Chapter Twenty-five

12th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Blackshark, Caxyan

Any hopes Jorim had harbored of keeping the changed nature of his relationship with Nauana secret died very quickly. Shimik had always been happy to spend time with Nauana, but now he doted on her and defended her. He growled at anyone who got too close to her—save Jorim—and sailors bored with life onshore had no trouble figuring out the reason behind the Fennych’s behavior.

The Amentzutl accepted this change readily, and Tzihua, the gigantic warrior who had been raised to the maicana caste because of his skills in combat, confessed that they’d all expected it to happen. While the interaction of the gods with mortals was not common in their mythology—or history, as Jorim reminded himself—it wasn’t unknown. For the most part, everyone had just hoped Tetcomchoa would find his time with the Amentzutl pleasurable.

And Jorim did find it pleasurable. Nauana had been beautiful and exotic, and he’d felt attracted to her when he first saw her. His interaction with her had strengthened that attraction, but he had not thought she had any interest in him. The care with which he undertook his training amplified his feelings for her, and yet he did not read into her actions any emotion.

But reaching out to touch her essence and her willingness to open herself in return revealed all. It was as if he had known her all his life, and the reverse. Curiously, their likes and dislikes, their experiences—though all shaped through cultures that knew nothing of each other—meshed effortlessly. It felt as if they were each half of a coin that had been divided and now had come together again.

Jorim had been in love before—at least a dozen times and sometimes even longer than a month. He had allowed himself to believe that many of his relationships foundered because his familial obligations demanded he travel for long periods of time. But the simple fact was that the relationships had already foundered, and the trips were just a convenient excuse to let things die.

He didn’t bear any animosity for the women he’d known. Initial attraction led to discovery, and the dissatisfaction became mutual over time. Everyone is on best behavior when they first meet, then they learn what the other person is truly like. By four months, one knew whether or not a relationship could last.

In six seconds he’d learned that about Nauana, and he knew he could spend the rest of his life with her. He would have hesitated to make that statement, save that he’d opened himself to her, too. She was no longer under the illusion that he was a god-made-man—though she had allowed as how his divinity might be manifesting in the same way a fledgling’s molting reveals its true plumage.

He would have rejected that idea, but every Naleni youth had been raised on the tale of Wentiko, the Dragon god, who believed himself an ugly worm until he blossomed into a dragon. Intellectually, Jorim recognized the story as one that taught people to value the person within over the external appearances, but the physical manifestation of the internal also resonated. Everywhere one looked, people grew and changed. In some, the growth was for the better. And, in others, it was a surrender to the outside world because they did not believe enough in what was inside.

Am I a god within? In the past he would have laughed outright at such a notion, but now he’d been given cause to wonder. Growing up, he and his siblings would joke about how Qiro thought he was a god—and indeed many people treated him with more reverence than they showed the gods. If being skilled at something allowed one to reach the state of jaedunto, wasn’t it possible that one could manifest as something greater? He would have once rejected that idea because everyone knew there were only nine gods and could be no more, but the whole idea of another god forcing his way into heaven opened up a plethora of possibilities.

Discussions like these occupied the time he spent with Nauana outside training, while his magical education continued unabated—and even accelerated. He could not communicate with her telepathically even as well as he could with his blood kin, but he understood her better. That, coupled with his understanding of essence and how to use it, allowed him to progress quickly. While he still was not as proficient as Nauana, there were indications he had the capacity to handle far more power than she did.

Still, plans had been for him to continue his studies, but then a runner came in from Micyan, a coastal village two days distant. He collapsed from exhaustion, having run all the way with no food, no sleep, and insufficient water. He reported that the Mozoyan had attacked his village.

The prospect of the Mozoyan’s return goaded the Amentzutl into action. The city of Nemehyan sat atop a mountain, which was reached by a long, switchback causeway that came up from the plains. Those plains had seen a savage battle against the Mozoyan just over a month before—or “earlier in the week,” if one was using the centenco calendar. In fact, a tall, pyramidal mountain of Mozoyan skulls marked the Amentzutl victory over their enemy. In that attack the Mozoyan had come in from the northeast, and the prospect of their arrival from the coast meant defenses would have to be shifted.

Captain Anaeda Gryst sent the Blackshark north along the coast to look for any signs of the advancing Mozoyan horde. Because the Amentzutl had no maritime tradition to speak of, Micyan had not been built on a harbor. But the ship would be able to land troops at the closest natural harbor for a scouting run and, toward that end, a company each of Sea Dragons and Amentzutl warriors boarded her.

Jorim opted to travel north on the Blackshark and Shimik came with him. Nauana stayed behind to work on the defenses with the other maicana, and Tzihua came aboard to lead the Amentzutl contingent. Anaeda Gryst remained at Nemehyan and organized the remaining Naleni troops to help defend the city.

Being back on a ship and on the ocean delighted Jorim as Nauana had clearly known it would, which was why she’d not asked him to stay behind. Jorim stood near the prow, laughing as spray wet his face. The wind cooled him, and though he could have worked an invocation that would have warmed him again, he did not. He simply relished the scent of the sea, the vision of the sky, the taste of brine, and the sounds of the ship and the people working it.

This is the essence of life itself. Traveling, exploring, going into danger, all of these were things that he loved. They made him feel alive. If I have to spend the rest of my life imprisoned in Anturasikun, I will die.

He glanced down at Shimik, who stood beside him, legs spread, paws on hips. Shimik looked up at him and grinned with a mouthful of peg teeth.

“I know, Shimik, this is wonderful.”

The journey up the coast took most of the afternoon, but with a steady wind they made good time and put into the harbor with no difficulty. But though they had traveled close to the shore on the way up, and the sharpest-eyed watchmen had been on duty, they’d seen no sign of the Mozoyan.

The ship’s commander, Lieutenant Myrasi Wueltan, lowered the ship’s boats and landed the troops quickly. Two trips for each boat got all the troops ashore, and despite the disparate array of weapons and armor between the two contingents, they all moved quickly to secure the white sandy beach.

Shimik clung to Jorim’s back as the cartographer joined Tzihua near the head of the column moving inland. The scouts had seen nothing so far, but they had only penetrated the thick rain forest a hundred yards or so. The undergrowth made it hard to see and even harder to travel. Soldiers using steel swords or obsidian-edged war clubs hacked a path through the jungle.

Despite the noise of their passage, the animals did not seem the least bit concerned. A troop of tiger-striped monkeys happily derided their efforts and even pelted some of them with the green rinds from ichoitz fruit. Shimik mimicked their calls accurately enough that one bull dropped through the canopy to a branch twenty feet up, started shaking it and hooting loudly.

The Fenn leaped from Jorim’s back, scrambled along another branch and headed straight for the bull. They hollered at each other, shaking branches and posturing. Jorim feared there would be a fight, but then Shimik flashed his claws at the monkey and the monkey fled in terror.

Shimik dropped to the ground and accepted the exaggerated bows offered by all of the warriors.

The column carved a track for another hundred yards before the scouts reported back again. They’d reached the road the boy had used to make his run south. They saw no sign of his passing, nor any of the Mozoyan. As nearly as they could tell, nothing was out of the ordinary.

Jorim frowned. “Twelve hours ago, the Mozoyan raided Micyan, and have not headed south. I can’t imagine they expected we would be warned.”

Tzihua shook his head. “You have seen them in combat. They do not think.”

“Then why the raid?”

“The most simple reason of all. They were hungry.”

“You think these were stragglers? Would there have been enough to overwhelm a village?”

The Amentzutl giant shrugged. “We tracked the survivors as far north as possible. Most died; a few disappeared. They were not made for life on land. Those that lived returned to the sea.”

Jorim nodded. While they’d located the place where the Mozoyan had gathered for their attack on Nemehyan, they’d found no ships, boats, or any other indication of how the Mozoyan had reached land. They concluded the enemy had swum to shore, and the idea of a sea filled with man-sized demon-frogs with mouths full of shark’s teeth was enough to fuel Jorim’s nightmares.

“Sending troops along the road to Micyan is the best plan.” Jorim thought for a moment. “We probably should have the Blackshark head up the coast and see if there is any sign of the Mozoyan. I don’t think they could have cut a path as we did, but they might have come ashore anywhere, and it would be useful to know where.”

“I agree.”

“Good. I’ll run back and let Lieutenant Wueltan know what we want, then I’ll come and join you for the march.”

Tzihua smiled. “It will be good to have Tetcomchoa leading us.”

“I’ll tell him you said that if I see him.” Jorim cut back through the troops and Shimik raced above him through the trees. The Naleni troops were bringing up the column’s rear, so Jorim briefed their leader on the plan. He refused the offer of bodyguards for his trip to the shore and sent them on their way.

As he reached the beach, he realized something was wrong. Neither birds nor monkeys had harassed him. He’d just assumed Shimik had scared them off, and kept assuming that until he reached the beach and Shimik cowered behind him, peeking out between his legs.

More than the Blackshark inhabited the cove. At first he couldn’t tell what it was, because it was as long as the ship, and somehow that didn’t seem possible. The front part of it stood open—again something not possible for a ship—and all sorts of creatures were crawling out of the opening. They’d already swarmed over the Blackshark—and sailors who dove overboard and began swimming to shore, were dragged under by unseen assailants.

Though he was not terribly close to the ship, Jorim knew these Mozoyan were different. The first he’d seen had been fishlike. Those which attacked Nemehyan were truly demon-frogs, but still slender. These Mozoyan had a thicker silhouette, more apelike than simple toad. The way they swung from the ship’s ratlines and dropped from crosspieces emphasized this impression.

Beyond that, two things became immediately apparent. The first was that the ship was likely lost. Second, the Mozoyan were coming ashore and that as valiant as the warriors were, sheer numbers alone would overwhelm them. They had no chance to prepare defenses, as hulking Mozoyan had already begun to bob and swim toward shore. The slaughter would be complete and the Mozoyan would feast on men as men had feasted on the Mozoyan dead on the plains before Nemehyan.

Then another of the things containing the Mozoyan surfaced. It opened its mouth and more Mozoyan began to emerge.

Shimik’s terrified mewing brought Jorim out of his fugue. “Shimik, find Tzihua. Tell him to run fast fast. Go fast now, Shimik. Go. I have to do something.”

“Jrima stay?”

“Yes, I’m staying, but you have to go, quickly. Now. Very important. Go.”

The Fenn darted off down the jungle path. He stopped, looked back at Jorim, waved, then leaped into the trees and disappeared.

Jorim turned back to the harbor and narrowed his eyes. “It’s all about balance and essence.” He tore off his overshirt and robe, baring his chest. Facing the harbor and the dying sun, he stepped forward until he was knee deep in water. He ignored the Mozoyan and closed his eyes.

He focused on the warmth of the sun as it touched his flesh and hair. He felt the water lapping around his legs—very warm this close to shore, but leaving a chill as it drained away from him with each gentle swell. He let himself feel their essence. The water, fluid; the sun, hot. He sought the warmth in the water, the fluidity in the way the sunlight undulated over the water.

Then he reached out and touched the mai.

It was all about balance, and now he sought to shift the balance radically. He had no idea if he could do it or if the effort would kill him. Still, it was the only chance to save his friends. So he reached within himself as well, binding his essence to the mai, then channeling the mai into the water.

The balance he sought to shift was simple, but the scale on which he wanted to do it was incredibly vast. I want to make the sea boil. Transforming the cove from fluid to vapor was possible, though he’d heard no tales of such a titanic task being accomplished before.

Chances are, anyone foolish enough to attempt it died before the first wisp of steam rose.

He opened his eyes and all he saw were Mozoyan drawing nearer. One of them was a stone’s throw away. It opened its mouth, revealing the shark’s teeth he’d seen before. Its black eyes locked on his and Jorim found himself looking at his doom.

Then it hit him. Right idea, wrong application.

He ignored the water and concentrated on the sun. He visualized Wentiko in the solar disk. The Dragon had always stood for courage, and Jorim welcomed that as well as the heat and light. He touched the god’s essence and a pulse came through the mai that shook him. Every muscle in his body contracted, bowing his back.

He expected to fall helpless on the beach, but instead he began to rise. His feet emerged dripping from the sea. The Mozoyan that had been closest to him looked up, the hungry expression on its face evaporating into surprise.

Jorim wanted to turn water from fluid to vapor. Converting a sea would be impossible, for the water in the cove was linked to the ocean, which was linked to all oceans. To convert all that into vapor might be beyond even the power of a god.

But making a small amount of water do that was not. He’d done it before, countless times. It had become an effortless task.

So he began the conversion with the water in the nearest Mozoyan’s eyes.

They exploded, and the creature burbled in pain. It sank beneath the surface, but Jorim still tracked it by essence. He boiled its brain in its skull. Bone cracked and skin parted, releasing a bubble of hot gas to mark the thing’s passing.

He turned his attention to another, and another. Mozoyan died writhing. They thrashed in the water, and only as they grew small did he realize he was flying higher, out over the cove. He no longer had to focus himself on any individual. It was enough that they looked up at him and that they felt the touch of the radiance he was projecting. As his rays caressed them, flesh melted and bones blackened.

Soaring slowly, with no more direction or intent than a kite on a light breeze, Jorim approached the Blackshark. He glanced down at himself and wondered how he was not blinded. His skin glowed with noontime intensity. The water reflected his golden corona and tiny wisps of steam curled up from around dead Mozoyan.

Jorim looked at the Blackshark. He could not see into it, but as his gaze swept over it, he found Mozoyan cowering on deck and hiding in the ship’s depths. One by one he touched them and they died.

The enormous fish that had released the Mozoyan closed their mouths. They slowly began to sink, but the harbor’s shallow bottom hindered them. But it scarcely would have mattered, for his rays pierced the water easily, and the lumbering creatures could never have dived fast enough to elude him.

With the wave of a hand he burned them from end to end. Their thick tails twitched, stirring up mud, then they sank into the muck. He waited and watched for any Mozoyan to escape, and boiled those that did inside their own flesh.

Pulling his radiance back in, Jorim floated down to the Blackshark’s deck. His bare feet touched the wood. It sizzled and smoked. He stepped back and looked down, gaping at the footprints burned into the deck.

They were the footprints of a dragon.

 

Chapter Twenty-six

14th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Disat Forest, West of Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron smiled. Though early in the year, the day had dawned bright and warm. He’d had ample sleep the night before and rose early to prepare for the day’s outing. He’d initially resisted the idea of joining Prince Eiran and Count Turcol, but going along was the expedient course. Turcol had the potential for being a very nasty thorn in his side, so whatever he could do to take care of the problem immediately was best.

Besides, the Disat Forest had always been a favorite haunt of his. In it, on a small hill, his grandfather had accepted the surrender and abdication of the previous dynasty’s last prince. This began the Komyr Dynasty and, contrary to rumors, he did not have the man slain on the spot. His rise to power had been tempered by mercy. To remind himself of his grandfather’s wisdom, Cyron liked to travel to the hill and meditate, especially on the anniversary of his rise.

His father had made the forests a royal reserve. Poachers knew they could suffer severe punishments if they were caught taking game, but some risked it because they believed that if they could elude the warders and make it to Memorial Hill, the Prince would grant them mercy. Cyron always did, once. If a man were caught more than once, he gave him exactly what his grandfather had given his predecessor.

The forest itself had a beauty and serenity that even a trailing troop of attendants could not spoil. Pines predominated in their eternal coats of green. Where other trees—oaks, elms, maples, and birches—peeked through, their bare branches already showed green buds. Spring would be coming early, and with it the birds would be winging their way north again.

Cyron longed for spring and hoped the Virine invasion would not stop the birds. He banished the thought that it might and lightened his expression for the benefit of his host. He tugged back on his reins, slowing his horse enough that Count Turcol and Prince Eiran could catch up with him.

Count Turcol had been inordinately gracious throughout the day. In celebration of his troops’ posting to the Helosunde border, he’d accepted a Helosundian title and informed his troops they were now the Helosundian Dragons. He proclaimed Prince Eiran to be his cocommander, gratefully distributed Helosundian pennants, and left his troops repainting their breastplates with dogs and dragons intertwined.

Turcol had even been quite pleasant to Prince Cyron—though it clearly took an effort. As they rode through the forest to Memorial Hill, the westron count repeatedly complimented the Prince and begged forgiveness for any past misunderstandings.

“I assure you, Count Turcol, I took no umbrage at anything you have said in my presence.” Cyron nodded toward him and Eiran beyond. “You are both strong men, and the future will demand strong men. I would hope, someday, that I will have an heir who can learn from the two of you. The courage you show in speaking frankly to me is to be lauded. As well you know, many courtiers only tell me what they believe I wish to hear, and a prince cannot rule if this is the case.”

Turcol smiled. “Your Highness is too kind. I know that you cannot rest easily with so many things on your mind. I had hoped this day of riding, hawking, and simple relaxation would provide you comfort—though I am certain you have many comforts.”

Cyron followed Turcol’s glance and smiled. The Lady of Jet and Jade had ridden out with them. Her horse had gotten forward of theirs, and the dark green of her robe nearly hid her against the pines. As if she had heard the remark, she looked back and smiled—but her smile was for Cyron alone.

He resisted the urge to turn quickly and catch Turcol’s reaction. He’d seen it a couple of times already. It clearly galled Turcol that this woman, the famed concubine, would not allow him to buy from her what other women so willingly gave him freely.

Cyron turned his head slowly, giving the westron ample time to control his expression. “Have you ever considered, my lord, what you would do were you in my place, on the throne?”

“Me, on the throne? Please, Highness, I do not think of such things.”

Cyron smiled. “Be honest with me, Count Turcol. Your family occupied the Dragon Throne well before mine did, and you come from Imperial nobility. You must have entertained the idea. I certainly hope you have, for, if not, you are not the man I imagined—and certainly not suited to what I have in mind for you.”

Turcol lifted a branch and ducked his head beneath it. “Perhaps I have thought of it, Highness. Never with avarice, but just as an intellectual exercise.”

“Good, this pleases me.” Cyron reined his horse in closer to Turcol, then looked back to see if the four Jomiri attendants were trailing at a respectful distance. He lowered his voice. “As you know, my lord, I have no heir. Until I can procure one, I have to plan for the future of our nation. May I speak frankly with you?”

Turcol answered quietly. “Of course, Highness.”

“I have looked at those who might be able to replace me, were Pyrust to send assassins after me. I believe you are the man with the most potential. But I would ask you a question first.”

“Please.”

“Were you in my place, and you learned of an invasion of a southern neighbor—say Erumvirine—which threatened to destroy that nation, what would you do?”

Turcol sat up straight and his horse slowed, allowing Prince Eiran to ride forward. “I’d find out how much of a threat it was. I would want to know who the invaders were. Is it a fight for the Virine throne, or is it something larger that threatens Nalenyr?”

“That is a good place to start, Count Turcol.” Cyron frowned. “Suppose all you know is that the defenders have been forced back, and that very few refugees have fled—not because they are content with the invaders, but because they’ve all been slain. Moreover, assume the Virine Prince is too slow in answering the challenge, and that even the professional spies are not reporting back. What would you do?”

“In that case, the indications are obvious. I’d shift my best troops south to guard against an invasion, and I would shore up my northern defenses by calling . . .” Turcol’s head came up as his eyes grew wide. “Is this why you demanded troops from the west, Highness? Is there a threat from Erumvirine?”

“It would be dreadful if that rumor were spread about. It might cause a panic, don’t you think? Better to start a rumor that troops have become weak and need to be rotated away for training and discipline. And best to start calling up troops who will be needed if the invasion is more than the Keru can handle.”

Turcol reached out and caught his arm with a hand. “Is that possible?”

“That is the problem with being a prince, my lord. A prince hasn’t the luxury of asking if something is possible. He must just plan for what he will do when it happens.” Cyron smiled and pointed ahead. “There it is, Memorial Hill. Let’s not have any more dour talk, shall we?”

Turcol looked up, then nodded. “No, Highness. You honor me with your thoughts and your confidence. I wish to assure that if I were to replace you, I should keep our nation safe.”

“It pleases me to hear that.” Cyron nodded. “Now I can die reassured.”

They rode on. Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade reached the hill first. They dismounted and hitched their horses to some bushes. Cyron joined them, and the three walked up to the hilltop together. Cyron strode to the center where a trio of stones had been placed. Two smaller ones held up a large grey granite slab, forming a rough lean-to.

Resting a hand on one of the support stones, he turned to the other two. “I had these stones raised thus. The slab is my grandfather, the two supports are my father and brother. Perhaps when I am gone my successor will dig up another stone from the hill and place it here for me. The hill once was an old Imperial fort, Tsatol Disat. It had wonderful command of the countryside.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled as she slowly spun in a circle, taking in the view. Though not the highest point in the forest, it provided an unobstructed view to the north and east. In the distance Moriande was visible. Forest claimed the hill’s western side and the dark trees contrasted beautifully with the stones.

“I understand why you come here, Highness. It is very beautiful and peaceful.”

The Helosundian Prince nodded. “I shall find such a spot in Helosunde. It gives you perspective.”

“Perspective, yes, but do not underestimate the value of peace.” Cyron looked back down the hill to where Turcol, still mounted, was speaking with the attendants. He waved to him, and shouted, “Come join us, Count Turcol.”

The count waved back, but fell into conversation again.

The Lady of Jet and Jade came to Cyron’s side. “I think it is my fault, Highness. I do not think he likes me.”

Cyron laughed. “I think he doesn’t like the fact that you don’t like him. You’ve seen how he watches you.”

“Does he? I care not for how anyone watches me.”

The sincerity of her remark surprised Cyron. “You’re quite serious about that.”

“Completely, Highness.” She laughed lightly and faced both men. “I am a concubine, and a Mystic. As with other Mystics, I have seen more years than you would suppose. One of the things I have learned over the years is that it matters not at all how people look at me. It is how I look at them, and how I reach them, that matters. The external will fade unless one is blessed, but how you present yourself, and how you engage others, is what attracts them to you or not.”

She waved a hand toward Prince Cyron. “My saying what follows will not matter to you at all, but the good count would find it cause to react. You see, I could tell you that on this very spot, I made love with your grandfather after he was made Prince. With you, no reaction, no desire to do what your grandfather had done, no sense of competition with the past. You, Prince Cyron, require other things to excite you. If the count heard me say that . . .”

“Say what, my lady?” Turcol reined his horse back and looked down at her. “Do continue.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade’s eyes sharpened. “If I told you that I made love with Prince Jarus Turcol on this spot, and was willing to have him because he was a prince, you would be driven to take the throne and have me here and many other places. You are not satisfied with your life, so you seek victories that are foolish and petty.”

The westron raised an eyebrow. “Am I that transparent, my lady?”

“Prince Jarus Turcol was. It’s in your blood.”

Turcol’s expression hardened. “And would I have to be a prince to enjoy your company?”

“It would be a step.”

Cyron laughed and stepped forward. “My lord, you don’t see her joking often, do you?”

“She was serious, Highness. And she was right.” Turcol planted two fingers in his mouth and whistled aloud. A dozen men and women emerged from the forest depths. Half of them carried bows with arrows fitted to them already. The others had clubs, save for two with swords. They spread out in a semicircle, with two of the archers mounting the stone slab.

Cyron stared hard at Turcol. “You will explain this, please.”

“Only because you have been so gracious in explaining your confidence in me, Highness.” Turcol rested his hands on his saddle-horn and leaned forward. “You’ve ruined our nation and left it open to threats from both north and south. You have beggared and humiliated the western counties. We now face a military crisis, and you are ill suited to deal with it. Were you any sort of warrior at all, you’d be out here with more than just a dagger.”

The Prince nodded. “And so you hired these bandits. You will explain how you fought them valiantly and while you were able to drive them off, it was not before we were slain, all three of us.”

“Not three; two.” He looked down at the Lady of Jet and Jade. “I will have you here and wherever else I desire. Unless, of course, you want to die.”

She shook her head and stepped away from Cyron. “Not for a long time. Forgive me, Highness.”

Cyron shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, my lady.” He looked up at Turcol. “You know it will have to be a convincing act. You can’t come away from it unscathed. Perhaps there, in your right shoulder, an arrow. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to convince many of your effort. My doctor, Geselkir, will take care of it.”

Turcol snorted. “Perhaps you’re right, Highness, but that’s a detail I can work out later.”

“Another thing a prince cannot do, Turcol, procrastinate.” Cyron pointed up at the westron. “His right shoulder. Shoot him now.”

The archer above the Prince drew and loosed in one easy motion. The black barbed arrow pierced Turcol’s shoulder and darkness began to seep into his midnight-blue robe. He looked from his shoulder to the archer and back again.

Turcol bit back any cry of pain, clenched his teeth, then looked up at the archers. “You idiots! I give the orders. Shoot him!”

Bows twanged in unison. Down the hill, the quartet of attendants fell, each stuck through the chest with an arrow.

Turcol blinked and slumped in his saddle. “This is not happening. This is not how it was planned.”

“Not how you planned it, Turcol.” Cyron shook his head. “Had you not made your approaches to Grand Minister Vniel quite so obvious, my Lord of Shadows would not have discovered what you were up to. Hiring assassins in Moriande was a second mistake. That is my realm, and loyalties to me run high.”

“Loyalties to you?” Turcol shook his head with disbelief. “They are assassins.”

“So they are. And I pay well each year to make certain they do not act against me. Surely you did not believe you were the first noble to think of killing me?”

The count started to answer, then closed his mouth. Moving slowly, he dismounted, then sank to his knees. “In the spirit of the day, the spirit of this place and tradition, I ask for mercy.”

Prince Eiran laughed aloud. “Are you insane? You’ve committed treason and you want mercy?”

Cyron held up a hand. “Just a moment, Prince Eiran. I am not deaf to your appeal, Count Turcol. In the spirit of this place, you wish what my grandfather gave his predecessor? Is this it? Nothing less will satisfy you?”

“That’s what I want, my lord.”

“I can grant you that.” Cyron folded his arms over his chest. “The legend is true. My grandfather spared his predecessor’s life; but his predecessor was much like you. Bold, brash, ambitious. He was a man who did not know when he was beaten. He planned, even as you do now, of returning to power and returning his dynasty to the throne.

“And he was like you in one other regard. He had no children.”

Turcol nodded, puzzled.

“My grandfather didn’t kill him, he gelded him. Then he sent him to live in a monastery on the coast of the Dark Sea. So, I’ll give you what you say you desire.”

Turcol’s shoulders sagged with resignation, then he launched himself at the Prince. He reached his feet in a heartbeat and drew his dagger in the next. As he raised it, two arrows narrowly missed him. Fury burning in his grey eyes, he rushed forward.

And might have reached Cyron, save for the Lady of Jet and Jade, who stuck a foot out and tripped him. Turcol went down heavily, the arrow’s shaft breaking. Eiran delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head, and he remained down.

Cyron bowed deeply to the concubine, then to the Helosundian Prince. “You are both yet more dear to me for saving my life.”

They returned the bows, but said nothing.

Cyron turned to the nearest swordsman and gave him the slightest shake of his head. In commanding his master assassin to supplant those Turcol had hired, he also asked that Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade be left free to act. He’d informed neither of them of what would happen, and in the unlikely event either proved a coconspirator, they would have died as Turcol had.

The Prince pulled back the left sleeve of his robe. “We will tell everyone what Turcol intended to say. Bandits found us out here and sought to rob us, not realizing who we were. Turcol and his men fought them valiantly, driving them off, but not before the count and his men died of their wounds.

“Eiran, because the count so graciously made you his cocommander, you will lead the Helosundian Dragons north and watch over them. Tell them we think the bandits were truly Desei assassins who intended to kill Turcol, so much does Pyrust fear him and his men on the border. That will put steel in their spines.”

Eiran bowed his head. “As you will it, Highness.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade regarded him openly. “Orders for me, Highness?”

“Yes. Please avert your eyes.” Cyron waited until she had turned away, then nodded to his Lord of Shadows and lifted his bared arm. The assassin drew a dagger and held it high.

Cyron sighed and nodded. “It has to be believable, our story, and so it shall be.”

The blade fell.

 

Chapter Twenty-seven

14th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Quunkun, Kelewan (The Illustrated City)

Erumvirine

Though our number was pared severely in that first encounter with what we came to call the kwajiin—their blue skin having made that name inescapable—we reached Kelewan without much further incident. Probes did still arrive, and we fought them back, but the invasion moved at a steadier pace. And as we traveled west, more refugees joined us and the breadth of the invasion became clear.

Ranai had seen it begin at Derros—or, rather, had seen one of the beginnings. Towns and villages along the Green River had been hit, as well as locations as far north as the Central Mountains. All the reports talked of total slaughter, which was what Dunos had seen. The general lack of refugees on the roads confirmed that few had escaped the invaders.

Many of those fleeing suggested the invasion was divine retribution for the secret things Prince Jekusmirwyn was doing in his palace. But Moraven had traveled extensively through Erumvirine, and the most annoying thing Jekusmirwyn had done was continue the Virine tradition of long names for rulers. Because Erumvirine had been the Imperial capital province, the local rulers picked names of specific import when they ascended to the throne. Jekusmirwyn actually translated as “the last Prince,” which was taken as an omen of immortality, or his role as the Prince who would reestablish the Empire.

The invaders, it appeared, had a different take on it.

The idea of divine retribution was the product of feeble minds rendered even less stable by fatigue and fear. Were the gods desirous of punishing him, they’d show up in Quunkun, deal with him alone, and depart. That was the orderly way of doing things, and the Lords of Heaven were ever about doing things in an orderly way.

As we drew closer to the capital, the roads clogged, and small encampments of refugees set themselves up in open spaces. Some of them had lost the will to live and so lay down to die. Others had taken heart in seeing columns of soldiers heading east to deal with the threat. We’d seen them, too, which is why we were heading west. While few of the refugees chose to follow me, a number of xidantzu did. By the time we reached Kelewan, I had a cadre of a dozen warriors, half of whom were Mystics or well on their way to becoming such.

I remembered Kelewan, both as Moraven Tolo and from further past, though those memories still lay shrouded. It had once been known as the “Illustrated City” because of the local customs determining what colors would be used on various buildings and how they would be otherwise decorated. Quunkun, the Bear’s Tower, lay at the city’s hub. White marble faced it, and colorful pennants hung from towers. Around it, split into twelve divisions that subdivided into yet smaller cantons and wards, each part of the city adopted different colors to identify it. Gold marked the trading divisions, with buildings having secondary and accent colors that identified very specifically what they did. River traders, for example, would paint with gold and green—the latter for the river.

Even the slums were brightly painted. White, of course, was to match the Palace, but in reality the slum dwellers could only afford whitewash. In other places, as divisions were divided and subdivided, buildings could end up with a mélange of colors that made the eyes bleed on a sunny day.

I could only hope the kwajiin were not color-blind.

Most refugees sought entry through Whitegate, but I refused to go into the capital as a beggar. We recovered Urardsa and Dunos from their fellows and headed for Bloodgate. As would be expected, soldiers warded the entrance to their section of town. A variety of mercenaries and xidantzu loitered outside that gate, but I decided they were beneath my notice. The sort of people I needed would not have been intimidated by some princeling’s foot soldier.

Those I dismissed likewise dismissed me, confirming my conclusions about their worthlessness.

Before we made to enter the city, I’d commanded all of my companions to wash up and put on their best robes. Despite days on the road and hard fighting, they cleaned up well and looked presentable. From the glances they exchanged, their appearance was a surprise, and I might have even seen growing signs of attraction between a few of them.

That suited me fine. It was good they should enjoy what little life they likely had left.

I, on the other hand, did not clean up. My robe, which had once been white, now had a grey cast to it, save where blood stained it deeply. I’d done nothing to induce the pattern, but I did enjoy the striping effect. Given my crest was that of a tiger hunting, it seemed appropriate.

And, like a tiger, I kept my whiskers, which had grown in very dark. Being charitable, I looked as if I’d been dragged all the way from Derros behind a dung cart. The only thing anomalous about me was my wearing two swords. Of course, that could have been taken as braggadocio, and I did not mind that either.

Being underestimated in some situations is an asset.

A guardsman bearing a spear moved to block my way. “You’ll wait here like the others.” He moved with a swagger and sneered as he spoke. Some of the loiterers laughed, but the smarter among them just watched.

Deshiel intervened. “This is our master, Moraven Tolo.”

The guardsman stared blankly at him. “It would not matter if he was Prince Cyron arrived with all the Naleni troops he could field. Until the Prince issues a call for xidantzu and others of their ilk, you wait here. Or, you go to Whitegate, surrender your weapons, and get fed.”

Deshiel’s hand dropped to his sword’s hilt, but I restrained him with my left hand.

The guardsman laughed.

My backhanded slap snapped his head around, then dumped him on his ample buttocks. The other guards at the gate came instantly alert. They lowered their spears and prepared to advance and drive us off. Luric Dosh stepped forward and began to whirl his spear slowly, which gave the guardsmen pause.

With the same hand I’d used to slap him, I pointed the fallen man to the stone circle just outside Bloodgate. Circles such as this could be found throughout the Nine, most commonly outside the larger cities or towns. This one was large, as befitted a capital, easily thirty feet in diameter. Many duels had been fought in it, and the signs of the aftermath were easily seen.

Mystics had left their mark, for when Mystics dueled, the circle contained the wild magic that their actions released. Outside that circle, the world was just beginning to awaken in spring. Inside the flowers were already in bloom. I especially liked the goldenrod for how it glittered, and I imagined the metal blossoms might ring prettily were I to slice through them. The Iron-bells, on the other hand, might dull a blade.

The guardsman scuttled back from me. “I don’t care who you are, you don’t come in.”

Again I pointed to the circle.

“I know my duty.”

Deshiel bowed toward him. “Indeed you do. Are you willing to die in its performance?”

I gave him no chance to reply. I strode forward as if I were the Prince. The recumbent guard said nothing more and his fellows parted before me. My people followed and a couple of the loiterers made to follow us.

I pointed to one and Ranai drew her sword. He continued to follow. She did the guardsman’s duty for him, and we walked deeper into the city with no one else in our wake.

I could feel Moraven’s distaste for the city, but I liked it. The tall buildings reduced the sky to slender ribbons of blue. The crowds had not yet filtered into the red division and likely would stay out, as it would be the first point of attack. The warriors who lived here kept it clean, and even the yapping dogs slinking through the streets looked as if they’d recently been washed.

What I found most fascinating in the Illustrated City were the small murals painted on the homes. Most had no wording, and were often painted in a stripe no more than a foot high. One warrior’s house, for example, showed him in Virine livery, cutting down a Viruk. By this alone he would be known. Little symbols showed his current rank and affiliation and, at this house, his mural was the fourth in a sequence, showing military service going back generations. While each was bright with new paint, the styling of the figures remained appropriate to their era, so each building became a living history of those who resided there.

By contrast, Quunkun remained naked stone. Its smooth walls had no decoration, but it needed none. Everyone was expected to know the history and deeds of the Telanyn Dynasty—and the emperors who had reigned there before them. The Telanyn had assumed control of Erumvirine when Prince Nelesquin died in Ixyll. Though they had been overthrown twice since the Cataclysm, they found their way back to the throne after a generation or two. Once by acclaim, once by marriage and murder—both equally effective.

The palace’s tall towers thrust like spears into the sky, but drew no blood. They remained as ineffective as Virine spears often were, and that boded ill for Kelewan. We strode across the wide circle of white marble and mounted the steps, only to be stopped by smartly dressed warriors whose spear blades flashed silver in the sunlight.

A captain held up a hand to stop me. “You go no further without authority.”

I reached into my robe and tossed a piece of filthy fabric at him. He recoiled and let it fall to the steps. There it unfurled itself in all its tattered, bloodstained glory. Though it had been pierced and clawed, no one could mistake the insignia of the Iron Bears.

The captain knelt, touched the cloth, then picked it up. “Come with me.”

I followed him through the doors and waited for my people to join me. I moved slowly enough for them to take in the palace’s heart, which had struck men dumb with awe since before the Empire fell. We entered beneath a massive dome a hundred feet high. Before us and to both sides, stairways started up, then split three ways, crisscrossing in a dizzying webwork of catwalks. A dozen thick pillars supported the dome, and into each one had been carved the image of a god, emperor, or prince. Only one lacked decoration, having only an empty alcove. A statue of Nelesquin had been there, but had been pulled down and smashed in the Cataclysm’s wake.

The captain started up the western staircase and I followed him around to the north. When he continued on further, I cut up the northern stairs and ignored his calls to return. The others followed, becoming more alert than before, but they let him pass when I waved him forward.

He reached my side by the time I was halfway down the corridor to the Prince’s audience chamber. “You can’t go in there. We need to talk to the generals about the Iron Bears.”

I gave him a hard stare that drained the blood from his face. He kept pace with me nonetheless, and a certain resolution entered his step. The guards at the audience chamber door came to alert, but he waved them aside. When they hesitated, he snapped, “Leave here. Now.”

They withdrew reluctantly.

I made to step forward, but he restrained me with a hand. In an instant, he had Ranai’s sword at his throat and Dunos’ dagger poised somewhat lower. His eyes hardened as he looked at me. “If you are going to kill the Prince, kill me first, now.”

I shook my head.

He relaxed.

I reached up and guided Ranai’s blade away from his throat. “What is your name, Captain?”

“Ianin Lumel, first company, Jade Bears.”

I took the Iron Bears’ standard from him. “Remember that alive and smart is preferable to dead and stupid.”

“Thank you, Master.”

I nodded toward the doors and he opened them with Deshiel.

I strode through them and mounted the red carpet edged with purple. I knew well how jealously princes regarded their traditions, but I needed to make an impression. For someone who was not a noble to step on the carpet without invitation could be a death sentence.

The Prince, who had been lounging somewhat indolently across the arms of the Bear Throne, instantly swung his legs down. I think he would have stood, save that the heavy robes of state wrapped around his legs and would have spilled him to the floor. His ministers, who knelt to either side of the carpet, shot me venomous glances, but not a one rose in challenge. They were as the ministers ever had been: willing to serve whoever sat in the throne until it served them to unseat him.

I stopped ten feet from the throne and bowed deeply. I held it a respectful amount of time, certainly appropriate for his and his dynasty’s years. I came back up but did not wait for him to bow, even if he were inclined to do so. I tossed the standard at him and he caught it awkwardly against his chest. He held it out and began to tremble.

I looked at him through the largest hole. “Your Iron Bears are dead, to a man. Your city will be forfeit. If you want to save your nation, you will abandon Kelewan now and head north to the mountains in the county of Faeut. Send your people to Nalenyr.”

He lowered the standard. “No, this isn’t possible.”

“It is very possible. I watched the Iron Bears die myself. Do you want to know how it happened? The enemy arrayed themselves in a strong line on a rise above the Bears. Your generals sent the Bears uphill against them, which was pure foolishness, bred from the tale about Morythian Tigers eons ago. The Bears did not face Morythians. These kwajiin are smarter, and their troops are fearless.”

I looked at the ministers, who stared back wide-eyed. “Even before the Bears engaged the enemy vhangxi, a black cloud of winged frogs swarmed over them. They are not powerful, but they have teeth and venom, and when several get to gnawing on a man, he stops.

“And that’s when the vhangxi countercharged. They ripped into the Bears—literally ripped into them. Men fell in pieces—many pieces, all of them small—then their killers fell to eating them. What’s left of your Bears are steaming piles of dung twenty miles east of here.”

The Prince narrowed his eyes and tried to appear hardened, but the sweat on his bald pate betrayed him. “If this is true, how did you come to have this standard?”

I rested a hand on the hilt of each sword. “I called to the kwajiin leader and challenged him to a duel. He drew a circle, and I killed him.” I pulled back the sleeve on my right arm and revealed a serpentine scar all livid and crossed with black thread. “He was not without skill.”

“But if their general is dead, then their threat is ended.”

I glanced at the minister who had spoken. “It is without generals that they got this far. The man I slew—they appear to be men, but are not—was not their greatest leader. They will come, they will take Kelewan, and they will kill everyone in the city.”

The Prince shook his head. “No, no, that is not possible.”

“Your denial does nothing to change the reality of what is coming.” I pointed back east. “The invaders have devoured the eastern half of your nation. Your troops are insufficiently trained to deal with the invaders. Pull back, give them time, and you might be able to stop them. If you do not, your nation is lost.”

Jekusmirwyn stood and pointed a trembling finger at me. “You have killed one of their leaders. I appoint you my warlord. Arrange the defenses of the city as you see fit.”

I laughed aloud, offending the ministers and the Prince alike.

“Do not mock me!”

I shook my head. “Silly man, if I could think of a way to save your city, would I come here and tell you to abandon it? It cannot be saved. Do what I tell you, and their victory will be the first step in their defeat.”

The Prince raised his chin defiantly. “And if I do not?”

I pointed at the blank wall behind his throne. “Paint yourself a pretty epitaph. It will be the only chance you’ll be remembered after the jaws of Grija snap you up.”