Chapter Forty-six
7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Grand Minister Pelut Vniel peered at Junel Aerynnor through the screened hole. The young man did not seem nervous at all, but then he never had. He projected a calmness that spoke well of his usefulness.
Vniel spoke through a thick woolen scarf to disguise his voice. “You positioned yourself well within the Vroan household. This pleases us.”
“It is only what you wished.”
“But pursued on your own initiative. Now, tell me, what have you heard of Prince Eiran?”
“Everyone knows he has gone missing. He is presumed dead—assassinated.” The slender man pointed off in the direction of the temple district. “Prince Cyron appeared at the Dragon Temple to burn incense. He clearly believes Eiran is dead. More important, there is no reason the Helosundians would just kidnap him. That serves no purpose. They slew him.”
Vniel wiped away tears with a handkerchief. The opium smoke stung his eyes, but the opium den was the most convenient place he knew of to keep the meeting completely confidential.
“You are certain Count Vroan did not order the Prince’s death?”
“He would have been happy to do so, but he saw no point to it. He was content to assume control of those troops himself, and would have been happy to have had the Prince turn them over to him. Vroan knows the value of leading armed men, and his return to prominence will remind people of past glory.”
“And positions him to take command in the event of an emergency.”
“That is his belief.”
Vniel watched the Desei carefully. “But the count is not averse to employing assassins?”
Aerynnor smiled. “Do you refer to him or me?”
“Both.”
“The answer is the same. He and I did speak of it, and he liked the idea of letting Nerot Scior assume responsibility for any assassin attacking Prince Cyron.”
“Whether he truly is involved or not?”
The man in the center of the room nodded.
Vniel closed his eyes for a moment and considered. He’d already met with the highest ministers in the Naleni bureaucracy, and all of them lamented the position the nation found itself in. He had been quite frank in describing the threat from the south, the agreement Pyrust had negotiated with the Helosundians, and his assessment of Prince Cyron’s inability to deal with either threat—much less two of them at once. To a man, the ministers agreed that if Cyron were to leave office so someone more capable could handle the crisis, it would be a blessing.
Which meant they all tacitly agreed to the use of an assassin. Prince Cyron, and even his father before him, had taken an unhealthy interest in the mechanisms of how the state functioned on a day-to-day basis. They established their exploration program outside the bureaucracy, minimized its interaction with the bureaucracy and, as a result, yielded far too little to the ministries in the way of power or wealth. The ministers resented Cyron for that, so they were more than willing to see him dead.
Especially if their hands would remain clean.
He did, however, find their lack of foresight rather shocking. Removing Cyron would not solve the problem of the threats from north and south. While Vroan might be able to keep the Desei in Helosunde, the fact was that their total control of Helosunde would not be overturned and Deseirion would become a serious power lurking on the border. Without constant vigilance, Pyrust would push south and Nalenyr would fall.
But the need for constant vigilance in the north meant that Vroan would be hard-pressed to fight against the invaders from the south. The Helosundian troops Cyron had moved down there did have a personal allegiance to Cyron. While Vroan had a Helosundian wife and child, Pyrust’s seizure of Helosunde and the call for all true Helosundians to return to their homeland would weigh heavily on the minds of those troops. Would they stay in the south and protect Nalenyr, or retreat to the Helos Mountains and protect their own homeland from invasion?
This Vniel didn’t know and couldn’t tell. But if Vroan were removed from the picture and Prince Pyrust assumed power in Nalenyr, all the resources from three nations could be directed toward fighting the invaders—even adding Erumvirine to the fold. Pyrust, while no friend of the ministries, would find himself very much dependent upon them to administer an empire.
And he is no more immortal than any princes before him.
Vniel opened his eyes again. “How difficult will it be to get Scior to purchase an assassin?”
“It would be simple.”
Vniel considered. Pyrust was likely only five days away with his army. “I would like it done soon.”
Aerynnor smiled. “A Scior agent deposited some money with a person of questionable repute here in Moriande. That money could be used to buy the services of an assassin who could strike very quickly indeed.”
“He would have to be very good. This is the Prince. Failure would be punished swiftly.”
“It will be expensive, since the chances of a successful escape are minimal. A vrilcai might accept the job to enhance his reputation.” Aerynnor raised an eyebrow. “How will that sit with you?”
“Anyone that good will be in the employ of the Desei and I prefer to distance them from the attempt.” Vniel’s eyes narrowed. “Find a disaffected Helosundian. Tell him there is proof that Cyron had both Koir Yoram and Prince Eiran killed. If you think documentary proof would be useful, it can be provided.”
“Rumors to that effect are already circulating.”
“I know. I had them started.”
The Desei exile laughed. “Then you understand that conspiracies are the favorite fodder of the gossips down here, especially in the exile community. Most believe it is the truth and finding someone to avenge the honor of Helosunde should not be too difficult. We can claim that both men wanted more support for Helosunde and desired Cyron to stop sending grain north until Jasai was returned to her people. Avenging her honor will also provide motivation. In fact, a Helosundian is a good choice, for enough of them work in Wentokikun that slipping into the palace will not be difficult.”
“Good.”
Aerynnor sat forward. “And shall Nerot Scior still be blamed?”
“Unless you have a better candidate in mind.”
“No, he will do nicely.”
And when it comes time to repudiate Vroan’s efforts, documents will surface exposing the Scior-Vroan-Turcol cabal.
“I only have one concern, Minister.” Aerynnor smiled when Vniel did not reply. “You will forgive my presumption, but you are in a ministry. If you were not, you could not—and would not—be discussing these matters with me. And you would not have the information you do to make such judgments. I have to assume, therefore, that you also have information to which I am not privy. It seems obvious to me, however, that the Vroan Dynasty may be extremely short in duration.”
“You may assume whatever you will.”
“You previously enticed me by dangling the chance of my assuming the throne after Count Vroan died. While I accept that circumstances may preclude this course of events, I do intend to be rewarded for my action. I shall assume, therefore, that what befalls the count need not befall his daughter. I could find myself very comfortable in Ixun.”
“And you would find yourself positioned to move to Moriande should the need arise?”
The Desei noble opened his arms. “Have I not acted well as your agent so far? It is obvious that you will need someone in a position to move against the sitting prince if other plans do not work. We already know the west is a breeding ground for rebellion, and the loss of Vroan will not sap its strength.”
Vniel considered for a moment, then nodded. “I believe Jarana can be insulated. Perhaps her husband was even assassinated by her father, since he opposed usurping Prince Cyron.”
“I think that highly likely, Minister.”
Vniel smiled in spite of himself. Aerynnor was proving to be a very smart and valuable agent. He knew how to reassure people that he had their best interest at heart. He’d clearly been manipulating the Scior agent, and now Count Vroan. Vniel could even feel the man’s fingers trying to bend Vniel to his will.
This means he is too smart. Vniel let his smile spread. He would use him, then discard him, but he would do so carefully. As long as it would benefit Vniel and himself, Aerynnor would continue to play the intelligent servant. Once he thought Vniel could no longer be of use, he would find a way to betray.
I should just kill him now. It would end all risk.
“My friend, please arrange for the Helosundian intervention we discussed. A day or two, three at the most. This is very important.”
“Do I let Count Vroan know this operation is in progress?”
“You’ve heard rumors and want to know if you should act to stop it.”
Aerynnor’s eyes widened for a moment. “Very good, Minister. Deniability for all.”
“It is good to know many things, including those you choose not to remember.”
“I shall remember that.” The Desei noble nodded. “And Nerot Scior?”
“Were he any sort of a man, he would have slain the Prince himself, not hired it done.”
“My thoughts exactly. He is here in the city, so I shall arrange incriminating evidence to be found, if needed.”
“Very good.” Vniel smiled. “And please know your suit for the hand of Jarana Vroan will meet with approval at very high levels.”
“Thank you.”
If Aerynnor said anything more than that, Pelut Vniel did not hear. He’d slipped through the false panel in the wall and into a tight corridor. He felt his way along, pushed on a broken brick, and another doorway opened. He wormed his way into it, then closed and barred the door behind him. He stepped away from that door, then rested against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly.
He smiled as his heart slowed and stopped pounding in his ears. Negotiating with exiles to commit treason was something to sour the stomach. He hunched over, feeling as if he wanted to vomit, but nothing came up.
He steadied himself against the corridor’s narrow walls. He would have preferred any other choice but the one he’d been given. Killing a prince and fixing the blame on others was not an easy thing, but it had to be done.
Not for the good of the nation, or even for his own good.
For the good of the ministry.
For order.
No higher cause could be served.
Chapter Forty-seven
8th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut
Erumvirine
Scouts from the Derael family had been watching us for several days, but we took no action against them. Tsatol Deraelkun had a special place in Virine history because it had held the pass in the Central Virine mountains since before the Empire had been sundered. During the Time of Black Ice and the oddities that wild magic had spawned, it had been heavily damaged by monstrous armies and all but razed several times. Regardless, the Derael family had not let the enemies get into the Virine heartland, and had made their home stronger every time they rebuilt it.
And as I had known since we left Kelewan, it would be at Tsatol Deraelkun that we would make a stand.
While many passes through the mountains existed, most could handle little more than wandering shepherds, their flocks, and smugglers. Emperor Dailon IV, who got seasick at hearing the cry of a gull, went to great expense to establish the Imperial Road running from Felarati to Kelewan. Cutting a road through the Virine range had not been easy, but it was done, and the first Deraelkun had been built astride the road as an Imperial way station.
Down through the eons it had changed a great deal, and by the time of the sundering, it had become a massive fortress with three circles of walls, and secondary fortresses linked by tunnels and redoubts carved so artfully from the native stone that they remained undetected until one was right on top of them. Moraven had passed through the area a number of times and occasionally been a guest of the Derael family.
I recognized the colors and arms of the soldiers blocking the Imperial Road, and assumed that for every dozen I saw before me, five times that number lurked in the woods and ravines. Their armor had been tied with alternating cords of black, red, and yellow, making one mindful of poisonous snakes. The family crest featured a bear rampant and still fighting, though stuck with two spears and four arrows. Each wound indicated a time they’d rebuilt Deraelkun, and the bear seemed eager for the next assault.
Two riders left the center of their formation and approached me. I left my lines alone and rode toward them. I still wore the Morythian armor, but had set aside my mask. Having them recognize me would not hurt, nor would letting them mistake me for the Moraven of their acquaintance.
The woman held up a hand and her son reined back. She came forward another couple of feet, then stopped her horse. Both of them were tall, and she quite uncharacteristically. Strands of white worked through her long black hair. She could have hidden them as many women would, but many women her age wouldn’t have donned armor and come out to meet an armed force. She wore a sword, but I knew she’d never use it. The bow and quiver on her saddle, and the jade thumbring on her right hand, reminded me of her skill.
I bowed my head to her. “Countess Derael, it is a pleasure.”
Her hazel eyes studied me closely. “You look like someone I know, but he’s never showed an inclination toward displays of nationality.”
“Change is necessary.” I looked back toward the south. “You’ve seen enough refugees come through to know what is happening.”
She shook her head. “Those who get this far are traveling on rumor. I hope you have solid information.”
I turned back and nodded. “We do. We also have Prince Iekariwynal with us.”
Her son, Pasuram, nodded grimly. “Kelewan has fallen?”
“If not, it’s only by a miracle.” I looked at both of them openly. “Are you going to allow us to join you in Deraelkun, or shall we die here contesting the road?”
“Fighting us or those chasing you?”
I smiled at her question. “Them, preferably.”
She nodded. “Come. The count will welcome you and will listen eagerly to what you have to say.”
“How is he?”
“Better.” The countess allowed herself a small smile. “News of the disaster in the south has enlivened him.”
Moraven had first met Count Jarys Derael when the count was just a young boy. I’d seen him in the years since grow up, grow older and, in the last few years, watched a wasting disease slowly destroy his life. Luckily for him, he had married very well, and his children had inherited the strength of their parents, as well as a deep pride in the family tradition.
We reached Deraelkun after only two hours’ ride. My troops were given billets in the lower circle, while I rode on to the main keep with the Prince and a handful of Derael vassals. The nobles were sent to clean up, while the countess took me directly to the count’s chambers. The warning look in her eyes prepared me for what I would see, although keeping my reaction from my face was not an easy matter.
Jarys Derael had always been quite vital. Very tall and slender, he favored the spear to the sword, and had learned from some of the best naicai in the Nine. He’d used his reach and speed to great advantage and had he not been called to duty after his father’s premature death, he might well have become jaecainai.
Not that his being a Mystic would have necessarily saved him from disease. I had no idea what it was, but his body had begun to atrophy and he had lost control of his large muscles. I found him still quite quick of mind, but for someone so strong to fall victim to such weakness was a curse that can devour the spirit. In recent years, he had become a recluse within the family tower, and I was the first person who was not blood kin or a close friend of long standing to be admitted to his presence.
He clearly had been positioned for our interview, as the high-backed chair in which he sat had behind it a south-facing window. The sunlight glowing through it backlit him enough that I could not get a good look at his face. Even so, it wasn’t hard to see that his once-thick shock of red hair had thinned and turned grey. A blanket hid him from the waist down, and I could not tell if he’d been belted into place or not. He held a stick in his left hand, and it pointed at a map of the countryside, but I didn’t expect him to move it.
And his voice had a watery sound, as if he were half-drowning.
“Please, Decaiserr Tolo, be seated.”
I accepted his invitation and slipped into the chair facing him. “I appreciate the time you are able to give me, my lord.”
“And I appreciate the information you will give me. Did you see Kelewan fall?”
“No, but it could not have taken long.” I outlined the situation as I’d seen it, then gave him a report on the nature of the enemy—starting with my arrival in Erumvirine, but declining to mention how I got there. I even showed him the scar on my right forearm and upon seeing that, he fell silent for a moment.
Even with the backlight, I could see the intelligence burning in his eyes. “The kwajiin were not present in the first battles your people reported?”
“You may ask them if you wish, but until I fought the first one on the road to the capital, none of us had seen them. Still, it is possible they were directing things behind the scenes.”
“But they did not show up in the ranks until the battle with the Iron Bears?”
“Again, not to my knowledge—but they could have been traveling along the river and I just never saw them.”
With great effort, he shook his head. “It would make no sense to divide a force that way. Having your troops under discipline is the best way to win. And the way they sent bestial creatures against Kelewan suggests the kwajiin are not averse to sacrificing their unruly comrades.”
I nodded. “I see no reason to doubt your analysis. I’m not certain, however, that they want to destroy them foolishly. The kwajiin seem anything but foolish.”
“To assume they would use them poorly is to assume the enemy is stupid.” His voice faltered for a moment and he swallowed hard. “If you are correct, however, we have to wonder why they are coming here to Deraelkun.”
“Three possible answers come to mind, my lord.” I smiled easily. “The first is to clear the way to invade north. The second is to close the avenue for an attack from the north. And the third is to have the honor of destroying Deraelkun.”
“I’ll believe the first two, but the third is not a consideration—not if I want to believe them a worthy foe.”
“To discount it, however, you discount their having a knowledge of Deraelkun, which suggests they will bring insufficient force against your position.”
The count’s head canted to the right, and I believe it was a deliberate motion. “That is something to consider, certainly. I have had scouts out. The kwajiin have slowed their advance since you ambushed them. Given the rate at which new troops have been joining them, and the speed of their advance, I anticipate a siege force of twenty-five thousand within a week.”
My stomach tightened. “That would be the siege force from around Kelewan, which means the capital has fallen. It also means they’ve brought in many more troops to pacify the country they’re leaving behind.”
“That, or they have killed everyone.”
I wasn’t certain which prospect sounded worse. The idea that they had murdered everyone in Kelewan revolted me, but made the number of troops in Erumvirine manageable. If, on the other hand, they had brought more troops up, we were looking at fifty thousand invaders at a minimum. If all of those were kwajiin, the invasion would not stop at the Virine border.
“Which would you prefer?”
“Neither.” The stick in his hand rose slightly, then flopped back down. “I have much thinking to do. Please take your time and review the defenses here. Perhaps, between the two of us, we can come up with a way to stop the invaders.”
“Of course, my lord.” I stood, bowed, and withdrew.
The countess met me in the corridor outside as servants moved silently past and into his room. “He’s not the man you remember, is he?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“He’s been worse.” She led the way down the corridor. “Come, I want to show you something before we look over the defenses. It’s something you’ve not seen before. Few have, who are not of Derael blood.”
I kept pace with her. “How many troops are here?”
“Not counting yours, there are roughly five thousand.” Consina kept her voice even but quiet. “Three are our house troops, and we may get more as the lords you brought in send for their households. The other two are militia—poorly trained but well led. We pair them with more established units or give them support duties. Harassing the enemy gives them experience without much chance of being overwhelmed.”
“There is a value to that. What is the ratio of archers to swordsmen?”
She smiled. “All of our soldiers can do both, Master Tolo. We have a regiment of archers who are our sharpshooters.”
We descended a circular stairway that went from new construction to old, then older. It let us into the foundation of the tower. She took a torch from a bracket on the wall and lit it, then conducted me along a dark corridor. We paused before a round door built as a plug into the wall. Taking a key from around her neck, she unlocked it and, surprisingly, the door swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.
“Originally this room served as the Emperor’s treasury when he visited, and it is the only room that has survived every siege. The Derael family converted it to their own treasury, then a museum.”
She set the torch in a bracket beside the door, then took up a small taper and went before me, lighting small lamps hung on chains from the ceiling. As light filled the room, a chill ran down my spine.
Eons of treasures filled the room. Tapestries depicting great battles and momentous events lined the walls. Banners, some bloodied, burned, cut, torn, and yellowed with age, hung from the ceiling. Broken carriages of siege machines and one whole ballista had been rebuilt in the center of the floor, and marble statues representing heroes surrounded them. In another circle that filled the room to the walls, weapons and armor hung on wooden trees, memorializing Derael warriors and others who had fought at Deraelkun.
Consina paused next to a suit of armor that looked untouched. Behind it, standing tall, a spear almost touched the ceiling. I joined her, admiring the armor.
“This is his, as well you know. It’s not like most of the others, with cut strings and dents and even bloodstained holes. By the time Jarys took command, Tsatol Deraelkun’s reputation defended this place more than any soldier.”
She glanced down. “It was always his dream that he would be able to prove his worthiness as a warrior and have his armor installed here, but no one ever came to test him. And now, when someone is coming, he’s not able to defend Deraelkun.”
I smiled. “The best warrior is one who defeats his enemy without ever having to fight.”
“I have told him this many times, and while he acknowledges the right of that wisdom, it eats at him that he can no longer fight.”
“It will take more than Jarys’ donning his armor and picking up his spear to defend this place.” I ran a hand over my unshaven jaw. “You say we have five thousand. By the time they come we might get twenty percent more, but they will still outnumber us five to one. If they use the tactics they did at Kelewan, they will hurt us before we begin a formal battle.”
Consina nodded. “We are not without our own plans. We will erect many banners and light many fires, making them think we are ten times our number. That will slow them down.”
“That’s a good idea, to be certain.” I turned and studied the other armor and the tapestries, drinking in the history of the place. “I think, this time however, it’s not the right tactic.”
I turned and looked at her, smiling broadly. “I think, in fact, this time we will defeat them by appearing weaker than they could ever hope we are.”
Chapter Forty-eight
8th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Voraxan, Ixyll
Ciras Dejote and Borosan Gryst resumed their trek northwest once they quitted Tolwreen. Even though that had been the direction they’d been traveling when they found the vanyesh stronghold and, therefore, would seem a logical course for the vanyesh to take in pursuing them, it still seemed the best possible choice. Northeast, which would have taken them toward the Turasynd Wastes, seemed a bad idea, and retreating along their previous passage would have been worse. They also still had their mission to find the Empress, and the alliance between the vanyesh and the Turasynd—as well as the vanyesh claim that Nelesquin was soon to return—made their mission’s successful completion vital.
Ciras scratched at the back of his neck. “What if the story of the Sleeping Empress is just that, a story?”
“It can’t be.” Borosan spurred his horse along a narrow trail that snaked up a cliff side. “If she’d been destroyed—if the place where she’s been waiting had been destroyed—the vanyesh would have mentioned it.”
“That’s if they did it.” Ciras looked back to make sure the packhorses and thanatons were following. “Besides, she might never have survived.”
“I’m sure she did.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Borosan shifted his shoulders uneasily. “Rekarafi told us where we would be going and what we would be doing. He travels through Ixyll without any protective clothing, and can absorb the wild magic and use it. I think he knows she’s out here.”
Ciras frowned, not liking the fact that he’d missed that clue. “But if that’s true, why didn’t he tell us exactly where to go?”
The inventor laughed. “In this land? The chaotic magic constantly switches everything around, so no landmarks stay the same.”
“Still, that is no guarantee we will find the place.”
“True, but I think there might be something else.”
“What?”
Borosan sighed loudly. “I think you can find her sanctuary if you want to find it.”
“I’m not certain I follow you.”
“We found Tolwreen because the vanyesh saw you fight grave robbers. They left you the vanyesh sword and watched. I think that if they’d decided we were not meant to be at Tolwreen, we’d never have gotten there. Similarly, our path may lead to Cyrsa, but those who are her enemies can never find her.”
“You mean to say that the vanyesh and the Empress could exist very close to each other and not even know about each other?”
Borosan shrugged. “I think the fact that one has not destroyed the other bears this out.”
Ciras was about to protest that having hidden the Empress’ sanctuary so completely would take a lot of magic, but he stopped given where he was. “So if what you are saying is true, couldn’t we have found a more direct route?”
“Perhaps the journey is not just about direction, Ciras.” Borosan turned in the saddle. “If you look back at your life’s journey, is it a direct line?”
The swordsman thought for a moment, then smiled. “Any path looks direct in hindsight, but there are many choices made along the way.”
“Exactly. I think maybe we can’t really want to find the Empress until we know we need to find her. Before we saw the vanyesh and knew they were allied with the Turasynd, our mission was to find her and ask her to help prevent a war within the Nine. There have been plenty of battles between principalities before, so how would this one be different?”
“You’re saying she could not have been found until the need was urgent?”
“Yes.”
“But urgency is in the mind of the seeker. What is urgent to us might not seem so to another, and what is trivial to us might seem earth-shattering to someone else.” Ciras frowned. “Do you think others have found her in the past?”
“It could be. Probably so.”
“But she did not return.”
“Rekarafi did say we’d have to be convincing.”
The swordsman nodded. “I wonder what has happened to those who found her and could not convince her to return?”
“I don’t know, my friend.” Borosan stood in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with a hand. “I think, however, we’re going to get our chance to find out very soon.”
They rode hard to the northwest, moving down into a desert valley and along it. Ciras felt confident they’d found a portion of the old Spice Route and, from the look of it, the site of the battle that triggered the Cataclysm. His flesh began to itch as they descended to the valley floor and the land itself changed minute to minute, from hard-edged stone to a fluid putty that shifted up and down before it solidified again. At times, Ciras was certain that he saw the forms of men moving beneath the red rock surface, like children beneath a blanket, reliving bits and pieces of the battle fought there.
Fortunately for them, their path skirted the actual battlefield, for Ciras’ impression had been correct. Stone armies rose and fell, shrouded by magic and the passage of years. Chariots wheeled in unison, carving swaths from infantry formations. Turasynd cavalry charged and Imperial infantry lowered spears to fend them off. Warriors stepped from the lines on either side to challenge each other, exchanging blows until one or both melted away.
At first, Ciras found the battle thrilling. Though muffled in stone, the warriors fought hard. He could not hear the sounds of steel ringing on steel, or the thunder of hoofbeats, but the fluidity of action could not be mistaken. In the duels, swordsmen matched skill with speed that defied the stone’s ability to keep up. Any number of times he wished the red rock veil would part so he could admire the swordsmanship displayed.
For a moment or two he thought it might have been simply marvelous to go through eternity fighting, but the endless repetition mocked both heroism and glory. There, moving through the rock, was a living testament to the futility of battle. This had been the greatest battle of history, fought to save the world from destruction, but all it had done was to destroy the world. Even war lived past it, and still threatened mankind.
Even the evil that spawned this battle survived it.
He had spent his life learning the way of the sword. He sought skill and knowledge because he wanted to be a guardian against the evil that spawned war. Even so, his actions could set into motion events that would cascade beyond control and might result in another war. And that war would lead to more wars.
Try as he might, he could see no end to the cycle.
They rode on in silence. The roadway remained stable, but the land to the south rose and fell disturbingly. Having been raised on an island, Ciras had spent a certain amount of time on a ship. The heaving landscape reminded him of mountainous waves in a storm, which he found curiously comforting.
Borosan, on the other hand, averted his face and went visibly pale. As the road rose, the land became more solid and Borosan haltingly reiterated his thoughts that magic had to flow like water and collect in the low places.
Ciras smiled. “And that battlefield got a very good soaking.”
They topped the rise and both men reined back, because the image before them could not possibly be there. Borosan had seen the hint of a flash in the distance, then the roiling land. Ciras thought it might be a piece of metal or a mirror. Yet, at the same time, I knew it was our goal. Had he thought about it for a moment, he would have dismissed what he felt for what he knew, but his feelings had won out.
He looked at Borosan. “The reason the vanyesh have not found this place is because they can think and know, but they’ve left behind feeling. They know what is possible, and what is impossible, and refuse to believe in the impossible.”
Borosan nodded. “And they believe that finding this place is impossible, so they will never find it.”
The two men slowly started their horses forward again, moving them into green grasses that grew up beside a silver river flowing with sweet water. Little bugs skittered over the mirrored surface, and fat fish rose after them, apparently unmindful of the fact that the river flowed into nothingness a few yards further downstream.
Upstream, however, the river broadened and flowed through a massive gate made of crystal. Both the gate and the crenellated wall surrounding the entire city were a deep, pure amethyst. At the gate, onyx cobblestones paved the way through a collection of buildings, twisting off through countless paths. Sometimes the roadway split for a small building, and at other times ran through tunnels piercing larger buildings. At points it even rose to an elevated roadway that linked two buildings before sloping back to the ground.
Though their course seemed without direction, and neither man steered their horses, both knew they drew closer to their destination with each passing moment.
Borosan, clearly awed, gaped at his surroundings. Even the thanatons appeared to be dazed. They sped up and slowed, slipping side to side, then darting forward or back. Whatever information they’d be collecting to map the city would be worthless, and it occurred to Ciras that one of the city’s greatest strengths might be that it was unknowable.
And those who come here and do not have sufficient cause to win the Empress’ support are doomed to wander forever.
Though that prospect would have been enough to daunt him, another aspect of the city overwhelmed him. The buildings had been shaped of crystal. Some were ruby and others emerald, citrine, topaz, or diamond. While other, more colorful stones—like opal—decorated many buildings, those that were shaped out of a single stone all had one thing in common. They resembled mausoleums—sometimes with just one occupant, often with more. Men and women—clad in armor and clutching their weapons, lay on biers as if sleeping, preserved forever in their crystalline graves.
Ciras caught himself, because he knew, somehow, that these warriors were not dead, but sleeping. They would rise to the challenge the Empress set before them. Just as they had set out with her to keep the world safe, they would return to the Empire to save it once again.
Regret flashed through him. For that moment, it seemed better that they wait forever than have to leave peaceful sleep and endure warfare again. There might be some who gloried in it, but he suspected far more of them had seen quite enough of war. Even so, they would answer the call because they were heroes.
How odd it is that we are willing to fight for peace, and yet we know that the greatest of warriors never has to fight. That paradox surprised him, because he had never been overly philosophical. He had concentrated on perfecting his skills with the sword so one day he could become a Mystic. And now, having reached that threshold, he looked beyond the skill to the consequences and responsibilities of jaedunto.
Which is exactly the sort of thing Master Tolo had tried to make me realize throughout our journey together. The swordsman smiled and bowed his head back to the southeast, toward the cave where his master lay. Your wisdom has made itself manifest. I trust it is not too late.
The horses took them around a hematite building and into an onyx courtyard. A diamond fountain in the shape of a dragon dominated the center. The water flowed from nine wounds pierced in the dragon’s side, though the dragon appeared to be in no distress.
Beyond it, dominating the far end of the rectangular courtyard, rose a small ruby tower. Though built on a modest scale, it matched the images of the Imperial Palace in Kelewan. It rose four stories, and though the stone was dark enough to deny clear sight of the inside, Ciras was fairly certain he detected an interior room with a throne and something, perhaps golden, glinting from within.
Further speculation on what that was became moot as a man turned from the fountain. Water dripped from his hand and mouth. He wore armor marked with a dragon, and appeared to be only a dozen years older than Ciras’ master. White had crept into his dark hair, but only as a forelock. His pale eyes, though flanked by dragon’s feet at the corners, remained quick and intelligent. He wore two swords, but made no movement toward either.
He drew himself up and bowed respectfully, holding it longer than Ciras would have expected.
The swordsman slipped from the saddle and bowed lower and longer. He reached out to steady Borosan, then they both straightened up. “I am Ciras Dejote of Tirat, and this is Borosan Gryst of Nalenyr. We have traveled all this way to speak with the Empress.”
The man nodded solemnly. “Welcome, travelers. I bow in respect for all you have done to get here. You are the first visitors we have had in a long time.”
Ciras looked about. “You seem quite alone.”
The man laughed. “I am the one who has sentry duty.” He opened his arms wide. “I have many comrades, but this is why you are here, isn’t it?”
“That will be for the Empress to decide.” Ciras nodded toward the ruby tower. “May we speak with her?”
“It is possible. Eventually.” The man shrugged. “I am but one soldier. I will awaken those who can make such a decision, then it will be made. Until then, avail yourselves of the peace Voraxan offers. If you prove worthy, it could be yours forever.”
Borosan’s eyes widened. “And if we do not?”
“It will be yours forever.”