it was less a question than a statement. “You have not told him yet.”

“No, darling, but don’t be angry.” Keles smiled broadly. “It is not easy to tell my grandfather anything. You know this.”

“But you have not even tried.” Her left hand emerged from the opposite sleeve, letting the diamond ring he’d given her glint in the sunlight. “If you truly loved me, you would have told him what I asked you.”

“Mai, you know I love you.” He clapped his hands together and wanted to leap with the joy in his heart. “I’ve thought of something much better, my dearest. It’s perfect.”

“Perfect, my darling, is for us to be together, not separated as you go off on the Stormwolf. I know that your grandfather has reserved a great honor for you by sending you to sail around the Eastern Sea. I know there is much to see and explore. I know you dearly want to do that, but you will be gone for a year, two, five! What of us all that time?”

“I know, I know, but that is what is perfect about my plan, Majiata.” He looked at her with hazel eyes full of enthusiasm. “You took my ring knowing what I would be doing, what my life would be like. And I want to be with you, so I have found the perfect solution. I’ve made the arrangements. You can come with me in the fleet, on the Stormwolf.”

Her gaze flicked up as she whispered breathlessly and a tremor ran through her. “Come with you?”

“Yes, darling, yes, it will be perfect.” He took her hands in his, squeezing them. “Istor Araset is the bhotcai who will be with us, and you can learn much from him. Think of the new plants you will see, the new places! We will walk where men have not been before. We will taste exotic fruits. We will see animals and vistas no man has ever laid eyes on. You will be a great help for me and to me. We will even have a cabin to ourselves. I won’t command the ship; Anaeda Gryst will do that, but she is a brilliant captain who has sailed to Aefret and back again faster than anyone else. She’s willing to take you with us . . . What’s wrong?”

His voice petered out as she withdrew her hands from his.

With you?” She looked at him with shock and pain in her eyes. “Do you love me so little as to even suggest that?”

Keles blinked in amazement. “W-what do you mean? I love you so much I want you with me.”

“But you don’t think of me at all, do you? You think only of yourself.” She opened her arms wide. “You would take me from family and friends?”

“I will be your family.”

“And if you die on the trip?” She turned away from him. “You describe all the wonders, but you forget the horrors. The diseases. The lack of water. Stale food. Storms. Storms sufficient to snap a ship in half. You’ll sail south, maybe to find these fabled Mountains of Ice, but what if you do? You’ll spend months with your teeth chattering, losing fingers and toes to frostbite. Do you want me to lose fingers and toes, Keles?”

“No, you don’t understand . . .”

“And freezing is the least of our worries. Don’t you see that? Don’t you know why I want you here, in Moriande, learning from your grandfather?” Her voice became glacial. “Have you forgotten what happened to your father? What Qiro did to your father?”

“M-Majiata, you know better than to believe old wives’ tales.”

“And you denigrate the truth by labeling it fable.” Her eyes slitted. “You were all of seven when it happened and I was barely beyond suckling at my nurse’s breast. Your grandfather sent your father off on such a journey. Qiro was jealous of him and your father defiant, so your grandfather had him killed. Your father, the Wavewolf, everyone on it, dead!”

“No, that is not true. Not true at all.” Keles scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked imploringly at her. “Don’t you see, Majiata? I have to go on the Stormwolf. It is my duty to my family, to ensure the future. Our future. Can’t you understand that?”

“I understand completely, Keles. I understand how selfish your love is—that you put the Anturasi before your love of me. I want you here not only so he cannot kill you, but so I can help you.”

She clasped her hands together, looked down, and spoke calmly in a small voice, a helpless voice. “You know that growing flowers is not my true talent. That lies at court, using my influence with my family to help shape the court’s thinking. I can do that for you. I want to be a help to you, but if you are going to abandon me, I am powerless to promote you. And perhaps you think ill of me, but I do think of the Anturasi fortunes. There are ships that go out without Anturasi charts. But with my help, laws can be passed so that will never happen again. Don’t you want that?”

“Of course I do, Mai.”

“But I think you want adventure more. You want to be sent away from here. Away from me. Why is it you want to be sent away from me, Keles?”

The sob that choked her last word raised a lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking. He lifted his hands and settled them on her shoulders, but she shrugged her way free, dipping her head as she began to weep. Keles froze, uncertain what to do. His guts knotted and his empty hands flexed.

With all the time in the world I could not think of the right thing to say.

“The answer to your question, Mai Phoesel, should be obvious.”

Keles turned as his twin sister entered the garden. As tall as he was, with lighter brown hair and green eyes, she had sharp features that had earned her the nickname of Fox when they were children. Though she had since grown into a beauty, that vulpine nature still lingered, though more in the tightness of her eyes and the quickness of her mind than in anything else. Lest anyone forget it, however, her black robe did have running embroidery of foxes gamboling.

Mai turned and snorted. “Spying again, Nirati?”

“Hardly necessary, since you always read from the same script. I have said nothing to my brother before. I speak now because what you ask affects my whole family. It is not that I love you any less than the family, dear brother, but her meddling has gone too far.”

Keles frowned. “Really, Nirati, I don’t think . . .”

“You do think, brother, when given the chance, but you don’t see when you are being used.” His sister pointed at Mai, who seemed to have shrunk a little. “She wants to help you, of course. She mentions ships that sail without Anturasi charts. Well, her family’s trading company has long done without them. Her father came to our grandfather after you were betrothed and demanded access to charts since we were ‘practically family.’ Grandfather told him to come back when she was actually wedded to you and her belly swollen with a child we could prove was yours.”

Mai gasped in horror and Keles moved to comfort her.

“Don’t bother, brother, she’s not worth it. Her only failing in this matter has been because of her vanity.” Nirati’s eyes sharpened. “She was supposed to have conceived your child by now, but she failed. Was it that you dreaded morning sickness, Majiata, or feared becoming bloated and ugly—as ugly as you are inside?”

“Neither.” Mai stroked a hand over her belly. “You’re a fool, Nirati. Two nights ago your brother and I lay together. Even now his child is growing in my belly.”

“No, little Mai.” Nirati shook her head, her brown locks a shimmering curtain spilling over the shoulders of her gown. “For one who prides herself in a paltry talent at bhotri, you have long since neglected your studies. You must have noticed the tinge of bitterness in your night’s-cup of wine before you slept. It was tincture of clawfoot.”

“You poisoned me!” Mai’s mouth gaped in horror, then looked at Keles. “Your sister tried to kill me.”

Keles looked at his sister and the fury on her face burned through the outrage Mai’s plea had spawned in him. “You are exaggerating, Mai. She would have done you no harm.”

“I did her no harm.” Nirati shrugged nonchalantly. “Technically it was a servant of yours, bought and paid for with Anturasi gold, who administered the drug, but it was prepared with consummate skill—skill far greater than you possess.”

“At least I have a talent, Nirati,” Majiata snarled.

Keles stepped between them, turning to face Majiata. “Stop. Go no further.”

“Again you deny the truth, Keles. Everyone knows your sister is to be pitied. She’s talentless. No skill at mapmaking, no skill with plants and herbs. Others who have known such shame have had the good grace to destroy themselves.”

Keles’ hands knotted. His words came precise and clipped. “I told you to go no further. There is more than one type of shame, Majiata. Remember, Empress Cyrsa was late come to her talent.”

“Your sister is no Cyrsa.”

“But she is my sister and I love her.” He lifted his chin. “If you love me, you will stop. Now.”

Majiata hesitated, her blue eyes flicking as she measured her responses. Keles wanted her anger to break, for her to ask his forgiveness. With every heartbeat that she did not, he realized his desire was in vain, as his earlier happiness rotted within him.

“Is that it, then? You choose your sister over me?”

“I make no such choice. I love you, I love her, I love you both. I do not choose.” He frowned and his voice slackened. “And you should not make me choose.”

“Oh, no, Keles, I could never make you choose. But clearly I never had a chance here at all, did I?” Majiata’s eyes welled with tears. “I offered you everything. I offered you a future of your own, Keles, and you will not permit yourself to grasp it.”

Nirati came up on his side. “No, Majiata, you offered him an illusion. His future was to be your future, for the benefit of your family. To you he was no more than a stud who could draw maps.”

Mai slapped Nirati, snapping her head around. She raised her hand again, but Keles caught her by the wrist. “Don’t.”

Mai screeched in fury, wrenched her hand free, and clawed at his face. Keles fended her off and she retreated. Her fingers hooked spastically and anger knotted her face into ugliness. “I won’t have you, Keles Anturasi. You and your family will always be prisoners here. I will have no part of it. Our engagement is ended!”

She stormed back toward the tower, but Nirati darted after her and caught her by her robe’s sash. “The ring.”

“What?”

“The ring. You broke the engagement, Majiata. The ring remains here.”

Mai turned and looked at Keles, tears painting her cheeks with black. “Will you grant me nothing for my love?”

Keles looked down, his guts twisting slowly around an icy core.

Nirati laughed harshly. “You deserve nothing, Mai.”

“Fine.” She tugged the ring free and hurled it against his chest. It bounced off. “I want nothing of the Anturasi. You are dead to me.”

Mai waited for a moment to hear any reply he might have, but Keles remained silent. She shook her head, then stalked off in a rustle of silk and a flash of blue that seemed to take the rest of the color from the garden with it.

Nirati bent to retrieve the ring. She stood slowly and held it out to her twin. “She was not worthy of you.”

Keles started to speak, but his dry throat closed. He swallowed hard, then frowned at his sister. “What you did was cruel.”

“To her? It was better than she deserved. For months she has bragged that she had you right where she wanted. She said you would be trapped here in our home, while she was free to enjoy the court and life in the capital. She would bear you children, but her family would help raise them, and she knew you would grant her that freedom. She had it all planned out.”

He resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands. “Couldn’t you have just told me?”

“Could we?” Nirati laid a hand on his upper arm. “You saw in her the sort of woman she could have become, were she not grasping, greedy, and venial. You would not have listened. You did not. Mother cautioned you against sleeping with her, but you went ahead and did so anyway.”

He slowly nodded. “I know it was foolish.” He sighed heavily. “It’s a good thing, I guess, that Mother prepared the tincture of clawfoot and bribed a servant to give it to Majiata.”

Nirati laughed. “We didn’t bribe any servant and we certainly didn’t poison her. What I said was a trick. I told her a servant in the Phoesel household was giving her clawfoot. You know she will not rest until she determines who it was. And that will prove an impossible task.”

“But . . .” He pointed off across the river toward the Phoesel compound. “Majiata and I have been sleeping together. If she wasn’t . . . if you weren’t . . . then she could be pregnant.”

“Keles, my dear brother, we did not dose Majiata.” Nirati caressed his cheek. “Mother is very good. You never recognized the taste of snipeweed in your night’s-cup, did you?”

“I just thought the wine was a bit off. This time of year, before the new vintages are out . . .” He stared down at his empty hands. “I’ve been a fool, haven’t I? I had convinced myself she would come with me, that she loved me.”

“Maybe part of her did, Keles.” Nirati rubbed his arm. “Mother and I didn’t want to hurt you, but we knew she would hurt you more. She would hurt all of us. And it was better our acting than Grandfather. He never would have let her sail with you. You do know that.”

“Well, I was thinking I might not actually tell him.”

Nirati lifted his chin and looked him in the eyes. “Keles, you will be communicating with him, mind to mind, during your journey. I know I don’t have that talent—though we did work hard, didn’t we, to try and see if I did? What I know of it, though, is that while you don’t actually converse, Grandfather can rummage around in your mind. Do you think you could have hidden her presence from him?”

Keles winced. “Once at sea he wouldn’t have recalled us.”

“In one of his rages? You really think he wouldn’t have?”

“No, you’re right, he would have. Or ordered her put ashore.” He exhaled slowly. “It wasn’t my best plan.”

“Keles, you’re smart and disciplined and methodical, which is why someday you will replace Grandfather.” Nirati held up the ring and let sunlight flash in rainbow glints from it. “Majiata didn’t let you think. When you have time, you will see things the way the rest of us did.”

“You’re right, I’m sure.” Keles swallowed hard, then sighed. “I just hope she will be well.”

“Majiata?” Nirati shook her head. “No, I won’t say it. It’s good that you are still concerned, though you should not be. I think, brother dear, she will recover.”

The look on his sister’s face told him what she refused to. She thinks Majiata will have a new suitor by the end of the Festival. Perhaps sooner.

“I’ll have to tell Captain Gryst that Majiata won’t be coming on the trip.”

Nirati raised an eyebrow. “Did she actually say she’d let Majiata on her ship?”

“She said she’d find a way to get her on board.”

“In a crate, no doubt. From what I hear of Captain Gryst, she would not have put up with her nonsense for long.” His sister smiled. “Of course, load some ballast in the crate and dump it over the side . . .”

“Nirati!”

“I’m sorry, Keles.” She gave him a warm smile. “I just didn’t like her and I am glad this is over—though, with her, I know there will be repercussions. Nothing we can’t live with, though.”

“Repercussions.” Keles shivered. “What can I expect from Grandfather and Jorim?”

“Nothing from Grandfather. He was insulated in the matter, save from the demands of her father. But it is not like he hasn’t dealt with angry merchants before.” Nirati shifted her shoulders. “Jorim didn’t approve of her, but said nothing. The last fight he was in, however, was with her cousin.”

Keles winced. “Does Grandfather know about the fight?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“Can’t we . . .” Keles read her expression. “What is it?”

“The Prince is coming here, tonight, to speak with Grandfather. You and Jorim are to be there as well. There will be no disguising that Jorim has been in another fight.”

Keles shook his head. “It’s Festival. Things should be going well, not poorly.”

“Cheer up, brother. Not everything is bad.”

“No?”

“No, indeed.” Nirati gave him a broad smile. “Just think, your night’s-cup will now be sweet again. Perhaps it’s not much, but . . .”

“I know, Nirati.” He kissed her on the forehead. “There are times when that will have to do.”

 

Chapter Three

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Inn of the Three Cranes, Moriande

Nalenyr

As the low tapping came at the door, Moraven Tolo felt his heart beating faster than it ever did in combat. “You are welcome.”

The latch rose and the door swung open silently on freshly greased hinges. A young man with black hair and bright blue eyes stood on the threshold, snapping off a deep bow. Moraven bent to match it—not to honor the boy, but the man who shuffled into the doorway in his wake.

Phoyn Jatan had never been a tall man, and age had stooped him so that he barely topped five feet. His hair, thinned to wisps, no longer benefited from being dyed. The grey threads did little to hide the liver-spotted scalp, nor did the grey robe hide how skeletally thin he had become. His shuffled step and the way he leaned heavily on a gnarled walking stick mocked the lithe and fluid warrior he had once been.

Moraven sank to a knee. “Your visit honors me, Master, more than words can express.”

Jatan’s voice suffered little from age. “That you would journey here at my request honors me, jaecaiserr.”

Moraven straightened up, but remained half-kneeling and gestured to the room’s low cot. It had been pushed against the wall and he’d demanded every pillow in the inn in preparation for the visit. “Had I expected to receive you in my chambers, Master, I would have chosen a place more suitable.”

The old man waved away his apology as he shuffled to the bed and seated himself. The young man closed the door, then took the walking stick and knelt at Jatan’s right hand. “I asked you to come to me during the Festival. It begins tomorrow, but I desired to see you sooner. Thank you for indulging me.”

Moraven read the man’s grin and the playful light in his eyes. “How did you know I was here?”

Jatan settled back against the mountain of pillows. “Must you ask, Moraven? I like that name, by the way. Very strong. It suits you better than the others.”

“Thank you, Master.” He brought his other knee down and settled back on his ankles. “But that does not answer the question.”

Jatan turned to the youth. “Study him, Geias, for this is the mien and focus of a Mystic. He is a better example than I.”

Moraven looked at the boy. “But my Master is a better example of how to evade. If he has a scar for each prince beneath which he has lived, it would only be because he has carelessly let a cat scratch him in the last week.”

The old man laughed. “I have missed you, Moraven. As my Master often said, ‘Better the sharp swordsman than the sharp blade.’ ”

“Then, lest I become sharper, your answer to my question?”

Jatan nodded slowly. “I would tell you that I felt you, four days ago, as you dealt with the bandits on the road, but you would tell me I was remembering a time before.”

Moraven remained silent, but raised an eyebrow.

“No, I know that you, of all my students, would not believe it, even if it were true.” The old man coughed dryly. “A boy with a withered arm came to the serrian two days ago, bearing Macyl’s overshirt. He’d brought it to the family, and they wished us to have it. The boy and his family thanked me profusely for my student—one whose name I did not know—and how he saved them.”

“It was a simple matter, Master, but one that will grow in the telling, I fear.”

“It already has, but not badly. They reported evidence of jaedun in how you disarmed the archer.” The old man smiled. “I am not certain they were wrong, though I discount reports of lightning flashing and thunder clapping. You have not become that powerful, have you?”

“If lightning and thunder were possible, you would have long since displayed it, though perhaps not to as unworthy a student as myself.”

“You were never unworthy, Moraven.” Jatan coughed again. “You were always clever.”

“Not always, Master. Were that true, I would not have come to you as I did.” Moraven shifted on his knees and reached for his leather traveling bag. “I did manage to find some wyrlu in the west. It is of Virine manufacture, if you wish, Master.”

“Geias, there is no reason you will mention this to your mother.”

The youth nodded.

The old man smiled and rubbed his hands together as Moraven produced a bottle, uncorked it, and poured an amber liquid into two small cups. “Eron’s wife takes good care of him and the other students, but she fusses over me.”

“I seem to recall other Mistresses of House Jatan who fussed similarly.” Moraven handed him one of the cups. “I have no complaint, for without being fussed over, I would not have recovered.”

Jatan sniffed at the liquor, then tossed it off in one gulp. His eyes screwed shut for a moment, then he swallowed hard. He coughed again, but only lightly, then spoke in a harsh whisper. “You underestimate your vitality.”

“No, Master, I am aware of my mortality.”

Moraven Tolo had first met Phoyn Jatan in Moriande, awakening on a sleeping mat in the Soshir Estate. He’d been lying there facedown, his chest swathed in bandages. He had no recollection of who he was or whence he had come. Things around him felt strangely familiar, but also quite alien, as if a hundred rice-paper paintings had been chopped into pieces and fitted together with no particular scheme.

The only thing he knew about himself was that he had been horribly wounded with a sword. The slash had taken him on the left side, stopping a handwidth shy of his spine. An inch or two of the scar remained visible on his chest and a finger of it along the flank. The blow should have killed him; but he was left alive to wonder if he had been struck in the back because he was a coward running from battle, or if enemies he now could not recall had genuinely intended to kill him.

Phoyn Jatan and his wife of the time, Chyrynal, had nursed him to health. Jatan built the sword school around him in his old Master’s estate—which Moriande’s growth had since overtaken. It became apparent that whoever he had been, he had been a swordsman of no mean skill. This spoke against the idea of cowardice, but Moraven worked hard to ensure this charge would never be leveled against him again. It was the reason the bandits had been slain on the road to Moriande eighty-one years previously, and countless others had died beneath his blade before then.

“Mortality, Moraven, is a concern for all of us.” Jatan held the cup out for a refill. “Once I knew a man claiming to be a student of mine was here, I sent students out to seek a swordsman of skill. Do you know of a young man who calls himself Desheil Tolo, and claims to be your cousin? He wears the leopard hunting as a crest and speaks the southern dialect.”

“No, but there was the business down in Erumvirine that might have caused him to choose that name.” Moraven poured more of the grain alcohol for his Master. “Did he take it in my honor, or shall I be required to strip him of it?”

“Eron is making inquiries.” Jatan sipped at the liquor this time. “The boy you sent, tell me his story.”

“I did not send him.”

“Moraven, please.” The old man shook his head. “My Master told the tale of flying a hawk against forest doves. His hawk stooped and knocked one from the sky, which fell and hit a peasant’s cook pot, spilling thin broth on a fire. The peasant demanded payment for his supper, since it was Master Virisken’s hawk that began the loss. Your sending the boy to Macyl’s family began this chain.”

Moraven frowned, then drank and let the liquid burn its way down his throat. “As I recall, Master, your Master paid the peasant, then demanded the money back from him in payment for the dove, which the peasant’s family were then roasting. When the peasant said the dove was from the gods and refused to pay, Master Virisken slew him for blasphemy.”

“True, true, but the Empire had not been divided into the Nine at that time, so things were different. And your attempt to evade my question was bold but in vain.”

“There is not much to tell. They come from the south, a day’s walk from Erumvirine, and are millers. The boy had ventured up the millstream and found a place where the bank had been eroded. It opened into a little hole and he crawled in. Something was shining there, glowing with a blue light. The boy reached for it with his left hand.” Moraven shrugged. “He remembers nothing else. His father found him floating down the stream and thought he was dead, but only his arm was withered.”

The old man’s brows furrowed. “Do they suspect how it changed him?”

“I think they saw nothing beyond the withered arm. They say they tried to find the place where he was hurt, but there were rains, the stream flooded, and all signs were gone. Still, the site was a mile upstream and they credit the gods with the miracle that he did not drown. They really did not want to speak of any of it, and only told me what had happened after they learned what I am.”

“They alone would associate with you once your status was revealed?”

Moraven nodded. “Hardly a surprise.”

“No, memories of the Time of Black Ice remain sharp, even in the minds of those who did not live through them.” Jatan beckoned for more wyrlu and his hand quaked as Moraven refilled his cup. “In some ways, I bear my Master anger. He rode with his best warriors to join Empress Cyrsa in the Turasynd Campaign. It was even his idea to take the Imperial treasury in the wagons and travel northwest, along the Spice Route, to draw the barbarians away from civilized lands. He and the others went off to die, but me he left behind to protect Nalenyr. I do not think he knew what they would unleash.”

Moraven nodded slowly. The Empire’s best warriors had traveled with the Empress to prevent the barbarians of the Turca Wastes from destroying the Empire. Warriors of sufficient skill—such as he, Master Jatan, and Virisken Soshir—could reach the state of jaedunto. Their skill connected them with jaedun—the magic that flowed like a river through everything. When they fought, especially against other jaecai, excess magic leaked out. Many were the circles outside villages where duels were fought to contain the magic, and odd were the effects therein. Snow might never melt despite the hottest summer, or rain might always fall there without a cloud in the sky. Men bred horses and dogs in those circles, hoping the wild magic would create a superior beast; but they always did it in the dead of the night, lest their neighbors learned they were playing with magic.

The Turasynd, living in the northern desert, cared little about the consequences of magic. It could do little harm to their barren homeland, and great good if it made their herds fertile or crops bountiful. When their population grew too big, a shaman bound the tribes together and invaded the Empire. The Empress lured them north and west, away from the centers of civilization, then engaged them in a grand battle the likes of which had never been seen before or since.

Jatan’s eyes focused distantly. “The wild magic came in towering clouds that cloaked the sky and hid the sun. Snows came—foul black snow carried on savage winds that could peel the flesh from man and beast. Better that death, though, than what would happen if the magic in those storms touched you. The boy traded a withered arm perhaps for the ability to breathe water, or to need no breath at all, but that’s because the magic is weak now.”

He glanced at Geias. “Back then, villages vanished in blizzards and glaciers scraped the earth down to bedrock. There are yet places in the mountains where you can see a village made of ice—houses, people, wagons, animals, all there, frozen in place as they were when a storm caught them.”

Moraven nodded. “I’ve seen it, Master, though much is melted now. The wild magic does gather and play sometimes, but seldom in the Nine. It’s just in the Wastes now—Dolosan and Ixyll, or so I am told.”

“But fear of it remains—and that, Geias, is why you study hard.” Jatan coughed once more, but did not drink. “Back in the days of Empire, men grew careless. We studied swordsmanship to reach jaedunto, but others wanted the magic faster. Prince Nelesquin and his vanyesh studied xingna to master it, to master jaedun. Once they had the magic, they found ways to use it to enhance their skills. They sought the simple way, and it was their folly that caused the Cataclysm.”

Moraven nodded, more out of respect for his Master than belief. Master Jatan had been one of the few jaecai left in the Nine—the Nine Principalities the Empress had divided the Empire into for safekeeping. He had been instrumental in convincing the Naleni Prince that the vanyesh had to be destroyed. Moreover, the study of magic had to be eliminated. In his view, the Imperial warriors could have contained their magic and prevented the Cataclysm, but the undisciplined vanyesh could not.

But this is because Prince Nelesquin and your Master hated each other. You are my Master, but I see how their hatred has tainted you.

In the wake of the Cataclysm, with magic storms raging, years of no summer and countless people dying of starvation or worse, the system of schools for teaching various skills was reinforced. The common folk distrusted magic, but were assured that anyone who had learned enough to access it could be trusted. And it was true that few achieved such mastery. Even now, with the population approaching pre-Cataclysm levels, this remained constant. Still, the fear had power, and were it not for Dunos and his family, Moraven would have traveled the last two days to Moriande alone.

The school system—at least the martial schools—had also begun the xidantzu tradition. The best warriors were to travel the Nine and even beyond, fighting injustice and cruelty, without regard to nationality or politics. No lord could command them and, while many good students ended up in garrisons and militias, the very best relished their freedom. The creation of the xidantzu meant no lord could gather an army akin to that of the Empress, so the chances of a pitched battle triggering another Cataclysm became miniscule.

“It is folly, Moraven, that caused me to ask for this audience.”

“Yes, Master?”

“What happened to the boy could happen to the Nine.” Jatan sat forward and a pillow slipped down to prop him up. “As you have said, the wild magic has retreated. And, for some, so has the fear of what caused it. There are those who go into the Wastes. They seek weapons of antiquity, looting graves new and old, searching for those things that will build them an army.”

Moraven frowned. Weapons and relics of those who had skill would not confer that skill on others—though they might be steeped in the magic of the one who had used them. They would, however, allow one to be more easily trained. He had asked after Macyl’s sword because the blade itself had been in that family for generations and was very powerful. Macyl had worked hard to attain his skill and had not allowed the blade to bring him along faster than he could have gone otherwise, but he was rare.

“Master, have you seen evidence of these relics in Moriande?”

“A few, sold as curiosities and antiques, but they were very fine specimens. One or two bore signs of having been on the Turasynd Campaign.” His eyes sharpened. “It is supposed that somewhere, out in Ixyll, there is the battlefield where so many died. The weapons there would be full of magic and might make someone think he could be Emperor again.”

Moraven arched an eyebrow. “Not Prince Cyron. His older brother might have striven for such, but the gods had other plans for him. Prince Pyrust?”

“Pyrust, of course. Deseirion wishes to consolidate the conquest of Helosunde, then take Nalenyr. There are others, though, who might wish a new dynasty in Moriande.” Jatan shrugged. “I wish only that the graves of my comrades and Master lie undisturbed, but I am too old to venture into the Wastes to ensure this. So I wish you to do it in my stead.”

“Go to Ixyll?” Dread poured through Moraven. Ixyll had ever been a distant land warped by the wild magic. He believed nothing he heard of it, but also endeavored to hear little. If he ever thought of it unbidden, he exiled his thoughts to far Ixyll itself and felt well rid of them.

“Will you do this for me, Moraven Tolo?”

“Master, I would lay siege to the Nine Hells for you. I shall leave immediately.”

Jatan raised an empty hand, then extended his cup once more. “If you leave now, you will not see me during the Festival. Nor will we finish your fine wyrlu. This duty I charge you with is grave, but even the men involved in it will celebrate the Festival. So shall you.”

“My Master is most kind.”

“No, Moraven, far from it.” He raised the cup, then sipped. “I am sending you to save the world. Enjoy the Festival and remember the world at its best. It will not make you work harder, but it may bring you comfort when the task becomes impossible.”

 

Chapter Four

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

His Imperial Highness Prince Cyron patiently awaited Qiro Anturasi’s pleasure. The Prince had arrived at the cartographer’s tower with only a small retinue of his Keru bodyguard. They, in accord with a decree handed down by his father, waited inside the base of the tower but outside the gates that led to the core. Anturasikun was a labyrinth of public and private spaces, but few were allowed into the private chambers and workshop. Though the Keru had sworn their lives in Cyron’s service, even they would not be allowed past the golden gates.

It did not matter that the tower had been fashioned by the nation’s greatest builders and decorated by the most celebrated artists, or that the halls housed wonders from around the world. It was a prison. Cyron’s father had explained to him, twenty years earlier, why Qiro Anturasi could not be allowed out of the tower. His skill at mapmaking and his knowledge of the world made him more valuable to Nalenyr than all the Nine Principalities’ known treasures. Locked in Qiro’s head were the worldly details that allowed Nalenyr to prosper, so he, himself, had to be shut away.

To lose him would be to lose everything. When the Empress had divided the Empire into the Nine Principalities, she installed the late Emperor’s wives and their families to rule each one. She made ambition counteract ambition and brought the most ambitious of the Princes with her on the Turasynd Campaign. While Nalenyr had not begun as the most powerful or prosperous of the Nine, the reopening of trade with the world filled its coffers. With that gold Cyron could buy troops to hold the lords of Deseirion at bay.

Qiro has given us everything, and yet we take from him freedom. It had seemed then to the Prince as if this were the ultimate cruelty, but he soon grew to understand its necessity. Qiro Anturasi’s genius lay at the heart of his personality, and with it came an inability to tolerate stupidity or insubordination. This made Qiro abrupt, abrasive, and unpredictable. It even makes him think he can keep a prince waiting.

Cyron laughed, because he knew he would wait. And wait.

Waiting was part of life and Cyron cultivated patience, for it was unlikely to get one killed. His brother, Crown Prince Araylis, had been impatient to see the Desei forced back out of Helosunde and had paid for his impatience with his life. Reports had come back that Prince Pyrust—the man who led the Desei and who had even come south to celebrate the Festival in Moriande—had been the one who killed his brother. Though that act had won Cyron the throne, he felt disinclined to thank Pyrust, since Pyrust himself would be more than happy to kill all the Komyr and take the throne of Nalenyr for himself.

And then Qiro would find himself well matched in temperament and obstinacy.

Qiro had sent a request to the court to be allowed to leave the tower during the anniversary Festival and his own birthday celebration. The request seemed reasonable and Cyron would have been happy to grant it, save for the influx of people from the world over who had come, ostensibly, to rejoice in the dynasty’s longevity. His Master of Shadows had complained of the influx of spies during Festival, and Cyron could not chance exposing Qiro to kidnappers or assassins.

Cyron found it highly unlikely that the Desei had traveled south with any intent to kill Qiro—or anyone else for that matter—but he would not have put it past Pyrust to make use of an opportunity. He could have dreamed up any number of plots that he seeks to put in play. To limit their ability to cause trouble, he’d made room for Pyrust’s entourage in Shirikun, at the city’s northern edge.

Likewise the people from Erumvirine to the south had been housed in Quunkun, and the envoys from the Five Princes nations had taken up residence in the towers corresponding to their patron deity. Kojaikun—the tower of the Dog—served as no one’s official residence since Helosunde was still subject to Deseirion conquest and Helosunde’s Council of Ministers had yet to select a prince. Cyron still allowed his Keru warriors to station an honor guard there. It made the Keru happy and would discomfit Prince Pyrust.

Most of the preparations had been carried out by protocol ministers and their attendants, with the Prince only nominally overseeing things. The honor guard had been posted by direct order, since the bureaucrats and astrologers had deemed it improper. They explained to him about occlusions in the heavens and Kojai’s power waning, but he had little tolerance for their explanations and overruled them.

The bureaucrats sought to placate heaven, hell, and earth, while the Prince focused far more on earth. The conflict between Deseirion and Helosunde had less to do with constellations and gods than Helosunde’s first prince having been born of a woman from Deseirion. She had urged her son to take her home province as the first step to becoming the new Emperor, and war had simmered on that border long before Pyrust and his father had successfully invaded. But for Naleni support of the Helosundian mercenaries, the Desei consolidation of their conquest would have been completed long since.

Politically it made good sense to placate the Helosundians, since their province served as a buffer between Deseirion and Nalenyr. But Cyron also just liked annoying Pyrust. He hoped his northern neighbor’s discomfort would manifest in more of the prophetic dreams the Desei prince believed in, distracting him from any true deviltry.

A protocol minister could have delivered a refusal of Qiro’s request, but the Prince overruled that as well. First, Cyron was aware that the minister likely would never make it to Qiro’s presence, and certainly would wilt beneath the heat of the cartographer’s reaction. More importantly, however, the Prince felt that, as Qiro’s jailer, it was up to him to deliver the rejection personally.

The doors in the small rotunda where the Prince waited cracked open, and a small, bent man shuffled through them. His face lit up with a smile, and he raised his head as much as his twisted back would allow. “Highness, nine thousand pardons for keeping you waiting.”

The Prince bowed deeply and respectfully. “You honor me, Ulan, by fetching me yourself. Your work is far too important for you to be dispatched on such a trivial task.” Cyron purposely refrained from using the imperial “we,” though his rank all but demanded it. As it was, Ulan would natter on about how familiar the Prince was with him, and Qiro would see the deference as befitting his status.

Ulan blew a long wisp of white hair from his face. “The pleasure is mine, Highness. My brother said whichever of us produced the cleanest chart of Tirat would have this honor, and I was not outdone.”

“You could only have been outdone, Ulan, had your brother set pen to paper, and he still would have been hard-pressed to win.”

“You mustn’t say that, Highness.” The old man shook his head. “But here I am telling you what you can and cannot do.”

“In the House of the Anturasi, many take orders.”

“They do, they do.”

The old man turned and waved the Prince through the doors, then closed them and shuffled along the corridor, which led around and up to the fifth-floor workshop. The Prince walked ahead of Ulan, letting his right hand trail along a wrought-iron railing as he mounted the ramp and moved into the workshop’s light. Though he had visited the Anturasi workshop many times, the sight never failed to impress him.

The ramp emerged in the center of a circular room a hundred feet in diameter. Aside from a curtained wedge chopped out of the northern point, copy desks and drafting tables, cabinets with large flat drawers and shelves packed with scrolled charts dominated the room. Pillars supported the vaulted ceiling and, around the walls, high windows allowed illumination. For fear of fire, the Principality provided magical lighting for evening work, and ghostly blue light had often been seen glowing from the tower after sunset.

Dozens of Anturasi worked at the desks. The youngest—grandchildren and great-grandchildren, all of them sprung from Ulan’s loins—fetched paper and refilled inkwells, sharpened nibs and carefully powdered finished maps. Those a bit older copied city maps or diagrams of fortifications—anything that would help them develop the skills they needed to draft the truly important work. The adults, led by Ulan, worked at the largest tables, making nautical charts of incredible accuracy. As travelers returned from voyages and provided details, maps were revised so the next purchaser would have the most up-to-date information possible.

This controlled chaos was filled with the scrape of pen on paper, the click of knife on quill, the occasional crash of an inkwell smashing, and the even less frequent oath. The Anturasi worked quickly, precisely, and as quietly as possible—as all three traits were the only way to insulate themselves from Qiro’s wrath.

Qiro’s domain, in contrast to the rest of the workshop, lay out of sight beyond the blue curtains hung from ceiling to floor. Prince Cyron made for the opening and, slipping through, smiled. A second curtain—white—ten feet distant, guaranteed that the secrets within would not be seen by accident. He made certain the curtains behind him were drawn tightly shut before he opened the others.

He could not suppress a gasp. A segment of the curved wall had been whitewashed and on it a map of the known world had been drawn twenty feet high and forty wide. The Nine Principalities lay at the heart of the thing, as befitting their place in the world. The Turca Wastes capped them to the north, and the vast Eastern Sea formed the eastern boundary. The provinces and wastelands were drawn in to the west, with the eastern coast of far Aefret forming the western boundary. Above it, sketched in with the faintest of detail, lay the mythical lands of Etrusia.

Before the Time of Black Ice, the Empire had traded with the peoples of Etrusia via a land route, but the Cataclysm that had broken the world had closed that path. Qiro’s expedition fifty years earlier had gotten further than any other, but still showed the way was closed. Cyron and he had discussed the possibility of trying the land route again, but the successes at ocean exploration had made doing so a low priority.

So much of the ocean remained unknown, for most of the ships had gone south and then west, along well-known routes. Cyron felt certain that great discoveries would be found to the east, and toward that end the greatest ship of his fleet, the Stormwolf, had been created and was preparing to sail.

The Prince found the map at once remarkable and tragic. All of the details of the world that had been confirmed by the Anturasi had been painted in strongly. They had filled in much, but still more lay blank. Even areas within the Dark Sea went uncharted, and it was from there the pirates that preyed upon provincial shipping sailed. Qiro’s ages-old desire to fill in these blank areas had caused him to send his son Ryn on an ill-fated voyage. But even the pain of his son’s death had not blunted his hunger to explore, and just five years previously Cyron had been forced to refuse another of Qiro’s requests to undertake a grand survey himself.

The Prince tore his gaze from the map and received a surprise. Qiro’s grandsons, Keles and Jorim, stood with their grandfather, but a fourth man had joined them. The Prince found this remarkable because not only had he never seen anyone outside the Anturasi clan—save himself or his kin—in the workshop; Naleni decree had made it a capital crime to enter the workshop without express state permission. That the man was present bespoke his great importance, and the fact that he was wearing a blindfold indicated Qiro had not wholly lost his mind.

Qiro smiled and crossed quickly to the Prince. Tall and lean, he possessed a full shock of white hair, moustache, and goatee. His pale eyes seemed almost devoid of color, save for the pupil, giving him an inhuman look. Though he was celebrating his eighty-first birthday within the week, he moved with the strength of a man half his age. The rich timbre of his voice, however, clearly had benefited from his longevity.

“Highness, you honor the House of Anturasi with your presence. You have met my grandsons, Keles and Jorim?”

The Prince shook and released Qiro’s hand, then greeted the brothers. “I do know them, and treasure them as much as I treasure you, dicaikyr Anturasi. Jorim, I think you would like to know that the pair of spotted cats you brought back from Ummummorar last year have mated and produced nine kittens. They are the pride of my sanctuary.”

Jorim smiled. Shorter than his brother and stockier, he wore his side locks in braids and had grown a full beard after the fashion of the Ummummori. Though he wore fine and proper clothing, his hair and beard did give him a barbaric air that had caused a bit of a stir amid the Naleni nobility. A blacked eye, split lip, and abrasions on his knuckles indicated he had not abandoned the combative skills that kept him alive in the wilds.

Before Jorim could say anything, the blindfolded man laughed. “Oh, yes, very good. Cats, the pride of your sanctuary. Splendid joke, Highness; marvelous. Many shall enjoy it during this Festival.”

Cyron frowned. “Who is this, and why is he here?”

Qiro smiled in a manner that would have taken seventy years off his age, were it not for the feral light playing through his eyes. “This is Jesbor Gryst, and he has with him something quite remarkable. I have already purchased it, and with it our domination of the world will go unchallenged.”

Cyron’s frown deepened as Qiro retreated to a side table and pointed to a mahogany box. The lid had been lifted, and as the Prince approached he saw that two panes of glass separated by a piece of wood had been placed over the box’s lower portion. Each pane revealed the face of a clock, and each clock was set to the proper time.

“This will allow us to dominate the world?” Cyron folded his arms over his chest. “I do not think a pair of clocks will daunt Prince Pyrust’s legions, and I already know very well how fast they are capable of moving.”

“You don’t understand, Highness.” Qiro whirled away from him and approached the wall map. “Our ships, Highness, have sailed far from here. We have outlined the continent from here to Aefret and we do our best to draw accurate maps. Were we to compare this map with those from a hundred years ago, you would see quite a difference.”

He pointed toward the top of the map and drew his hand down. “Our charts are devastatingly accurate in the dimensions of north and south. Why is this? Latitude is simple to calculate, Highness. Measure a shadow at noon and anyone with rudimentary geometry skills can determine how far north or south of the equator they are. It is a simple matter to determine your location.

“East and west, however, are more difficult. North and south have an agreed-upon and fixed point of reference: the equator. We have a pole star to the north to guide us as well, and I am certain we shall locate such in the south, possibly above the Mountains of Ice, if they exist. The point from which east and west are measured, however, is arbitrary.”

Cyron shook his head. “All maps have Moriande as that point. Wentokikun, to be exact.”

Our maps, yes, but Deseirion uses Felarati for their charts, and Erumvirine uses Keluwan as their demarcator. But which point is used is unimportant, because the problem is determining the distance between a point and another.”

The Prince looked from Qiro back to his grandsons, then the blindfolded man. “But you have made surveys. You have had people pace the distance.”

Qiro spun, the sleeves and tails of his gold overshirt flaring. “Exactly, Highness, but we have no one who can walk on water to pace it. Our ships, while they can mark their speed, have trouble marking the speed and direction of currents. All maps, mine included, contain a paradox, for if we take the time it takes to get to Aefret from here, we have one distance. If we mark the time it takes for the return, we have another. We have, in the past, played with the differences and estimated the speed of currents, but even so, that is inexact. A single storm can render any speed-and-direction data useless.”

The Prince nodded slowly. “I believe I understand the problem. How is this the solution?”

Qiro clapped his hands. “Jesbor Gryst, please explain this device.”

“Well, Highness, first I must say it is not mine. I did not invent it; my son did. You see, I repair things, and my son, Borosan, always studied what I did, but he took it further. He became interested in the new art of gyanri, though there is no school for it here.”

Cyron nodded, then appended, “Of course,” since the man could not see. Gyanri was the art of new magic—calculated, mechanical magic. The tradition of training to reach jaedunto was revered throughout the Nine, but Nalenyr and Erumvirine had the best schools and so benefited the most from it. Other nations had begun to embrace gyanri, in which mechanical devices used magical energy—mostly residue of the Cataclysm—to power them. A sword imbued with magical energy would allow an untrained warrior to fight skillfully, at least until that energy wore out. A hundred enchanted swords were cheaper to produce than a single jaecaiserr. While none of the warriors using those swords would be particularly good, few were the swordsmen who became Mystics. In a war of attrition, gyanri might well overwhelm masters of the old art.

“Well, Highness, Borosan had an idea for a device that would allow one to communicate via writing over a long distance. He went off with it, and told me to look for a message every noon, which I did, but no message came. My son was frustrated, for the device seemed to work from one side of a room to the other, but not when he took it far away.”

“Fascinating, Master Gryst. This, on the table, is the device?”

“No, Highness; dear me, no.” The man smiled, clasping his hands together tightly at his belt. “You see, my son realized that I would be looking for his message at noon in the capital, but he was sending at noon from wherever he was. If he was north or south of the capital, it would work. So, what he did was invent this clock. It is a work of gyanri. It uses thaumston to power it. He made two clocks in case one were damaged or needed more thaumston, and set both to the capital time. You see, when he went away, he would send the message according to the time in the capital.”

The Prince’s mouth hung open for a moment. Qiro had made his passion for the dual clocks apparent, but whatever it would allow him to do was nothing compared to this other device described. If the Prince could instantaneously converse with others far away, such as military commanders in the field, he would be able to coordinate defenses and stop an invasion quickly.

“Does this device work?”

“The clocks work perfectly, Highness.”

“No, no, the communication device. Does it work?”

Jesbor shook his head. “My son has not perfected it. He is, even now, traveling and working on it. I think he understood some of the message I tried to send him, for his last wished your Highness the joy of the Festival.”

“That’s very nice of him, but if he is out somewhere, what is his dual clock doing here?”

The tinker smiled. “Oh, well, Highness, Borosan tired of hauling that big chest around, so he just made a smaller one, more accurate. Fits in a pouch. He’s clever, my son.”

Too clever to be out wherever he is. The Prince looked at Qiro. “The dual clock helps you how?” Cyron held a hand up and forced himself to think. “Wait, wait. If you are away from the capital, and you look at these clocks at noon where you are, you see the difference in time. That difference in time you translate into miles.”

Qiro clapped his hands delightedly, but the tightness around his eyes suggested a bit of displeasure. “Yes, Highness, you have it perfectly. With this device we can accurately chart the oceans. We can venture into places where no one has gone before.”

He turned back to the map and laid his hand against the blank expanse of ocean. “Untold treasures lie here, I am certain, and they will be ours. I need your permission, Highness, to outfit the Stormwolf with this dual clock and launch it as soon as possible. With the data we recover, our ships will be able to go everywhere. We can colonize new lands, discover new plants, animals, and treasures. Our nation will become even greater than it already is, and you, Highness, will have the means to reunite the Principalities into the Empire and rightfully sit on the Throne of Heaven.”

 

Chapter Five

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles fought to keep the surprise from his face and watched as his brother failed to do the same. Keles had long understood the problem with determining longitude. While a variety of clocks, from sundials and marked candles to water clocks and spring-wound clocks, did allow timekeeping, none was precise enough to allow for the measurements a grand survey required. Qiro had experimented for years with a variety of clocks, and though Keles and Jorim had carried and religiously tended to them, upon their return to the capital the time differential had been deemed unacceptable.

What surprised Keles was his grandfather embracing a device created by a gyanridin. Gyanri was so recent a development, and one best understood outside Nalenyr, that local prejudice had dismissed it. Moreover, Qiro had pointed out that while gyanri might create devices that gave skills to the unskilled, it would only work with crude, unintellectual tasks. In keeping with the common wisdom, he had declared it the height of laziness to rely on devices for what training would provide. He had repeatedly sent away people who came to him with devices that would copy maps automatically, or could take readings of the sun and stars.

Yet now he champions this device. The dual clock did seem the answer to countless prayers, but his grandfather’s shift in opinion was so abrupt that it almost seemed the man had lost his mind. In anyone else, Keles might have thought he had simply had a revelation and relented in his previous opinion, but his grandfather was too complex for that answer to satisfy him.

The Prince smiled. “I applaud your vision, dicaikyr Anturasi. The existence of this device, of course, must be kept secret. I can count on your complicity in this, Master Gryst?”

The blindfolded man nodded. “Oh yes, Highness. And my son, too. I’m sure he’s quite forgotten about it, now that he has his new pouch-clock. That’s what he calls it, a pouch-clock.”

“Splendid.” Prince Cyron slipped his hands into the opposite sleeves of his overshirt. “And where is your son now? I should like to speak with him.”

“And I know he would like to speak with you, Highness. It would be an honor. I know it.”

“Good, have him report to me as soon as he can. After the Festival will be fine, but during would be better.”

“Oh, Highness, I wish I could comply, but he’s probably in Solaeth now, or perhaps even in Dolosan.”

The Prince’s eyebrow rose. “He’s in the wastelands?”

“On his way. That’s where one gets thaumston, Highness.”

“Yes, very true.” The Prince looked back at Qiro. “Perhaps you could have Master Gryst escorted down to the gate? I will see him home after we converse for a moment.”

“Of course, Highness. Jorim, please do as the Prince asks.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Jorim crossed and took Gryst by the elbow, guiding him from the curtained area.

“Your pleasure, my Prince?” Qiro pointed to a side table with glasses and a pitcher. “Keles, pour us some wine.”

“No, thank you, dicaikyr.”

Keles looked at his grandfather. “Will you drink?”

“No.” Qiro lifted his chin and clasped his hands at the small of his back. “What is it, Highness?”

“First, congratulations on finding the dual clock and recognizing its potential. You realize, of course, that the device Borosan Gryst is testing is . . . equally valuable. Its applications, especially as concerns our ability to defend ourselves against the Desei, cannot be overvalued.”

Qiro nodded solemnly. “I have seen the value in it, too, for my applications, my Prince. Keles and Jorim have the talent that allows them to send me images and information, mind to mind. While this might not be as accurate as I would desire, the time saved is invaluable. Such a device would let me field more survey teams and would provide a check on the accuracy of the dual clock.”

“Good. Then we are of a mind.”

“That being, Highness?”

“That having Borosan Gryst in the Wastes is too dangerous. I will need you to prepare charts that will allow a group to be dispatched to find him and return him to the capital.”

“An expedition to the Wastes, Highness?”

“Yes, Master Anturasi. The one we have long talked about will now be mounted. It will require your charts, of course, else any chance of success is negligible.”

“My charts of that area are the best in the world, but they are still not very good.” Qiro rubbed a hand over his forehead. “When the Cataclysm released the wild magic, it wrought changes in what had been there before. While the centuries have brought a retreat of the magic, it is not complete. The storms cycle strong and weak, and could still be creating changes. I will make the charts—all based on my travels of course—but I cannot swear by their accuracy.”

The Prince nodded. “That will have to do, though we will have to remedy that situation as well. If gyanri can create things as powerful as what we are talking about, and the Wastes are the source of the thaumston that powers them, we will need to find deposits and possess them, or destroy them. That is a matter of national importance.”

Qiro’s icy eyes glittered. “A matter of Imperial importance, even.”

“Yes, indeed.” Cyron nodded, but refused to let himself be distracted by Imperial daydreams. “I will need those charts by the end of the Festival.”

“Consider it done, Highness.” Qiro smiled. “I am given leave to place the dual clock on the Stormwolf?”

“Yes, of course. The sooner the better. The Stormwolf cannot leave until after the Festival. Its premature departure would attract attention.”

“As you desire, Highness.”

A chill ran down Keles’ spine. He dared not move, lest the two of them be reminded he was there, and motioned to his returning brother to likewise be quiet. His grandfather and the Prince were making decisions that would shape the future. The blanks on the wall map would be filled in, and the vast resources of Nalenyr would grow even larger—perhaps large enough to force the other Principalities to join it or be driven to economic ruin.

Prince Cyron nodded. “Good, very good. I had come here to convey bad news, but you have made it a joyous day.”

Qiro’s head canted. “Bad news, Highness?”

“Yes. Your request to leave Anturasikun is denied. I will, of course, come here to attend your birthday celebration.”

The old man’s pale eyes flashed for a moment, then he waved a hand through the air. “Consider the request withdrawn, Highness. I have so much to do, I may even cancel the party.”

The Prince shook his head. “To do that would attract attention, and we don’t want that. No, things will go as planned. You and I will host the Virine and Desei. We will show them how generous we can be. In the future they will hunger for our generosity again.”

Qiro smiled his predatory smile—sharp and with a flash of teeth. “As you, in your wisdom, Highness, command.”

“Good.” The Prince bowed, then made to withdraw through the curtains, which Jorim held open for him. “Your health, and that of the Principality.”

Keles did not like the expression on his brother’s face. Jorim waited for the white curtain to sag heavily shut, then pointed at Qiro. “You ancient hypocrite!”

Their grandfather’s eyes sharpened. “Be very careful, Jorim. I am in a good mood. Do not spoil it.”

“I don’t care what sort of mood you’re in!” Jorim’s nostrils flared. “I told you about Borosan Gryst’s device months ago, when I returned from Ummummorar. You dismissed it. You berated me for being stupid and lazy. You told me that I couldn’t keep the clocks wound, so I could never care for such a device. And now I discover you have sought out the device? You bastard!”

Qiro kept his voice even, but it came with an edge. “I reconsidered.”

“Reconsidered the device, yes, but not how you treated me. What is it about me?” Jorim opened his hands and flung his arms wide. “Do you think me stupid? Do you think me . . . I don’t know what. Why couldn’t you tell me I was right?”

“Because, Jorim, your being correct this once hardly excuses all the times you have been lazy and sloppy in your duty to me and this family.”

“Oh, we’ve trod this path before!” Jorim smashed a fist into an open palm, tearing a scab from a knuckle. “You shame me and I am to be contrite. It doesn’t matter that you never were going to admit your error!”

“It was not an error, Jorim. Do you want to know what I thought when you came to me? Do you?” Qiro raised an eyebrow. “Consider carefully before you answer.”

Jorim sucked on the bleeding knuckle for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I want to know.”

“I thought, ‘It is another of his lazy schemes, to get out of work and excuse his inattention.’ Your survey of Ummummorar was adequate, but only barely so. You went, you explored, you discovered things, but your work was hasty. You allowed yourself to be distracted. I saw your face, just now, when the Prince thanked you for the specimens you provided to his sanctuary. That’s good for you, but not for us.”

Jorim licked at his split lip. “You mean you.”

“I mean us. How does your brother benefit? Your sister? Your uncle and cousins? How do they benefit?”

“I do what I do for the world.”

“You little fool, I am the world!” Qiro spun and Keles flinched as the old man’s gaze met his in passing. “The world does not exist, does not exist until I place it on the map. You bring animals and plants back from places that are nothing and nowhere until I show their proper location. The Cataclysm left us buried in black ice. When the dark blizzards came, people died. The world became naught but snow-choked valleys. Small communities huddled within ruins of once vast Imperial cities. Our world shrank until I began to grow it again.”

Qiro thrust a trembling finger at Jorim, but his gaze included Keles. “You are my eyes and ears and feet and hands. You exist to serve me, give me information, not to indulge your whims picking flowers and trapping animals! And, worse, disgracing us here in Moriande by engaging in common street brawling. You stand there with bloody evidence on hand and face of all I have said.”

Jorim’s hands knotted into fists and his face flushed scarlet. As veins began to rise in his neck, Keles stepped between the two of them. He pressed his right hand flat against Jorim’s breast and felt the rage trembling through his brother.

“Stop it, both of you.”

“Don’t try to protect your brother, Keles. He has gone too far.” Qiro snorted. “I shall see to it that this is a problem no longer. From now on, he shall go nowhere.”

Keles held his left hand palm up toward his grandfather. “Stop it. You don’t mean that. You’re not that stupid.”

“What?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear what I said.” You never heard it from me before, but perhaps it is time you did. Keles looked at Jorim. “Back away. Calm down.”

“This is not your fight, Keles. It’s been coming for a long time.”

“I think you’ve done enough fighting for now, Jorim.”

A jolt ran through his younger brother. Tears began welling in his eyes as betrayal weighted his words. “You, too, Keles? Nothing I do is good enough. I am lazy. I don’t do my work. I am distracted. I have no discipline. I’m not like you.”

“Jorim.”

The younger man hesitated, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times before the rage drained from him. “I didn’t mean that last.”

“You should have, Jorim. You should be more like your brother.”

Keles felt anger beginning to burn hotly in his chest. He turned to his grandfather. “No, he shouldn’t be. I should be more like him.”

Qiro straightened up. His voice became a rime-edged whisper. “And exactly how do you mean that, lyrkyrdin Keles?”

A fluttering started in his belly. Was it in a cold rage like this that you sent our father off on his last journey? The use of his formal title emphasized how much he had yet to learn, and reinforced just how angry his grandfather was.

“Despite only being ranked Superior, I have gone everywhere you have sent me. I have learned everything you deigned to teach me. I have been good and dutiful. My reward for all this was to be posted to the Stormwolf, and yet you never chose to tell me of the dual clocks? Had you decided I would go before you knew of them, thereby exposing me to the risk of being lost or of bringing back inaccurate data, or was I just not important enough to be told of this discovery? I should have been doing the geometry and preparing to use the device.”

“So you believe I think you are untrustworthy.”

“Is there another conclusion I should draw from this?” Keles took a deep breath. “I don’t think you trust any of us.”

“Meaning?”

Jorim answered. “Meaning that you are eighty-one years old. Meaning that Ulan is not, by disposition and training, capable of taking over for you. Neither are his sons or grandsons. Meaning that our father, who could have taken over for you, is long gone. Meaning that Keles, who is best suited to taking over for you, is being sent away and not trained to be able to do what you do. You complain that what I do is not good for us, but you do the same thing.”

“Keles is not ready to take my place. You are even further from it.”

“Oh, you may chain me to a desk here, but I never imagined you would train me.”

“Ah, so you do have some inkling of your limitations. Good.” Qiro’s eyes narrowed. “You may think it is time for a younger generation to supplant me, but I have forgotten more than you will ever know.”

“But what if you forget everything without our ever learning it?”

“Stop, again, both of you.” Keles looked at his brother. “I’ll speak for myself, thank you.”

“Then speak.” Qiro and Jorim both looked up as their words echoed each other.

“I will.” Keles straightened. “It’s a simple fact, grandfather, that Jorim is better suited to the Stormwolf expedition than I am. True, I have spent more time at sea than he has, but only a little. You are sending the Stormwolf into the unknown, where new plants and animals and people will be discovered. I don’t care that you don’t care about those things; the Prince does, the nation does, and Jorim is better prepared to bring that information back than I am. I can do the surveys and the math, but he can discover things. You are not so foolish as to let your anger with him jeopardize what will be the most important voyage of a lifetime by letting it go without him, are you? Your anger comes from the fact that the two of you are so alike, it’s disgusting and obvious to anyone but you.”

“Is that so? Then what would you do?” Qiro half turned and gestured at the map. “Would you take over for me? Would you do my work, wipe my mouth, wipe my ass, usher me into my dotage?”

“No, dicaikyr, I would learn from you. I would do whatever you asked to guarantee that your work lives forever.”

“Oh, of course, Keles, why did I think differently?” Qiro’s voice rose dramatically. “You’d learn from me until that merchant-whelp coaxed you to give her family our secrets. You cannot fool me.”

Keles’ cheeks burned hotly. “Majiata is no longer an issue. She has been sent away, for the good of the family.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Keles found his hands had knotted and forced them open. “I have no desire to supplant you. I know I could not supplant you. I merely wish to become capable of keeping your work alive.”

The old man nodded slowly. “We shall see, we shall see.”

Jorim was about to make a comment, but Keles grabbed the breast of his overshirt and jerked him toward the curtains. Bowing low, pulling Jorim down with him, Keles spoke softly.

“Your wisdom is unquestioned, Grandfather. We serve at your whim and will.”

They straightened up and Qiro inclined his head a little toward them. “Words in which you will find fulfillment or damnation, Keles. I pray you have the wisdom to know which is which.”

 

Chapter Six

1st day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Moraven Tolo drifted through the throngs of revelers with the ease of smoke wending through the leaves of a tree. Where others might have seen people in a riot of finery, wearing masks to disguise themselves, donning gaudy feathers to brighten their costumes and layering on cosmetics, he saw flows of energy. The crowd moved slowly at times, and in strong surges at others. By shifting his shoulders or twisting his hips, he passed through the masses with barely a notice.

He worked his way past the crowds and deeper into the city not because he felt no kinship with those celebrating. He did enjoy the Festival and had enjoyed it in Moriande many times before. Even if Master Jatan had not sent word to him, Moraven would have made the trek in this very special year. A sense of urgency, which fascinated him since he had long since thought he’d conquered that sort of thing, had been growing in him.

He smiled to himself. He enjoyed the spectacle and had a taste for grand things. On the road, wandering from spot to spot, he seldom had a chance to indulge it—which, he admitted, was good for the development of his soul and his art. Even so, he envied the celebrants and wondered how it had been, centuries before, back when the Empire still existed. He knew without a doubt that the Festivals had been even more ostentatious and delightful then, and if instead of traveling through Moriande’s streets he could have traveled back in time to those ancient days, he would have gladly embraced the opportunity.

The Harvest Festival—save in years of famine—was always a phenomenon of excess. The hard work of the spring and summer gave way to bellies filled with freshly harvested produce and coffers brimming with money earned from selling surplus. Wines that had been laid down years before were bottled; the finest brewers vied to produce the best beers; and luxuries brought to the capital on trading ships added an element of the novel which delighted everyone. Add to all of that the influx of exotic visitors, entertainers, and merchants, and the eye could not rest for such chaos and commotion.

The crowd parted as one man juggled and another blew long tongues of flame high into the sky. Children shrieked in delight and one small dog barked from beneath the legs of its master. The scent of sizzling, well-spiced meat easily overrode the bitter stink of stale beer, and laughter accompanied it all. Here and there a steely gaze might flash in his direction, but he acknowledged none of them. While any of them might be the man who had wounded him so long ago, the Festival was not a time to battle over ancient incidents.

Moraven weaved his way along the crowded street and found the alley he had been seeking. At the mouth, high up on the wall he discerned a symbol—to almost anyone else it would have appeared to be a triangular crack in the plaster—which told him where he could find Phoyn Jatan. Moraven was uncertain why he had been summoned so soon, but he chose not to question his Master’s judgment in the matter.

While some celebrants were making their way up the alley toward the street, Moraven made it through without incident. The alley opened onto a small courtyard, and another alley to the east led to a smaller street with only a few Festival-goers. The swordsman made his way along it, then entered the gate in a tall wooden palisade.

The wooden walls surrounded a small, two-story inn with a sizable courtyard in front. The sign in front had a juggling dog depicted on it and Moraven smiled. Jatan’s Master had referred to Prince Nelesquin as a juggling dog. Moraven doubted the inn’s owner knew the significance of the name, and appreciated his Master’s sense of humor.

A dozen young men and women clad in the black trousers and shirts of student swordsmen lounged around the courtyard. Geias waited among them, but gave no sign that he recognized Moraven beyond the most cursory of nods. The rest affected to pay him no mind, but he caught their wary glances and heard the hissed beginnings of whispers as he mounted the trio of steps to a short porch. He sat on the bench beside the door, drew off his boots, and took a pair of slippers from a servant. He surrendered his sword to another servant, then ducked his head through the low doorway and passed beneath the stairs to the second floor.

He straightened up again in the common room, and was not so tall that he bumped his head on the low rafters. Directly across from him stood the door into the back and the sleeping rooms. To the left of it sat the bar; the tavern keeper was drawing a draft of rice beer into a small bottle. He placed two cups on a serving tray and a young girl bore it to the table in the other corner.

The two people there watched Moraven carefully. The larger of them could have been a twin to the giant on the roadway save that he wore a patch over his left eye. The other—a whipcord-lean woman with long black hair braided with a red ribbon into a long queue—looked him up and down, then gave him a quick nod. He bowed in their direction briefly—in the manner of xidantzu acknowledging fellow wanderers—then smiled as he turned to the man seated at a table at the base of the stairs.

“Bless the Nine Gods, Eron, you look well.” Moraven bowed to him and held it as the man rose and returned it. “Those must be yours down there.”

“The finest serrian Jatan has to offer.”

“Then I have passed through the midst of the finest swordsmen in the world, not the least being your son.”

Eron, whose white forelock gave him the look of someone perhaps five years further into middle age than Moraven, smiled. “They were only the finest for the moment you were at their heart.”

“You are too hard on your students.”

“And you always depreciate your own skill.”

That I have to take with good grace from your grandfather, but not you.” Moraven closed the distance between them and shook Eron’s hand. “Have we time to get caught up, or is the Master waiting?”

Eron glanced up the stairs. “Both. My grandfather awaits, and I will join you. Step lively; it is about time for you to see this.”

His curiosity piqued, Moraven mounted the stairs quickly. He took one step away from the top to allow Eron to come up, then snapped a bow at Phoyn Jatan. The swordmaster was seated at a table next to the window overlooking the courtyard. Moraven made the bow deep and held it long, only coming up when the old man wheezed out a cough.

Moraven smiled and drew from a sleeve another small bottle of wyrlu. “It is an honor to be in your presence again, jaecaiserr Phoyn Jatan.”

Phoyn shifted in the large chair, resettling cushions. “I see you have not idled away the day, Moraven. More from Erumvirine?”

“I was told this was from Ceriskoron, though the bottle has the markings of a potter in Gria.” Moraven looked at the table where three empty cups stood. “I see you anticipated me.”

The old man smiled weakly. “ ‘It is the wise student who addresses the needs of the Master.’ ”

Eron seated himself across from Jatan. “He slept very well last night and told my wife of a magic tonic he had from a bhotcai. Were it not the Festival, she would not have chosen to believe him.”

Moraven took the seat facing the courtyard and poured out three equal measures. “The joy of the Festival to you both.”

“And you.”

All three men drank, then Moraven refilled the cups, but they remained on the table. “I had not expected you to summon me now.”

Jatan nodded slowly. “I had anticipated calling for you after the fourth day, but this morning something happened at the serrian. I may have to lay another burden upon you, Moraven.”

The swordsman laid his hand on the older man’s sleeve and was surprised to feel how slender and light the man’s arm seemed. “As your Master told you, ‘It is a burden if not viewed as a challenge. Only a fool accepts burdens.’ ”

Phoyn glanced at Eron. “You see, he remembers even the old lessons.”

“He was your best pupil, Grandfather . . .”

Moraven frowned. “Now who is discounting his own skill, Eron? I hardly think . . .”

The old man’s hand rose to silence Moraven. “It is good the old lessons are remembered, for I teach no more. Eron is the dicaiserr of serrian Jatan. Geias will continue our school. They teach well, and will be blessed if they find another student like you.”

Moraven would have protested, but the look Phoyn gave him silenced the words. The old man had been a master swordsman for longer than Nalenyr had existed as a nation. True blood ran in his veins, conferring on him the same longevity as it did with Moraven and Eron, but it was his mastery of the magic of swordsmanship that had preserved him. While anyone looking at Phoyn and Eron might guess that Eron was his grandson or even great-grandson, if there were fewer than nine generations between them Moraven would have been greatly surprised.

Before Phoyn could continue, a young man in a pristine pair of white silk trousers, shirt, and overshirt trimmed in red entered the courtyard. A red sash closed the overshirt and supported a sword in a scarlet scabbard. His boots were mostly white leather, but had red and yellow scraps sewn on them in a flame motif. Red embroidery at the sleeves and along the breasts of his clothes continued that pattern. Clean-limbed, with an aristocratic cast to his features, the young man paused just inside the gateway and planted his fists on his hips.

He looked around as Eron’s students hastily assembled. Into their belts were thrust wooden practice swords. The young man nodded, then looked up toward the window. His eyes tightened, and disdain stained his words.

“Again I am shown students when I have come for a master.” His nostrils flared for a moment, then he let his arms slacken and he bowed precisely, though neither too long nor too deep. “I am Ciras Dejote. I come from Tirat, from serrian Foachin. I have been taught all they have to teach and I have been sent to Moriande to train with a master.”

Moraven frowned. “Released to wander and find another master?”

Jatan shrugged. “They may just be backward on Tirat; I do not know.”

Eron stood, inclining his head toward those in the courtyard. “You dishonored my students this morning. You did not deign to fight them.”

“You set children before me.”

“Not these.” Eron clapped his hands. “Dobyl, commence.”

One of the smallest of the students left the line, drawing his wooden sword fluidly and moving into the first Cobra form. His sword came up and around at a feint toward the eyes, then abruptly down in a blow angled to break Ciras’ left shoulder.

Ciras twisted his shoulder from beneath the blow, then sidestepped toward Eron’s student. The interloper’s left elbow came up with blinding speed, catching Dobyl across the bridge of the nose. Blood gushed, staining the shirtsleeve, and the audible crack made Eron wince. Dobyl staggered for a heartbeat, then went down with both hands covering his face.

Ciras appropriated his wooden sword and moved to the attack. He beat aside one thrust, then struck that student in the face with the hilt of his practice blade. Spinning, he leaped above a low cut, then effortlessly clipped his foe in the head. A girl came next, shifting from Tiger to Dragon, but Ciras’ Scorpion attack came up and smashed into her elbow. She yelped as her sword dropped from numbed fingers.

The next student in line sprang from behind her and lunged low. The wooden blade caught Ciras on the left hip, but he pivoted quickly on his right foot, moving inside the lunge before the student could recover. Had the blades been steel, the wound he took would have slowed him down, but would still have allowed him to lay his blade against his foe’s neck. Since the swords were wooden, Ciras earned a bruise, his foe kept his head, and the Tirati was free to face Geias.

Eron’s son took a step back and dropped into the Scorpion stance. Ciras countered with Tiger, so Geias shifted to Mantis. Ciras stamped his right foot impatiently, inviting an attack, and Geias gathered himself to answer the challenge.

Moraven rose to his feet and grabbed Eron’s arm. “Your son knows better than to attack.”

Eron raised a hand. “My son knows his duty. Watch.”

Geias leaped a pace left, then slashed his way forward with cuts from high left to low right, then across and down again. He repeated the pattern three times and Moraven readied himself to watch Geias dropped as easily as the others. Though he was better, his repetition meant Ciras now had his measure. Tiger flows into Scorpion and he’ll catch Geias right across the ribs.

As if Ciras had plucked the strategy from Moraven’s mind, he moved left and began the transition in forms. By the time Geias had completed his diagonal slash, Ciras was in position to strike. As Geias’ sword moved across in a cut, Ciras’ blade would just follow right along and exploit the opening the young Jatan had given him.

Geias, however, had Ciras’ measure as well. Instead of the crosscut, he shifted the wooden sword from his right to his left hand and pivoted on his right foot. The wooden sword came up and back around in a low thrust meant to gut Ciras. As the interloper had already begun his own thrust, nothing shy of a miracle would allow him to parry what would be a killing blow.

Ciras wrenched his body around, kicking up high with his right heel. His body straightened and twisted, his belly slipped beneath Geias’ thrust. Snapping his wrist at the same time, Ciras batted away his foe’s blade, then landed hard on his back. Before Geias could even begin to recover from his lunge, Ciras cracked the wooden sword hard against Geias’ ankles, spilling him to the ground. As if drawn by his blade, Ciras flowed to his feet again and arrogantly kicked Geias’ sword away.

Eron looked at Moraven. “You saw?”

As Moraven nodded slowly, Phoyn chuckled dryly. “He felt.”

“Yes, I felt.” Moraven sat. It had been when Ciras had kicked his right heel back and twisted. A flash, a tingle. It dazzled his skin and sank into his flesh with the pins-and-needles pain of a sleeping limb slowly awakening. He had felt it, and felt it strongly.

Jaedun had come off Ciras in a powerful wave.

Moraven frowned. “What rank does he claim?”

Lirserrdin. His Master judged him Superior.” Phoyn exhaled slowly and seemed to deflate a bit. “I do not think his Master knew how advanced his student was, just that he was something more than most. Had he any inkling, he would not have sent him away. Having someone so skilled would have brought great honor on the school.”

“He will then bring great honor on serrian Jatan.”

Eron shook his head. “I am a swordmaster, Moraven, but not a Mystic. I cannot teach him.”

Moraven turned and looked at the old man. “You can’t think of having me train him! I am not a teacher. I do not have a school.”

“A school is not what he needs.” The old man’s brow wrinkled. “You came to me already trained and I guided you on the correct path. ‘The journey is of the chosen forks, not the untraveled roads.’ ”

And there are roads he should not travel. Reaching the state of jaedunto did have its benefits, both in how the magic manifested and the longevity it supplied. It could, however, exact a fearful price because it tended to distill the jaecai’s personality. If one were kind, considerate, and peaceful, this would be accentuated. If, on the other hand, he is arrogant and desirous of fame, it will fill him with bitterness.

Ciras tossed the wooden sword on the porch with a clatter. “I require a master, Eron of serrian Jatan. I have beaten your best. Will you have me?”

Moraven looked at Phoyn. “You would have me do this in addition to the charge you have already given me?”

The old man shrugged. “Having a companion can hardly make the first task more difficult or more dangerous.”

“You don’t expect me to find that prospect comforting, do you?”

“No, I hope you take no comfort in it at all.” The old man raised his cup of wyrlu. “The discomfort you feel now will be what we all feel if you fail at either task. Peace of the Festival to you, Moraven Tolo, and may the gods be merciful in shaping your future.”

 

Chapter Seven

2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles ignored the growled “Go away,” and entered his brother’s chamber. Jorim shot him an angry glare but, reflected in the mirror, it lost some of its power. The younger Anturasi struggled with tying the gold silk tie, but it was more than that which fed his foul mood. Keles knew that, but also knew he had to settle some issues with his brother or the party that evening would be even more of a disaster than it already promised to be.

“Let me help you with that.”

“I can do it myself.”

“Yes, but not before snow flies, which means you’ll be late for the party.”

Jorim snarled. “I don’t want to go anyway.”

Keles rested his hands on his brother’s shoulders and slowly turned him around. “If you don’t go, you will disappoint Nirati and our mother. Both have worked hard to fashion the compromise that has let you keep your beard and your braids. I know you don’t mind upsetting our grandfather, but their feelings must be respected.”

“Certainly. Respect their feelings, but not mine.” Jorim let his hands fall from the golden length of cloth, but they slowly balled into fists. “Why is it always everyone else’s feelings that matter and not mine?”

Keles took the tie in hand and snapped it against the high, starched collar of his brother’s shirt. “By that you mean to ask why I don’t respect your feelings. I’m sorry you felt betrayed.”

“No, you’re not. You knew it would hurt.”

“Fair enough, but I also knew I had to sting you to make you stop. I betrayed you, yes, but I stopped you from betraying yourself.”

Jorim frowned. “Read that from my mind, did you?”

“Don’t joke. I can only touch your mind when we are both concentrating, reaching out, and you know that. And, unlike Grandfather, I don’t have the will to work past what you want to share. Nor do I have the desire. I do respect your feelings that much, and respect you that much.”

“You respect me, do you?”

Keles sighed slowly. Once they had left their grandfather, Jorim had broken away from him. “I know I betrayed you, but this runs deeper than that. What is going on?”

Jorim’s hands came up, batting his brother’s hands away, then he half turned toward the mirror. “You mocked me in front of the old man.”

“I did no such thing.”

“No, of course not, from your point of view.” Jorim crossed the small chamber and flopped down in a chair that almost tipped over backward. “Keles the wise and thoughtful. Grandfather will give me the Stormwolf because you suggested it, not because I earned it—even though I did.”

“So? You’re getting what you want.”

“You don’t understand.” Jorim pounded a fist against the chair’s arm. “Why don’t you listen to me? Do I know I would be better on the Stormwolf? Of course I would. I speak twice the languages you do, and I pick them up very easily. I have a catalog of animals I’ve seen, and I’m very good at drawing them in case we can’t bring back specimens. I know your bhotcai and I’ve worked with some of the crew before. I’m perfect for that trip and I should have it, but I wanted Grandfather to give it to me because I made a case for it, not you.”

Keles pressed fingertips to his temples. “That makes no sense, Jorim. You’ll get it. What matter if I ask?”

“Haven’t you listened?”

“Yes. Have you?” Keles nodded emphatically, then brought his hands down and open. “There is something else going on here. Are you afraid that Grandfather will keep you here and break you the way he has Uncle Ulan? Is that it?”

Jorim shifted his shoulders uneasily. “No, I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks for sharing.”

“Jorim, you know he couldn’t do that. You’re too strong for him to break.”

“You think so? Really?”

Keles nodded. “Really. He’d try, but you would defy him. It would be all Nine Hells rolled into one for the both of you.”

“Heh.” Jorim’s expression brightened for a moment, then soured again.

“Then if that’s not it, Jorim, what are you afraid of?”

Jorim scowled, then hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. The silk of his overshirt and trousers rustled as he moved. “I’m afraid that if Qiro sends you, you’ll be lost like our father.”

“What?”

Jorim looked up, his face tightening as his eyes grew wet. “I was trying to save your life by taking that trip for myself.”

Keles shook his head. “You can’t believe our grandfather would send me off to die. You can’t believe he did that to our father.”

“I can and do, Keles.”

“You weren’t old enough to remember . . .”

“Neither were you. I was two years old; you were five. I don’t remember our father. You and Nirati do, and she says you’re his spitting image. Others have told me that you’re very like him except in one way. All right, maybe two ways. First, you don’t fight with the old man, at least you didn’t used to.”

Keles sighed. “I’ve stood up to him before.”

“Sure you have. You’ve told him a map you’d drawn wasn’t good enough.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Telling him you were wrong before he tells you isn’t standing up to him, Keles.” Jorim shook his head. “You’re more talented than our father was. Ryn thought he was Qiro’s equal, and maybe he was. But you’re better. You can surpass Qiro. And Grandfather can’t have that, so he’s going to try to kill you.”

“That makes no sense.” Keles raked fingers back through his dark hair. He wanted to deny that his grandfather could be that cold-blooded, but the way he treated Ulan showed how hard-hearted the old man could be. Did he kill our father? Will it be “like father, like son”?

“It makes sense, Keles. You’re the best able to replace him and keep the family business going. If you surpass him, he could be forgotten.”

“That’s not possible.”

“No? Prince Araylis should have been our leader, but now his younger brother occupies the throne. How many people remember him, or their father, Prince Jogisko? In nine years of prosperity, Cyron has begun to eclipse them. It will happen to Qiro, and he fears it.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Jorim.” Keles lowered his voice. “What if Qiro reaches the state of jaedunto?”

“Not possible.”

“But might he not be there already? Look at him. Ulan is younger than he is and looks twice as old. Yes, we are all True Bloods, so we live longer than other Men, but we do age. He hasn’t.”

Jorim shook his head adamantly. “Jaedunto is possible in many things, but cartography? It is a thing of the physical skills, not scribbling on paper. Qiro is just well preserved. Uncle Ulan looks as he does because he’s served under Grandfather. No, the old man will not know magic immortality. He’ll live for a while longer because they want him in neither the Heavens nor the Hells, but he will die and you will be greater than he.”

“That is clearly not what he assumes, on either count. He certainly thinks he is that good at what he does.”

“It’s another of his delusions.”

Jorim ignored the comment. “I think he assumes he has another eighty-one years in him, perhaps longer.”

“Let him assume what he wants. He’s still going to die. It’s not as if he’s a Viruk.”

Jorim snorted. “By disposition he is.”

Even Keles had to laugh at that. “I’ll not argue. But, that aside, somewhere deep down he knows he’s mortal. If you or I can be as good as he is, our ability to work expands all he can do, and he has to see that. If Nirati had talent, then . . .”

“If Nirati had talent, he’d destroy her.”

Keles blinked. “How can you say that? She is his favorite. You or I would have to argue to get you on the Stormwolf. If she suggested it in a whisper, you’d be on board so fast you’d not be able to catch your breath.”

Jorim slowly stood. “I can say it, brother, because she does not threaten him. She has no talent for surveys and mapmaking, so he forgives and indulges her. Thank the stars that she has our mother’s sense, else she’d be spoiled and worthless. Rather like Majiata.”

“Don’t try to deflect me.” Keles approached his brother and took the tie in hand again. “Tonight Grandfather will announce our missions.”

“To his glorification . . . Hey, not so tight.”

“Sorry.” Keles eased the knot ever so slightly. “He will announce that you are going off on the Stormwolf . . .”

“You know this, or you’re speculating?” Jorim half closed his eyes. “You had Nirati talk to him, didn’t you?”

Keles smiled. “She thought she owed you a favor. She’d done me one in driving Majiata off.”

“What did she say he would have you doing?”

“Nothing.” Keles shook his head, finished the knot and patted his brother on the chest. “When she asked for a hint, he became coy and refused to tell her.”

“He’ll probably keep you here and find ways to make you miserable.”

“Please tell me you have not been reading his mind.”

“As you said, that requires cooperation, and he and I are definitely not cooperating.” Jorim turned and faced the mirror. He made a couple of minor adjustments to his brother’s handiwork, then smiled. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Yes, but you know that’s not true about the Stormwolf.”

Jorim frowned. “How do you plot that course?”

“It’s simple. The work is important, and the dual clock is a key component. I would be a bit more diligent in taking measurements and doing the calculations than you, but you have one very special qualification that I do not. What would you do if the clocks stopped working?”

The younger man closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Well, I had assumed that I’d run a water clock occasionally just to see if the clocks were keeping good time. I’d maintain speed and direction logs and have the ship backtrack so I’d have data in both directions to account for current, then I’d look for any gyanridin who could help me fix them.”

Keles smiled. “You see, you’ve already thought about what you would do. I wouldn’t have the first clue. My skills run to calculations and making maps. I’m not as flexible as you. And I’ll tell you one other thing. I know why you and Grandfather so often butt heads like those spiral-horn sheep you saw in Tejanmorek.”

“Oh yes? Why?”

“You suggested that Grandfather fears me because I remind him of our father.”

“I’m not the only one who has said that.”

Keles took his brother by the shoulders and turned him around again. “You and he fight so much because you remind him of himself.”

“What? You’re insane.”

“No, I’m not. You know the stories of him at your age. He traveled, he did surveys, and he brought things back to the Prince’s father much as you do.” Keles smiled slowly. “He just never went as far, saw as much, or brought back anywhere near what you have. In fact, he only made one long journey off to the northwest and it was a failure. Then his father died and Grandfather was brought into this gilded cage. The freedom he’d known was gone.”

Jorim took a half step back. “And you’re looking at a life of being trapped here, too, aren’t you? The Stormwolf would have been your greatest adventure, your great escape.”

“Perhaps. It could have been my greatest disaster, too. In some ways that would have been better.” Keles shook his head. “After a nightmare expedition, Anturasikun would look very inviting.”

“But don’t you hate the idea of having to live the rest of your life here, trapped? Won’t that kill you?”

Keles shook his head. “It won’t kill me, Jorim.” But it would kill you, little brother.

Jorim frowned heavily. “You’ll be as good as dead. You’ll be the person who creates the maps that allow others to go further than anyone before, and yet you will be limited to this little scrap of Moriande.”

Keles felt a hand squeeze his heart. Being trapped in the family tower did frighten him. Certainly it brought with it security, but security without freedom was useless. To never again look upon a sunset in the mountains, or see gaily plumed birds winging through rain forests . . .

“I guess you’ll just have to bring the world to me, Jorim. It is what I will be called upon to do. If we are lucky, you and I, we will become jaecaikyr and live a good long time. Perhaps the Prince will let us take turns here, being each other’s eyes and ears elsewhere, bringing back the world. If that is not the case, then I will have to depend upon you, your children, my children, and perhaps Nirati’s children, to do that for me. It is an eventuality I am willing to accept, for the good of our family and our nation.”

“Protecting me again, brother?” Jorim smiled, then waved a hand toward the door of his chamber. “I know that’s what you were doing in the map room. That’s what you’ve always done. Nirati distracts Grandfather, and you appeal to reason. It drives me utterly mad, but I know I benefit from it.”

Keles reached out and tugged on a braid. “You benefit from it, and you make us work very hard, you know that?”

“That’s what little brothers are for. It says so in all the stories.”

“And here I thought you preferred being unique.” Keles preceded him from the room. “One thing, tonight. Please, no fighting. There’s still blood in your eye, and that bruise is not quite in keeping with the color scheme.”

“Yeah, the purple isn’t quite Imperial, and the yellow edges are just not the right shade of gold.” Jorim’s hand landed heavily on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Fear not, brother, I will be on my best behavior. If what you have told me is true, I don’t wish to give Grandfather any cause to change his mind.”

“Good.” Keles let himself exhale loudly. “This is his night. We let him have his way, and things will be perfect.”

 

Chapter Eight

2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Nirati found she was having difficulty breathing, and it was not just because of the corset into which she had been laced. She was a slender woman already, and the corset had been used to shrink her waist to an impossibly tiny circumference. Her handmaiden had pulled it tight, admonishing, “Lass like you, Mistress, don’t need to be breathing, since all the men will think you’re breathless because of them.” Nirati had laughed at that, and the servant used the exhalation to tighten it just a bit more.

Nirati looked out through the tower’s Grand Ballroom, which was only half-full, and felt a bit dazzled. The evening’s colors were purple and gold—purple for the Prince and gold for the Anturasi family. She, her brothers, cousins, mother, and grandfather all wore predominantly golden robes, overshirts, and trousers, with purple ribbons as decoration. The Prince and his household would reverse that, and everyone in between would wear whatever struck their fancy, with gold and purple accents as befitted their ties to the family or Crown.

Or depending on what sort of impression they wished to make.

The Prince, though not yet in attendance, had already made a strong impression. He had allowed some of his Keru bodyguards to be stationed at the gate, front door, and the ballroom entrance. Drawn entirely from the women of the exile population of Helosundians, the Keru pledged themselves to the Naleni royal house, eschewing marriage and children, leading an ascetic life filled with training and guard duties. And odd rituals, if the whispered tales are true.

Without exception, the women wore their golden hair braided with a white ribbon, in mourning for their lost homeland. Though quite handsome, few among them would have been described as beautiful because their features were as strong as their bodies, and their hard-eyed stares lacked warmth. Each wore a sword and carried a spear, but was polite and respectful—although Nirati wondered if they would retain that demeanor when the Prince of Deseirion appeared.

The rectangular ballroom had a row of tall windows along the western wall that allowed a wonderful view of the night sky. Opposite them, to the left as one entered, tables had been set up and laden with all manner of viands. Merchants and traders who wished to curry favor with the Anturasi had gifted much in the way of wine, cheese, and other exotic foods. Her grandfather’s taste for heavily spiced food had also been represented at the centermost table, with cooks preparing and bringing out dishes that filled the air with delightful scents in much the way the musicians in the room’s southwest corner filled the air with sweet sounds.

As she surveyed the chamber, her eyes were naturally drawn to the catwalk running around the entire room a good fifteen feet above the floor. Six feet wide, save at the southeast corner where it became a triangular platform, its golden bars formed a lattice that separated anyone up there from those below. In the southeast corner stood a chair and small table, along with two Keru guards. The door in the east wall would be the one through which her grandfather entered and from which he would eventually announce the Stormwolf expedition.

She smiled slightly because she knew the posting would please Jorim beyond measure. Her only worry was that her grandfather, through preoccupation or deliberate action, might make the pronouncement in a way that would set Jorim off. While she loved her little brother dearly, he did have a temper, and her grandfather’s celebration was not the place to let it flare.

She shivered because a display of temper could do more than ruin the party. She could not remember her grandfather’s sixty-third birthday feast, but Qiro and Ryn Anturasi had gotten into a shouting match. From all she’d heard, Ryn had only been defending himself. The fact that he’d left on the Wavewolf the next day without ever exchanging a civil word with his father—and had then disappeared—kept rumors alive that Qiro had had him murdered.

Nirati looked over at her mother and smiled. Siatsi Anturasi wore a robe of gold, with broad white bands trimming it at the hem, sleeves, and edges, and a purple sash holding it closed. Taller than Nirati, though not as tall as any of the Keru, her mother had gone from being a slender girl to mature woman without any diminution of beauty. She wore her black hair up and secured with golden sticks. She’d powdered her face white, and used gold to add a sparkle of freckles over her cheeks and nose. Gold paint also emphasized her eyelids and lips, giving her the look of an alabaster statue come to life.

Her mother was an interesting woman, for she had managed to prosper within the framework of two families dominated by strong patriarchs. Her own family, the Isturkens, had been prosperous merchants who had married her off to Ryn Anturasi hoping to gain some sort of benefit from Qiro. They had continued to prosper until her father died and her elder brother, Eoarch, had taken over the business. His gambling habits extended beyond the gaming tables, and lost cargoes and ships drove the family to the brink of ruin.

When Ryn died it had been expected that Siatsi would function as Qiro’s hostess, but she declined and instead returned to her family and took over for Eoarch in all ways save for the trading company’s public face. She bargained with Qiro for maps in return for allowing his grandchildren to visit and be trained. Nirati had even heard it said that her mother had become one of Prince Araylis’ mistresses in return for favorable customs duties on certain shipments, but she had never asked after the veracity of those remarks.

She and her mother had worked hard preparing the celebration and smoothing things over between Qiro and Jorim. They’d both agreed to act on Jorim’s behalf without consulting him. Jorim sometimes did not know what was good for him, and would eventually come around to their point of view.

Several gasps from near the entrance caused Nirati to turn. She did so slowly, not because her robe restricted her movement—there would be dancing later, after all—but because calm patience in the face of any emergency was the hallmark of a successful hostess. She braced herself for anything from a splash of spilled wine to Jorim’s entering awash in blood. Despite her preparation, her breath did catch in her throat.

The Keru at the door had stepped aside to admit the Viruk ambassador and her consort. Ierariach of Clan Nessagia likely would not have elicited the gasps herself. Her ebon eyes always attracted comment, as did the thick flow of her jet-black hair, which she wore unrestrained. Her pale green flesh, on the other hand, did make her inhuman nature apparent. Of average height, she had chosen to wear a gown of sea green that complemented her complexion. Her concession to the evening’s color scheme came in the form of a large amethyst set in gold that she wore as a spider-shaped pendant above her ample bosom.

But her consort was enough to take the breath away, and guarantee nightmares. Had he stood up straight, he would have topped eight feet easily, and Nirati suspected that his outstretched hand could touch the bottom of the catwalk. He wore only trousers and a sleeveless overshirt that let everyone see the bony plates on his long, slender arms. The hue of his flesh matched hers on throat, chest, belly, and the insides of his arms, though it deepened to a pine green over the rest of him, including his face. His black hair was as long as Jorim’s and could have benefited from similar braiding, though that would have entailed plaiting it down the length of his spine. His fingers and toes ended in sharp claws. The hooks on his elbows and the thorns on his head appeared not quite as sharp as the claws, but when he smiled, an ivory row of needle-sharp teeth reinforced the idea that while he carried no weapons, he was far from defenseless.

Nirati strode forward at a pace that would allow her to reach the Viruk at the same time as her mother. Siatsi stopped ten feet from them and bowed. Nirati matched her in depth and duration—which were both considerable given the Viruk relationship to Men. They straightened in unison and smiled.

Dicairoun Nessagia, you honor us with your attendance.”

The ambassador smiled, but not without a little effort. “We were most pleased to receive the invitation to celebrate the life of the man who has recovered much of the world that was lost.”

Nirati kept her smile in place. Most of the people hearing those words would think the ambassador referred to the Cataclysm and the resulting loss of contact with the rest of the world, but Qiro’s granddaughter knew better. The Viruk had, millennia before, ruled over an empire that encompassed all Nine Principalities, their provinces and more. The men who lived there had been enslaved, along with other races, to serve the Viruk.

The Viruk capital, Virukadeen, had been located in what was now the heart of the Dark Sea, but had been destroyed in a cataclysm of Viruk manufacture. The Viruk who lived away from the capital, administering the provinces, suddenly no longer had the legions of Viruk warriors to secure their positions. Revolts followed, and Viruk rule was overthrown in places. Human freedom did not always last, but just over two thousand years ago, the True Bloods had come in a vast armada, invaded the Viruk Empire, and driven them out of what became the Principalities. Within the provinces, pockets of Viruk population still existed, though scattered and isolated. Far Irusviruk—the Viruk nation from which the ambassador had come—neither invited nor tolerated human interlopers. Peace between the races, for the most part, reigned—though did so uneasily the further one got from the Principalities.

Siatsi clearly had not missed the implications of the ambassador’s greeting. “The world is a vast place. Not all that was lost can be discovered, and some things discovered may never have been lost—such as the pleasure your presence brings to me. May your visit be blessed, and the peace of the Festival yours to enjoy.”

The consort bobbed his head and again flashed teeth. Nirati felt he was no more used to smiling than Ierariach was, but just enjoyed watching the human reaction to his grin. A shiver descended her spine as a thin ribbon of spittle began to roll down over his jaw. Fortunately, his thick black tongue licked it back before it could reach the floor.

The ambassador nodded. “We will enjoy your hospitality. Thank you.”

As they moved away, Siatsi took her daughter by the elbow. “Watch your brother when he gets here and keep him away from the Viruk. The story that Jorim slew two warriors while in Ummummorar is not unknown. I doubt anything will lead to violence this evening, but Jorim would offer a duel if challenged.”

“But the ambassador wouldn’t . . .”

Her mother shook her head. “The Viruk have a very strong caste system. Her consort, Rekarafi, is a warrior. And they will do anything to uphold the honor of the Viruk.”

“Why did Grandfather invite them?”

“Having the ancient ones here to venerate the anniversary of his birth feeds his ego.”

“But putting Jorim at risk . . .”

Siatsi raised a sculpted eyebrow. “It may not. It could be that Rekarafi would view the slain Viruk as provincial barbarians, much as we see the wildmen in the Wastes. If we are lucky, those slain were his enemies—but I do not wish to chance it. Remember, our Viruk guests are not only old enough to remember the coming of the True Bloods, they likely remember the fall of Virukadeen. Such long lives make them view us much as we would sand midges—something we could swat without a second thought. And I don’t want Jorim swatted.”

“Had you swatted him when he was a babe, he’d be less likely to cause trouble now.”

“And had I swatted you as a child, perhaps your tongue would not be so sharp.”

Nirati laughed. “I merely take after my mother.”

“And she will take after you if you do not perform this duty.” Siatsi sighed. “And be watchful for other deviltry. Your grandfather has been in a foul mood, and I would not put anything past him. Avert disaster where you see it.”

“Yes, Mother.” Nirati nodded toward the wine table. “Speaking of which, perhaps you wish to see to Uncle Eoarch. That’s his third cup of wine in an hour. If he’s heard the Viruk rumors, he’s likely to set up a duel just so he can wager on it.”

“Thank you.” Her mother kissed her softly on the cheek, then headed off to intercept her brother.

Nirati watched her go, then turned to study the next guests arriving. A young woman accompanied a man roughly twice her age and it took Nirati a moment to recognize her. She would have done it faster, but the woman’s handsome escort distracted her. When she saw who it was, she wished for a dozen more Viruk. Oh, Grandfather, you have been causing trouble.

Nirati moved to cut them off as they entered. She let her voice drop to a frosty tone. “I had not thought to see you here, Majiata. I would have thought you had some self-respect.”

Majiata began to answer, but her escort stopped her. “You will forgive me, please, for the fault is mine. I am newly come here. The invitation from your grandfather was unexpected, and it was suggested Lady Majiata might be free to attend.”

He spoke very precisely, and with a Desei accent. His purple silk overshirt had been trimmed in gold, though his shirt and trousers were midnight blue. The white sash belting his waist suggested mourning, but knotted the way it was it signaled his status as an exile. Which would make him . . .

Nirati bowed appropriately for one of his status, but held it longer than required out of deference. “Forgive me, Count Aerynnor, for being so rude. You are a most welcome guest. My grandfather will, no doubt, be pleased you took his suggestion to heart.”

The man returned the bow and tugged Majiata down with him. As he straightened up he smiled slowly, white teeth splitting his black beard and moustache. Light blue eyes sparkled in a handsome face. The short scar over his right cheekbone only accentuated his good looks. That he had paled at her reaction to Majiata endeared him to Nirati, and she’d always found the Desei accent intriguing.

“Please, you will be calling me Junel. My title hardly pertains, as my family’s lands have been seized by the Crown.”

“I had heard stories to that effect, Junel.” Nirati smiled, liking how his name felt in her mouth. Majiata’s discomfort only helped accentuate Nirati’s satisfaction. “Are you aware Prince Pyrust has said he will attend?”

Junel frowned for a moment, then gave her a quick nod. “I had assumed so, since he is here in Moriande. Until you mentioned it, though, I had not considered how I felt. I will not cause you any difficulty in this matter. I thank you for the warning. It was most kind of you. If there is a service I can render you, you have but to ask.”

“Two services. Simple, both, but I ask you to indulge me.”

“As you are my hostess, I would offer you two services, even if both were complex.”

“Thank you.” Nirati smiled. “The first is that you keep Majiata away from my brothers, either or both of them.”

Junel looked at Majiata. She blushed, and he nodded. “And the second?”

Nirati looked straight into Majiata’s eyes. “Save the last dance of the evening for me, Junel.”

 

Chapter Nine

2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

The first two things that happened as he entered the Grand Ballroom did not surprise Keles Anturasi at all. The Keru guards had let him and his brother pass without notice, which made him share a secret smile with Jorim. The Keru, being tall, strong, and alluring, had long been the fantasy fodder for many a Naleni youth. While all of them knew the Keru did not engage in carnal adventuring, stories of illicit affairs abounded—always having happened to the friend of a friend, thus escaping verification because of the remove—so the adolescent dreams never died.

Once inside, his brother immediately slipped away, which Keles had anticipated. Jorim started off on an arc through the crowd defined by the prettiest women present. He angled his way around toward the dance floor near the musicians, for Jorim’s reputation as a dancer had many anticipating his invitation.

The second thing was his sister approaching him, filling the vacuum Jorim had left. The visible concern on her face braced him for some sort of trouble. “Good evening, Nirati. Joy of the Festival to you.”

“And you, brother.” She linked her arm in his and drew him toward the room’s northwest corner, where the crowd thinned. “Mother has asked me to keep an eye on Jorim. The Viruk ambassador brought her consort, and he is a Viruk warrior. Mother is afraid that he may have heard tales of Jorim having slain Viruk on his travels. If he were to challenge Jorim . . .”

“Jorim would accept. And either way it turned out, there would be trouble. Do you wish help on that assignment?”

“No, but it will keep me occupied the whole of the evening, I fear. I do need to warn you of something else, though.”

“What?”

“Majiata is here. She arrived with a Desei noble exile of the Aerynnor family. Grandfather sent him an invitation and suggested he bring Majiata. He seems rather gracious, whereas she is . . . herself.”

Keles felt a barbed serpent begin to coil in his guts. “Do you want me to stay away from her? I really don’t care that she is here.” He put emphasis on his latter statement, hoping both of them could be convinced it was true.

“I trust you to use your judgment and all will be well.” Nirati kissed him on the cheek. “Actually, I want you to have fun. I’ll keep Jorim out of trouble for tonight, at least. After that, he’s your responsibility for the rest of the Festival.”

“Great.” Keles sighed, but smiled. “You have as much fun as you can as well. I’ll be careful and keep my eyes open.”

“Good. I love you, Keles.”

“And I you, Nirati. Go.”

His sister departed in a flash of gold silk, but Keles remained in the corner for a bit. The knowledge that Majiata had chosen to attend his grandfather’s birthday celebration surprised him. In the short time since she had been forced to return his ring, he’d let himself think back over their courtship. While they had been affianced for two years, during a considerable amount of that time he’d been traveling in the west, completing a survey of the navigable stretches of the Gold River. Back in the days of the Empire one could sail from the Dark Sea all the way to the coast, but the glaciers that had come in the Cataclysm’s wake had deposited much debris in the river. The Prince wanted to know what work would have to be done to make the river suitable for trade again, and Qiro had entrusted that job to Keles.

When he was in Moriande and not working, he had attended social gatherings. On the latter occasions Majiata had been with him and had been a perfect companion. She was polite and witty, rescuing him when he would let his enthusiasm carry him into detailed explanations of things that bored others to tears. When they were alone—and there had been precious little privacy outside of bed—Majiata had surrendered the maturity she had shown in public and become demanding, requesting gifts and throwing childish tantrums. He’d felt guilty for having spent so much time apart from her, so he weathered her moods, thinking that it would all be better once they were married and living together.

But recently he had begun to see what Nirati had likely seen from the beginning: these things would never get better. While some people are capable of change, most are not. Majiata had no motive to change because Keles acceded to her every demand. And her family was certainly telling her that what she was doing was right.

Keles shivered. In many ways it would have been easier had humans been as the Soth were rumored to be. The Soth went through each life stage with a period of hibernation in between. Like caterpillars that emerge as butterflies—though the Soth changes were not nearly as pretty—they reached points in their lives where radical changes were necessary. As legend had it, they found a place to hibernate, took months or years to reorder their thinking, then molded their shapes to suit and emerged new creatures, facing the world more wisely.

And the Soth Gloon are even supposed to be able to see the future—though to be seen by one brings dire consequences. He smiled. One must have seen me when I was first introduced to Majiata.

He wished he could just put Majiata out of his mind, but it wasn’t that easy. He could remember her smiles, her coos. While she’d not been very attentive to his needs, he still craved human contact. He wanted someone to look at him with eyes full of desire in the middle of the night, and the feeling he’d not know that again sent a trickle of fear through his bowels.

He shook his head, watching his brother move from knot to knot of giggling women. Jorim was all but a jaecai in the art of flirtation. He had an exotic air about him because of his hair, the bruise on his eye, and the stories he engendered. He was wild and unsafe, and the civilized women of the capital craved that.

Whereas I’m just safe.

Keles sighed. Women had never flocked to him as they did his brother—which was part of the reason he’d fallen so hard for Majiata. She had played him well, making him feel desired. And while he did want someone to share his life with, part of him wondered how he would ever know if he was being played, or if the interest was genuine.

The sharp crack of Keru spear butts on the floor announced the arrival of someone important. Keles glanced at the doorway, half-expecting to see Prince Cyron and his attendants, but instead he saw a single, tall man clad entirely in midnight blue, save for a gold ribbon swirling down his left arm. Prince Pyrust of Deseirion waited for the Keru to bring their spears back upright so he would not have to bow his head to get past their spearpoints. He waited, but they did as well, relenting only after the time one would have held a bow of respect for one of Imperial rank.

The man moved into the ballroom entrance then paused, giving the Keru the chance to watch his unprotected back. He reached up with his left hand to stroke his goatee. Though it and his light brown hair were shot with white, he did not look terribly old. Even at a distance, Keles saw that the Prince had lost the last two fingers on his left hand. A large ring of state rode on what would have been the middle finger.

Even Keles knew the story of that ring. While the conquest of Helosunde had taken place well before Pyrust ever took the Desei throne, the royal line of Helosunde had not been eliminated. After Pyrust became prince, they led a strong incursion into Helosunde and Pyrust himself had headed the army that opposed them. In his travels he was ambushed and wounded, losing both the fingers and the Desei ring of state. He survived, however, and in the subsequent battle shattered the Helosundian force, killing the Crown Prince. The new ring of state that he fashioned for himself came from the coronet he’d pulled from the Helosundian Prince’s head.

Keles started to move toward the Prince to greet him, and the Prince, seeing him, strode in Keles’ direction. He even held up a hand to stop Keles from leaving the corner. At ten feet the Prince stopped, allowing Keles to bow, and the bow was returned respectfully.

Pyrust looked him up and down. “You clearly are an Anturasi. Keles, I assume?”

“I am honored, Highness.”

“The honor is mine. I dreamed of meeting you.”

“A pleasant dream, I hope.”

“Quite.” The Prince approached and smiled carefully. “Anturasikun is lovely. I dreamed I was walking through it with my brother, Theyral. He would have been much taken with this place.”

“I did not know you had a brother, Highness. Did he not come with you?”

“No, he is dead.” Pyrust raised his half hand. “I’ll thank you for your as-yet-unexpressed sympathy. I feel his loss sometimes. And do not regret your not knowing him, for my family is obscure. Your family, of course, is well-known outside Nalenyr, and your work is the envy of cartographers everywhere. I see well why Prince Cyron guards you so jealously.”

“The Prince’s concern for our welfare is much appreciated.” Keles felt a bit uncomfortable. “Would you like some wine, Highness? I would be honored to fetch some for you.”

“In a moment perhaps.” Pyrust stepped closer, his voice dropping, his hand resting on Keles’ forearm. “I have heard of the work you did in your study of the Gold River. You know the Black River runs through the heart of my nation?”

“Yes, my lord.” Keles agreed even though the Black River had long formed the boundary between Deseirion and Helosunde. “It is one of the three great rivers.”

“You needn’t be polite, Keles Anturasi, for I can see your unease.”

“Forgive me, sire.”

“Perhaps I will have cause to at some point, but your unease is good. It is a measure of your loyalty.” Pyrust’s hand came up, fingering one of the purple ribbons hanging from Keles’ shoulder. “I have need of a survey of the Black River.”

“I am afraid, Highness, that I would be unable to undertake such a venture.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’d not ask that of you. I was hoping, by reputation, that you knew of any cartographers, here or in my realm, whom you would trust with such a task.” Pyrust gave the purple thread a tug, then let it go. “Of course, if ever you found Nalenyr a place where you no longer felt you could live, accommodations could be made in my realm.”

“Your Highness is very kind. I understand Deseirion is a beautiful nation.”

“It has its charms, though you know well that the glaciers that clogged the Gold River scraped portions of my realm down to bedrock. This is why the Desei are so tough—we work very hard to grind out an existence. As such, we are most eager to improve our situation. As I said, your help in the matter of the Black River would be greatly appreciated. If you were to undertake the expedition, I’m certain your family’s knowledge of my realm would be increased. Perhaps you will discuss this with your grandfather?”

“As my lord wishes.”

“Very good, thank you. Now, I will take some of that wine, if you do not mind.”

Keles nodded and guided the Prince toward the wine tables. He steered him away from his uncle Eoarch, to where the best wine waited. Keles himself took a cup filled with a Desei vintage, though he often found them too dry and bitter. Pyrust chose one of the sweet wines from Erumvirine, and they toasted each other’s health.

Several Naleni nobles approached and introduced themselves, freeing Keles from his duties as host. He didn’t drift very far away, in case he was needed, but Majiata and her escort stood just to his left. They conversed with another couple who looked vaguely familiar, but Keles could not remember their names. Next to Majiata stood the Viruk ambassador, her consort hulking beside her menacingly. His attention seemed drawn to the dance floor, and Keles knew without looking—primarily because of the song being played—that his brother was already entertaining some young woman.

Things happened very quickly from there, and while Keles had flashes of memories, it was not until later conversations with his family that he was able to fully reconstruct the events. Thinking back, he had tried to find any sense of foreboding. There was nothing—no unease, no warning from the gods, nothing—so events unfolded without warning. And very painfully.

Up above, in the room’s southeast corner, the Keru guards hammered the butts of their spears against the floor. This heralded the arrival of his grandfather. Qiro would make his appearance, be applauded and lauded. After that Prince Cyron would arrive, speeches would be made, and the celebration would continue in earnest.

At the sound Majiata had turned and stepped back, looking up as she did so. She bumped into the Viruk ambassador who, at that moment, had just raised her wine cup to her lips. The collision poured the cup’s contents down over the Viruk’s bosom and robe, staining it as if with blood. Ierariach hissed a curse in her native tongue which needed no translation.

Majiata’s own arm had been jostled with the impact, sloshing wine from her cup over her own sleeve and gown. Outrage purpling her face, she heard the oath and turned. In a quick explosion of anger and utterly without thought, she slapped the Viruk for her insolence. Fury narrowed her eyes and she even began to demand an apology from the ambassador.

But before a single word had left her mouth, the Viruk warrior pulled the ambassador back behind him with one hand and raised the other. His claws hooked and the hand quivered, high in the air. Keles remembered that clearly: the talons silhouetted against the ceiling. Then the hand came down and around in a sweeping slash that was intended to rake Majiata’s entrails from her body. So large was he in comparison to Majiata, the blow might even have cut her cleanly in half.

The Desei count grabbed Majiata and spun her about. Wine sprayed like blood. He tried to impose himself between her and the claws, but even his most valiant effort could not succeed. Majiata, locked in her rage, resisted him, dooming herself.

Keles, seeing it all unfold as if he were a Soth Gloon and reading the future, reacted in an instant. He dove and hit the Viruk in the flank with both hands. The impact shocked him, snapping his wrists back. He’d have had an easier time toppling a stone obelisk, but his effort was not wholly in vain. He did manage to knock the Viruk off-balance enough that the swipe would have missed Majiata cleanly.

Unfortunately, his dive carried him within the circle of the Viruk’s blow. The heel of the Viruk’s hand caught Keles square over the left shoulder blade, bowing his back. The cartographer left his feet and flew into the crowd, scattering people before slamming down hard. He landed on his chest and bounced once, then flipped over and skidded. He felt the cold stone against his back, which meant the claws had ripped through overshirt, shirt, and flesh. He looked back along his trail and saw blood smeared on the floor.

Oh, this is not good. He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. He attempted to sit up, but couldn’t do that, either. Mercifully, before panic completely possessed him, he blacked out as the first silver agonies began to gnaw into his back.

 

Chapter Ten

2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron had been waiting with his entourage just outside the Grand Ballroom. He would have been content to have gone in immediately, but his Minister of Protocol had been very precise in explaining he should enter after Qiro Anturasi had been welcomed. In that way, Qiro would be seen as being more important than Prince Pyrust, would be acknowledged as host, and yet be seen as subordinate to the Crown.

While much of that struck Cyron as silliness, he abided by it. His father had seen his impatience with such shows of manners, but pointed out that it was such manners that were the ligaments and tendons of society. If I ignore them, others will do so as well, and so the whole of society will collapse. He was not certain he entirely believed his father’s words, but during the high Festivals, observing convention did provide a certain amount of ceremonial excitement.

Screams from within the ballroom suggested another kind of excitement. The two Keru guards at the door bolted into the room and the Prince’s head came around fast enough that he saw a limp body in gold on the downward part of an arc. The guards, snapping orders and brandishing their spears, cleared a path to the origin point of that arc. Cyron cut around to where the man had landed. The violence had stunned many of the crowd to immobility, so the Prince’s path was not obstructed, and he reached the bleeding man’s side quickly.

Keles Anturasi? The Prince couldn’t have imagined what Keles could have done to have been subjected to such an attack. Jorim, certainly, but Keles?

He dropped to his knees on the man’s left side, while a young woman knelt at Keles’ right. The Prince recognized her as Nirati and saw her gown had already grown red at the knees. She was desperately trying to roll her brother over, and the Prince helped her accomplish that task.

Four ragged slashes had been torn in Keles’ overshirt low on the left side of his back. They ended before his spine and welled with blood. No blood spurted, which the Prince knew was good. No artery had been severed, but the amount of blood soaking his clothes and smeared along the floor left no doubt the wounds were deep.

Cyron pulled his own overshirt over his head, tugging it free of the sash, and laid it over Keles’ back. He pressed his hands to the wounds and Nirati did likewise, despite the paleness of her face and the quiver in her lower lip. Her mother slid through the crowd and knelt at the Prince’s side.

“Thank you, Highness, but I will . . .”

“No, Mistress Anturasi, no.” Cyron lifted his head. “Where is my physician? Geselkir! Get over here, or you and your entire school will forever be barred from Crown service.”

A portly man wearing formal robes of purple that featured a lengthy train and impossibly long sleeves appeared at the head of the blood trail. “Highness?”

“You have work to do, now.”

The man lifted his hands; the overlong sleeves hung limply to his knees. “But my robe!”

“It will be your shroud if Keles Anturasi dies.”

One of the Keru poked the physician in the backside with the butt of a spear. The man waddled forward, his gown’s train sopping up a good deal of the blood. He struggled down to his knees and took over from the Prince, then began issuing orders, commandeering various guests into service.

The Prince got up and followed the Keru to where two others stood beside the Viruk ambassador and her consort. The Keru whispered to him the story of what had happened as they approached the Viruk. The warrior had his hands lifted, and blood stained the claws on his left hand. The Prince also noticed the clear print of a hand on the ambassador’s face and the wash of wine over the front of her gown. To their right he also saw a young woman hiding her face against the breast of a tall man wearing the colors of a Desei exile.

The ambassador bowed deeply and the warrior hung his head. “Prince Cyron, I profoundly regret the difficulty my consort has caused. How is the young Anturasi?”

“Bleeding.” Cyron turned from her and looked at the Desei noble. “What is your woman’s problem?”

“She was almost as the Anturasi is now.”

“Turn, girl. Look at me.”

The woman turned, never leaving the safety of the man’s arms, then bowed very low. “Forgive me, Highness.”

“Forgive you what, child?”

“Someone jostled my arm, Highness, and wine spilled on my gown. It is ruined. I reacted.”

The girl started to straighten up again, but the Prince growled. “Keep your head low. This is a celebration where you are a guest, not a hostess. You are far too young to be a doyenne of etiquette, and certainly not sufficiently schooled in it to be disciplining those who might have done something accidentally. You turned and you struck someone much your superior. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Highness.”

He glanced at the ambassador again. “It falls to me to set a punishment that will be meted out in the morning. I will accept your comments on it, Ierariach. I would sentence her to five lashes with a whip for her slap and the offense it did you.”

The Viruk thought for a moment, and a moment longer when a whimper from the girl stole the first opportunity to speak. “I would not have her back scarred when what she did to me shall not leave scars.”

“You are most gracious, Ierariach. Your compassion does you credit.” Cyron looked at the girl again. “Stand tall, girl.”

She came up from her bow, her face a ruin of eroded cosmetics. “Thank you, my lady.”

The Prince untied the loose sash around his waist and kicked it away. “She may be gracious, but I am not so inclined. Your slap will not leave scars, but Keles Anturasi will have four, if he lives. So, you will have four lashes in the morning, then four for every year of his life if he dies.”

The girl moaned and collapsed to her knees. “But that would be a hundred. I could die.”

The Prince squatted and took her chin in his left hand, raising her face. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “No, child, I will see to it that you do not die. You will live a cripple, your back a mass of wormtrack scars. Do not doubt for an instant that I will order it done. I will retain the greatest jaecaitsae to lash you, and if you live to be eighty-one, you will relive your punishment every moment of every day.”

He wiped melted cosmetics off on her robe, then stood and looked at her escort. “You will see her home now. Tell her parents that all entreaties for mercy have fallen on deaf ears. Any more that I hear will be an irritant.”

“As your Highness wishes.” The man scooped the girl in his arms. He carried her well past the Viruk warrior’s reach and out of the ballroom.

The Viruk ambassador raised a hand. “I, too, shall retire, as my attire is no longer suitable for a celebration. I would, however, demand of the Prince his accounting to my consort for the hurt done Keles Anturasi. Rekarafi will be punished.”

Cyron looked up into the warrior’s dark eyes. “You struck to protect the ambassador, did you not?”

The warrior nodded.

“Had you followed through with the blow, clawing your fingers forward, you would have torn his back open and severed his spine, wouldn’t you?”

Again the warrior nodded, his eyes narrowing a bit.

“You blunted what could have been a killing blow.”

The ambassador answered before the warrior could nod. “His actions still were negligent, Highness. Punishment should be exacted.”

“I say this to you, Ambassador.” Cyron let his light eyes half close. “I will punish the girl who offended you. To you shall fall the task of the appropriate punishment for Rekarafi.”

Ierariach bowed graciously. “Your Highness is as wise as he is equitable. If I may be of any aid to the Anturasi, ask and anything within my power is yours.”

“Noted. Thank you.” The Prince returned the bow. “It saddens me you will not be staying longer.”

“Yes, Highness, me as well.” Ierariach came up from her bow, then looked into the room’s upper corner. “And to you, Qiro Anturasi, joy of the Festival, health, longer life, and more prosperity. Forgive us this incident.”

The Viruk’s address first drew Cyron’s attention to Qiro Anturasi’s presence, though he should have sensed it just from the heat of the man’s anger. Qiro had chosen robes of the finest gold silk and had them embroidered with purple stars. On his breastbone he wore a solar medallion, and gold specks sparked in his hair and on his forehead and cheekbones. There, in the east, Qiro shone like the sun, his pale eyes ablaze.

Cyron bowed low in his direction, then straightened. “When this dynasty was but your age, Qiro Anturasi, it was a provincial domain with no true understanding of its own geography. Now, at twice your age, Nalenyr again ventures to realms that never existed before you placed them on maps. You are our most important citizen, and with you and your future goes our prosperity and happiness. We celebrate your birthday with all due respect and adoration.”

The anger in Qiro’s eyes abated slightly, but Cyron knew something was still wrong. He had no idea what it could be, but the feeling of difficulty only increased as Qiro began to speak. His voice remained even, though slightly tight, and filled the large room with ease.

“Prince Cyron, you are far too kind to suggest I might have had so strong and pivotal a role in Naleni history, for I am a simple scribbler on parchment. It is my family—my brother, nephews, grandnephews, and even great-grandnephews—who bring the charts to life. Some might see me as a gold mine, but they are the miners, and what would one be without the other?

“But I have not forgotten my own grandchildren. Nirati is my joy. She brings light into my life with songs and riddles and gentle admonishments when, as set in my ways as I am, I can be harsh.”

Qiro began to pace, and Cyron instantly recognized the strong stride and quick turns as those of a caged predator growing slowly more agitated. “At my age, it is customary to cede the family business to the next generation. My son is long gone, so it would fall to his sons to inherit the mantle I wear. Either of them is worthy, for while my brother and his progeny are the miners of gold, my grandsons are the prospectors that find new veins to be mined. Without them, the mine would soon be exhausted.”

He gestured casually toward the dance floor. “Jorim is more than a cartographer. He is an explorer and adventurer. He brings back more than maps. He brings animals and flowers, fruits, medicines, spices, and anything else he can stuff into a holdall. He also brings back foreign customs, which then become the fashion or serve to outrage the fashionable. I gather, for him, either outcome is acceptable.”

Mild laughter greeted that comment, which Qiro acknowledged with a nod. “I would have preferred to have Jorim here with me, training to replace me, but a grand expedition must be undertaken. Prince Cyron has graciously built and outfitted the Stormwolf for a long voyage of discovery. There is no one better suited to serve on that ship. To Jorim I grant passage. Not only will this ship return to Moriande with untold riches of cargo and tales, but the knowledge of the world it provides will solve many mysteries.”

Cyron lifted his head and straightened his back, hearing his vertebrae pop into place. His sense of unease began to spike. The first part of the speech had been delivered as if scripted, but Qiro had deviated quickly from it. The prince suspected that Qiro meant to reduce Jorim to servitude and captivity within Anturasikun, punishing him for the gods alone knew what offense. And if Jorim had not been intended to get the Stormwolf in the first place, it would have gone to Keles.

Qiro smiled slowly as he stopped his pacing. “I had thought Keles would perhaps enjoy remaining in Moriande to help me with my work, but now I see he is a young man, full of fancies and a sense of romance that leads to adventure. There is another trek I have long contemplated. I wished myself to go again, but was never granted permission to do so. Highness, you and I have discussed it many times, but had decided it was an expedition that could never take place.”

The old man clasped his hands at the small of his back and began lecturing the guests as he had often lectured Cyron. “As we all know, before the Cataclysm, the Empire traded with nations far to the west along the Spice Route. This route wended its way from the Empire through the provinces of Solaeth and Dolosan, through Ixyll and beyond. It was into Ixyll that Empress Cyrsa—for whom our own prince is named—led the Turasyndi hordes and destroyed them, unleashing the Cataclysm. This, common wisdom held, closed the Spice Route forever. But over the centuries the chaos of excess magics has receded. It is all but unknown in Solaeth and rare in Dolosan.

“Keles, my strong, brave grandson, will recover from his wounds. Of this I am certain. He is too strong-willed for mere scratches to do him in.” Qiro nodded confidently as people applauded—politely and sparingly—and the Prince could not determine if they applauded the journey, the idea of Keles’ survival, or for fear Qiro would see they were not applauding.

“Once Keles is well, he will survey the Spice Route with the same skill he surveyed the western reaches of the Gold River. He will go into what, for over seven hundred and twenty-nine years, has been a realm of the unknown. He will conquer it, or be consumed by it, and I have no doubt which it shall be.”

The old man clapped his hands, then took a cup of wine from the arm of his chair. Raising it, he took a moment to let his gaze sweep over the crowd. “Knowledge is our victory over the world, and is worth any price we could possibly pay.”

The Prince had no cup, and was glad for it. He locked eyes with Qiro and knew instantly that the old man intended that Keles should die. Cyron hoped it was reasons and conflicts that had long lain hidden within the Anturasi clan that bred such hatred, for the alternative betokened a madness in the old man that Cyron did not know how to battle.

If you are killing Keles because his wounding upstaged your entrance . . . The Prince shook his head. It couldn’t be that. Not even the gods could be that capricious.

Qiro inclined his head toward the Prince, then drank.

No, no god could be that capricious. But a man who thinks he is a god could be so with ease.