Chapter Thirty-seven

33rd 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

Vroankun, Ixun

Nalenyr

Though he detested the pious mouthings of sympathy to Jarana Vroan, the widow of Donlit Turcol, Junel Aerynnor was happy to be out of Moriande. As a result of Turcol’s death, he had been summoned again to the opium den and given an assignment. He traveled to Jomir for the funeral, and from there, he’d accompanied the widow’s party back toward Ixun. It had been far too soon for him to do anything but express his deep regrets to Jarana, but she seemed to welcome his offer of looking in on her again, at a happier time.

Junel could hardly imagine a happier time, for things were progressing perfectly. He didn’t know, nor did he care, who had betrayed Turcol’s plan to Cyron. He did allow that it might not have been betrayal at all, since Cyron’s Lord of Shadows was hardly stupid, whereas Turcol had all but wandered the streets of the capital throwing gold at anyone he could imagine was an assassin. Regardless of how Cyron had learned of the plan, it had ended badly for Turcol and worked out better for both his patrons.

One thing he had not accounted for was Jarana Vroan and her influence over her father. Jarana had actually loved her philandering husband and had desperately wanted to bear his child. Junel suspected her dead mother had groomed her as the link that might bind both counties together. Count Vroan seemed to dote on his daughter, and her distress became his.

More important, her desire to avenge her husband’s death likewise became his.

Junel had been accepted into the Vroan household because of his rank—at least, that was how it appeared initially. Someone spoke to someone else, and word filtered through to the count that Junel might be of especial use. The count summoned him to a private meeting in chambers that were paved with stone and sparsely decorated.

The count still wore a white mourning robe, but comported himself as anything but serene and contemplative. The tall, slender man poured Junel a generous goblet of wine and the Desei agent sipped politely, despite detesting the local vintage for its lack of subtlety.

Count Vroan slapped a hand against the tower’s stone wall. “I know most lords in Moriande have paneled their private chamber with wood, and enclosed it with delicate paper panels. They serve tea and quietly lie to each other. You’ve seen it as well, I’m sure.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You know, I’ve visited Felarati. I did so as part of a delegation negotiating a bit of peace. I liked Felarati.” Again the white-haired man slapped a hand against stone. “The Dark City, but one that is strong. I know you have your differences with the Prince, but I wanted you to know that I think the place of your upbringing breeds men, not the vermin that thrive in cities like Moriande.”

“I appreciate that, my lord.” Junel set his cup of wine down. “Your opinion is shared in a variety of places—even in Moriande. If I may have leave to speak frankly, my lord . . .”

“Please, tell me what goes on in the capital.”

“You don’t want to know the whole of it, my lord.” Junel clasped his hands behind his back, much as he’d bound the hands of his last victim. He’d taken her outside the opium den while she wandered in a stupor. The drugs dulled her sense of pain, but as he dissected her, realization of her death blossomed in her eyes. Had she not been gagged, her screams would have been delicious, but he had to be satisfied with the terror in her eyes. She died well—though not as well as Nirati Anturasi—and his need for death had been assuaged for another period.

“I’ve told you already, my lord, how much your loss pains me. There is no doubt that this tale of banditry is pretense to hide murder. Prince Cyron brought Prince Eiran and his courtesan out with him to watch Count Turcol die. He then dishonors your troops by putting Eiran in charge of them. Eiran, having seen the murder, is terrified of saying what truly went on, but one has to ask a simple question. If it were bandits who attacked, why were none displayed? Why are none awaiting trial?”

Vroan finished his wine at a gulp and poured himself more. “This I know, Count Aerynnor. Turcol was murdered most coldly.” He lowered his voice slightly. “I have no doubt he had planned things himself and got caught in his schemes. There are times he trusted charisma more than he did his intellect, which is a problem for one so vain. I was actually happy to send him off in command of our troops because it sent him east and, quite frankly, prevented me from having him killed.”

“Really, my lord?”

“I’d have done it. I’d have hated to do so since it makes Jarana so sad, but better she’s mourning him than mourning me.”

“I agree.” Junel nodded solemnly. “I believe, since Nerot Scior is also resident here, that you know I have been involved as an agent for investments his mother had made in Moriande.”

The count laughed. “I knew she had someone in Moriande. That idiot Melcirvon couldn’t find the ground if you threw him from this tower. She has consulted me about events in Moriande, feeling me out about my reaction to her plopping her ample bottom on the Dragon Throne. I remained noncommittal.”

“The idea has been advanced, my lord, by people in Moriande, that you, she, and the late Count Turcol might have formed a triumvirate. You, of course, have the advantage, being a Naleni hero and having a child with ties to Helosunde. I believe events in Helosunde will swing things more in your favor, and that the duchess can be convinced to support you in return for promises you will never have to keep.”

The westron lord’s head came up. “What events?”

Junel looked down at the ground. His ministry patron had given him one view of the events in Helosunde that downplayed the reality. Based on inquiries for information from the rest of the Desei network in Moriande, Junel was able to figure out what must truly be happening. While Vroan would be alarmed by the news from the ministry, he wouldn’t be alarmed enough for Junel’s purpose. Vroan had to move quickly and boldly to effect the ends that would most benefit Deseirion.

“The news has not circulated far at all, but a week and a half ago Prince Pyrust crushed a Helosundian army. He’s cut off all communication to the south and has advanced on Vallitsi. He is laying siege to it, and will take it by the end of the month. He then intends to move south and, in the month of the Hawk, he will attack Nalenyr.”

Count Vroan stared at him for a moment, then set his cup of wine down. “How reliable is this information?”

“I would stake my life on it. You know my relations with the Desei court are less than cordial. Had I not come here, I would have been tying up my business in Moriande and heading south to Erumvirine.”

Vroan pursed his lips and nodded ever so slightly. “And Prince Cyron is not a war leader.”

“No, my lord, he is not. I would expect he will call up more troops, westron troops, and ask you to lead them against the Desei. The mountain passes can be held, but the fighting will be bloody. It’s your people who will preserve his realm. The Komyr have relied on you to deal with Pyrust in the past, and they shall do so now.”

“No. No, that cannot be allowed to happen. If Komyr blood is so weak it cannot hold its realm, it must give up the Dragon Throne.”

“I would agree, my lord. The question is, how does one craft the most favorable approach?”

Vroan watched him carefully. “I’m not certain I follow.”

“It is simple, my lord. An assassin is the best solution to the problem of Prince Cyron. He has no heir. With his death you can step forward and accept the mantle of the Prince to save your nation.” Junel raised a finger. “However, if the plot were to be discovered, you would be tainted and likely face a revolt in the east.”

“There is wisdom in what you say, but this still leaves Cyron on the throne.”

Junel nodded. “True, but Nerot Scior is the sort of schemer who likely could be convinced to press for an assassin. Regardless, he is the sort who could be positioned to accept the blame. Once the Prince is gone, you expose him, kill him, and step into that vacuum yourself. Until then, given your ties to Helosunde and your concern for Nalenyr, you can raise a force and be prepared to intervene in the coming war. Even if Cyron does not die, he comes to rely on you and you supplant him later with the blessing of a grateful nation.

“And then, my lord, if you have occasion to push north into Helosunde, you are simply doing so for your daughter. If you retake Helosunde, I can assure you, Deseirion will fall soon after.”

Vroan folded his arms over his chest. “How much of this do you think is truly possible?”

“Uniting three realms? I believe it will be done in my lifetime.” Junel shrugged. “Killing Cyron and getting Nerot to take blame for it will be simple. With proper coaching he could even stand up and proclaim his complicity, believing he has rid the nation of a tyrant.”

“True. He could be made to see how that would work to his advantage.” The westron lord smiled. “And you, Count Aerynnor, what would be to your benefit if events were to unfold as you describe them?”

“My lord, I am a modest man and not one given to ambition. I have learned to be thankful that I am alive. I should very much like to see the Desei Hawk with its wings broken, but that is the extent of my desire.”

“But you believe I would be grateful for your aid.”

“Your lordship has already showed me the hospitality of his house, the bounty of his cellars. My reward would be to be of continued help to you. You will rise to heights I can only dream of.”

Vroan snorted, then recovered his cup and drank. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t believe you are modest or that you lack ambition. I think you do want more than you say, and I know you’ll end up with it.”

“My lord is kind to say so.”

“I do, and I would be willing to guarantee it, provided we agree on one thing.”

“And that is, my lord?”

“That your advance is not at my expense.”

Junel lifted his cup. “Done and done, my lord.”

“Good.” Vroan refilled his cup and drank. “Now, let us plan how Nerot will murder Prince Cyron and pave the way for our ascent.”

 

Chapter Thirty-eight

34th 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

Maicana-netlyan (Lair of the Witch-King), Caxyan

Visiting the Amentzutl Witch-King was not as simple as visiting even the Naleni Prince. Jorim underwent a full week of purification rituals paralleling those he performed before beginning to learn magic. During that time he could converse with others, but was strictly forbidden to touch or be touched—which put Shimik and Nauana off-limits.

In those nine days, he did manage to scrub off all traces of dead skin and found that what lay beneath was healthy. In fact, it seemed healthier than he remembered. Though still quite young, the time he’d spent out under the sun, exploring the world, had begun to take its toll. He’d had dragon talons at the corners of his eyes, but now they’d vanished. Moreover, a number of the scars he’d picked up on his travels disappeared, as did an Ummummorari tribal tattoo on his right hip.

His hair and beard remained white, but did not have the brittle quality of an old man’s hair. Most unsettling were his eyes—and, try as he might, he could not get used to them. It was more the lozenge shape of his pupil than the fiery corona that bothered him. It reminded him too much of dragons and snakes, which reminded him he was supposed to be a god reborn.

He still fought that idea, because he’d seen the sort of naked power that might be at his command. If he was a god, he could do anything with it, provided he could control it. If he was just a deluded man, then control would be an illusion, and the probable result of his actions would be evil. Certainly, his first true use of such overwhelming power had been to destroy an enemy, but what would happen if people displeased him? I’ve been accused of being quick-tempered in the past. That’s not a good trait in a god.

He was still wrestling with the problem of who he was and how much he wanted to accept when he was packed up for the trip to Maicana-netlyan. The Witch-King lived in a mountain two days away to the southeast. Once the party arrived, Jorim would have one day to get cleaned up, then he, alone, would enter the Witch-King’s lair.

Anaeda Gryst had to restrain Shimik at Jorim’s leave-taking. The Fenn had gotten over any fear he had, and Jorim envied him being able to forget so quickly. He would have loved to take Shimik with him, but his only companions would be two of the eldest maicana sorcerers.

Anaeda nodded. “We’ll care for him and make certain he does not follow you.”

Jorim nodded. “Shimik, stay here. Guard Stormwolf. You.”

The Fenn stopped struggling in Anaeda’s arms. “Jrima, Shimik mourna sad.”

“Don’t be sad. Jrima return soon.” He winked at the creature. “I’ll teach you a magic trick when I get back.”

Shimik’s eyes widened. “Shimik guard good-good.”

“What I expect.” Jorim looked at Anaeda. “I hope he won’t be too much trouble.”

“Not likely, until you teach him how to make fire.”

Shimik nodded happily at that suggestion.

“I’ll think of something else. I don’t know how long this will take.”

“As long as it takes.” She glanced north out over the plains before Nemehyan and beyond the skull pyramid. “I have troops out scouting for the Mozoyan. It will give us warning and we’ll be able to hold them off. At least, that’s the plan.”

“I’m sure it will work.” Jorim bowed to her, then turned to Nauana. “Will you walk with me a short way?”

“As my Lord Tetcomchoa desires.” The slender woman fell in beside him and they started off on the road toward Maicana-netlyan. The two maicana who would join him on the trip had two cunya laden with supplies in tow and followed discreetly.

Jorim frowned and looked down at his hands. “I want to apologize for how I’ve acted.”

“Gods need not apologize.”

He shot her a quick glance. “Maybe not, but they should. You opened a wonderful world to me, but one that scared me. Where I come from, magic such as the maicana wield is a frightening thing. You showed me, in little bits and pieces, that it was not evil. I accepted that, but when I acted out there, I . . .”

“. . . you became yourself.”

Jorim shook his head. “Part of me is afraid you’re right.”

“Why afraid, Lord Tetcomchoa?” Nauana reached out for him, then held back. “You should rejoice in discovering who you are. When you were first with us, you were wise enough to know we would have to show you the whole of your glory. We have been faithful to you for cycles of years. You honor us by learning.”

“And shame you by retreating?”

“I have done my best to teach you.” She glanced down, tears glistening in her eyes.

Jorim wanted nothing so much as to brush those tears away, but he was forbidden from touching her. Then, without thinking, he touched the mai and floated the tears away, merging them with the air. If I can give comfort through magic, it cannot be all I have feared. I just have to be more than I fear I might be.

Nauana brushed a hand over her cheek. “Thank you for that kindness, my lord.”

“Understand something, Nauana. You taught me as I needed to be taught, and all I needed to learn. Had you not done that job well, the Mozoyan would have killed everyone on the Blackshark. Our victory, that day, was your victory.”

“Thank you.”

“And know something else.” Jorim lowered his voice. “Your opening yourself to me is what reminds me of who I am, who I have been, and why I am here. Your openness shall be my shield against fears. I don’t know what I am: man, god, or some mix; but the being I am is better for your efforts.”

He smiled at her and she returned the smile. “I think, my lord, you believe this.”

“I do. I shall remember it, no matter what.” He sighed. “Now, you best depart before I touch you and need another week of cleansing.”

“As you desire, my lord. I shall be waiting for your return.”

“It will not come soon enough.”

 

The trip to the mountain of the Witch-King passed uneventfully. His companions said barely a word outside of prayers and commands to the pack beasts. At a time when he would have relished distraction, they were determined not to disturb his thoughts.

So, Jorim did what he always did when not wanting to think about things that were too serious: he studied the flora and fauna, mentally cataloguing them for his journals when he got back to Nemehyan. His companions did take notice of his preoccupation and he feared that this would be translated by some as Lord Tetcomchoa’s taking note of every living thing, its condition, and determining if it would survive the time of centenco.

Maybe I am. Thoughts like that were about as far as he was willing to go in analyzing his situation. He told himself it was because he wanted to consult with the Witch-King and get the benefit of his wisdom. It was as good an excuse as any, and so he used it.

After a final day of rest and ritual cleansing, Jorim donned his robes from the Stormwolf. Purple silk edged with gold, the robe bore the Naleni dragon on breasts, sleeves, and back. He carried no weapon with him, and aside from having braided his side locks, he was otherwise undecorated. Bowing a farewell to his guides, he walked a serpentine trail through the rain forest to a cavern at the foot of the mountain and began the long journey up. While the first part of the cavern appeared to be natural, it quickly gave way to carved steps that twisted forward and back, up, down, and around in a circuitous route that seemed designed only to exhaust anyone following it.

Then he came to a break in the path. The mountain had split at some time, and by the look of the sharp edges on the broken stone, it had done so recently. A good twelve feet of the pathway had fallen onto a pile of debris three hundred feet below. He recalled seeing it in one of the lower chambers, but hadn’t thought about its significance.

Jorim shrugged, backed up a dozen steps and ran. He reached the gap and effortlessly cleared it. He crouched upon landing, then looked back at the gap and smiled. Doing that simple thing, and again observing life on the journey, had reminded him about the simple pleasures of nature. There are just times we make things far too complex.

He rose and walked forward and, as the stair climbed away to the left, he kept walking forward. His feet stepped through the stone, then he pushed on through what had been a wall. He felt a tingle as he passed through, but no fear, no ill effects. Entering a short, dark passage, he turned around and could see the stairs and gap clearly. It was an illusion. I wonder how that was done?

He continued on and passed into a huge domed chamber, which opened onto an even larger chamber to the north. They both had been shaped by the hand of man and decorated with paintings after the Amentzutl fashion. He looked up at the dome and found the stars arrayed in the Amentzutl Zodiac, with the sun poised to be moving out of the sign of Tetcomchoa.

As he entered the chamber, a man wearing nothing more than a loincloth smiled down at him from the larger chamber. Jorim couldn’t even guess at his age, because his body seemed young and slender and his brown hair hadn’t even a hint of grey. Still, his hazel eyes held years beyond numbering. There was something else odd about the man, but exactly what it was eluded him for a moment.

The Witch-King smiled. “I have been expecting you, Tetcomchoa, and am honored by your visit.” He paused for a moment and his smiled broadened. “Shall we converse in the Amentzutl tongue, or will you indulge me in my desire to hear the Imperial language again?”

“What?” Jorim’s jaw dropped. “You speak Imperial?”

“I do, and I’m certain I would have forgotten it save that time here seems to flow in odd currents.” His right hand came around and a gorgeous butterfly with wings of emerald outlined in black rested on a finger. “And I should have been more prepared to greet you, but I was distracted. I thought you’d use magic to bridge the gap and I would have warning of your arrival.”

“I just leaped it, then walked through your illusion.”

“My illusion? Fascinating.” The man lifted his hand and the butterfly fluttered off. “Perhaps you are Tetcomchoa after all.”

Jorim held a hand out, but the butterfly ignored him. “Beautiful specimen. I’ve not seen one like it before.”

“And likely won’t again.” The Witch-King executed a formal and respectful bow. “I welcome you to my humble dwelling. I am known as Cencopitzul here. I already know you are Tetcomchoa.”

“Jorim Anturasi. I came with a Naleni exploration fleet.” Jorim mounted the steps to the central chamber. “How is it that you are here?”

Cencopitzul waved him to a pair of rough-hewn wooden chairs. “That’s not really what you want to know, but it’s a good place to start. I found myself here during the last time of centenco. I was able to help them survive the years of no summer. The maicana-netl then decided I was not Tetcomchoa, but his envoy, and he chose me to be his heir. Here I have dwelt since that time.”

“How were you able to help them?”

The Witch-King smiled. “You know the answer to that question, and that answer raises many more. I was schooled in the use of magic. You thus suppose I was one of the vanyesh, and you would be correct. You would therefore assume I must be insane, and I would counter that I am no more insane than a Naleni cartographer who thinks he might be a god born again.”

“But if you were one of the vanyesh . . .

Cencopitzul raised a hand, then slid into the chair across from Jorim. “I did not summon you here to discuss me and my fate, but to address yours. You know Tetcomchoa’s history: he arrived, he taught the Amentzutl magic so they could defeat the Ansatl, then he sailed west with his most trusted warriors. Taichun arrived from the east and carved the Empire out of the warring states that had been the domain of Men after they destroyed the remnants of the Viruk Empire.”

Jorim nodded. “That’s what I have been told.”

“Then you should have two questions. The first is whether or not Tetcomchoa was a god-made-man, and the second is if you are Tetcomchoa-reborn.” The Witch-King sat back. “I’ve given this much thought. We have ample tales of gods visiting the world as all sorts of creatures, including men and women. There is no reason to suppose Tetcomchoa was not a god—one of ours, one of theirs, a new god, it doesn’t really matter which is true. There also seems no dispute that he taught the Amentzutl magic.”

The cartographer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can accept that.”

“Further accept this: there is no historical record in the Empire indicating that anyone save the Viruk employed magic in the sense of invocations. While jaedun always appears to have been possible, during the Viruk Empire the only training humans got was limited to useful tasks, and any Mystic slave was valued. Humans were not put under arms, so they did not develop the skills needed to become Mystical warriors.”

“I can see the sense in that.”

“Good.” Cencopitzul smiled easily. “The next is my speculation. The centenco prior to Taichun’s arrival heralded the invasion of True Men. They overthrew what was left of the Viruk Empire, freeing the slaves. They may have come down from the Turasynd Wastes, or in through the Spice Route. Again, we have no record of their using magic beyond jaedun; and the Viruk, for reasons known only to themselves, do not seem to have used magic to oppose them. At the next centenco Taichun arrives from the sea, and is able to establish an empire. That would seem to be difficult, wouldn’t it?”

Jorim nodded. “Yes, though with all the warring states, he just had to play one off against another to win.”

“Easier said than done, my boy. The Nine are still nine despite the same dynamic prevailing. My point is that as nearly as can be determined, Taichun also brought magic to the Empire, and the magic I learned well enough to join the vanyesh was magic instantly recognized by the maicana-netl as being in the tradition of Tetcomchoa.”

The Witch-King’s recital of facts held together well enough to make Jorim recast history in its light. “If all this is true, then my question would be, why would Tetcomchoa choose this time to be reborn?”

“That’s simple—the invasion of the new god.”

Jorim frowned. “He foresaw that and arranged to be reborn in Moriande as a precaution?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

Jorim stopped, his mouth hanging open. “I don’t know.”

“I hope you figure it out.” Cencopitzul stood and pulled his chair back, then pointed to the center of the large chamber floor. A silvery-white stone slab had been set in the floor. It measured roughly six feet long and three across. As Jorim looked at it, what had appeared to be scratches on the surface resolved themselves into writing of some form, which shifted and writhed as if it were alive.

The Witch-King waved him toward the block. “Before he left, Tetcomchoa sealed something in this stone. I have no idea what it is. Legend has it that only his reincarnation can unlock the stone and fully claim his heritage.”

Jorim folded his arms over his chest. “And if I fail, I die?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Trying hasn’t killed me yet.” The Witch-King shrugged. “Then again, in seven hundred years of trying, I’m no closer to a solution than I was at the start.”

 

Chapter Thirty-nine

35th 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

Vallitsi, Helosunde

Prince Pyrust allowed himself to take pleasure in the misery of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. For years they had denied him control of Helosunde. While he acknowledged that they could never have done what they did without Naleni support, they were the ones who procured that support and employed it.

Laying siege to Vallitsi was something Pyrust had neither the time nor the inclination to do. He was not concerned about taking the city, since it would definitely fall. Spring crops had not yet been harvested and winter stores were low, so the ability of the people to resist would be limited. Still, they might be able to hold out for the better part of a month, and in that time Cyron would be able to send troops north to lift the siege or otherwise harass his forces.

After arranging his forces around the city such that the only avenue of escape was to the northwest, Pyrust had his troops dig in and raise a circular berm. In the northwest, his engineers began digging a deep trench that slowly filled with seep water. They brought the trench to within fifty feet of the Kuidze River, which ran past the city’s western walls on its way north to the Black River.

And further downriver, another of his units began to build a dam. The river level rose, then the engineers breached the wall between the river and their trench, flooding the land inside the berm. The water level rose quickly and by the second morning two feet of water had flooded through the city.

The ministers had figured out his intention and had sent envoys to him. Pyrust had made it very clear he wanted the entire Council to come to him, and would accept no conditions. The next envoy came with a list of conditions, so Pyrust had the list nailed to the man’s forehead and sent him back.

So the ministers came, each wearing his finest robes, which were wet to the knees. Some had found robes from a time when Helosunde and Deseirion had been friendlier, but a few still wore robes where Helosundian dogs were devouring hawks and licking up the residue of broken eggs. These ministers, he made certain, would kneel closest to him.

The day had dawned grey and cold, full of the promise of rain. Pyrust had a pavilion set up on the dry side of his berm, with the side flaps raised so his entire army could see the ministers, and they could see the troops. He’d also located it close enough to the berm so that the ministers, on their knees, could not see the city. He, on the other hand, dry and enthroned in armor, could see it easily.

The ministers filed into the open-air pavilion and knelt on either side of a rich red carpet that had been rolled out over the ground. They all shifted uncomfortably and the scent of sweat mingled with that of wet silk. They kept their heads lowered and then, as one, bowed deeply toward him.

Pyrust stood and returned that bow solemnly, which seemed to surprise many of them. Good. Surprise means they are not thinking well.

“I would thank you for joining me here. I would have come into Vallitsi and treated with you in your council chamber, but I did not bring a boat.”

The ministers looked stricken for a moment. They exchanged glances, but said nothing.

“That was meant to be funny.”

One or two ministers laughed.

“And serious, as well.”

The strained laughter stopped immediately.

“It was meant to be serious because we all are in the same boat, on a storm-wracked sea. The survival of the world is in doubt. We must work together, and I believe you know that. If you did not, you would not have come here to negotiate.”

Pyrust stalked the carpet as he spoke, turned at the far end and started back again. “One of you is missing.”

“Koir Yoram, Highness.” A young minister bowed deeply. “He was slain a week ago in Moriande.”

“Your name?”

“Karis Shir, Highness. I was chosen to replace him.”

“Very good, Minister Shir. You are Foreign Relations, but that situation may have to change. No, not that you need to resign, but that you need not think of me as a foreigner.”

“As you desire, my lord.”

Let us hope the rest of your fellows are as quick as you are, Shir. Pyrust raised his left hand and removed his glove. He openly displayed his half hand, making certain each of the Helosundians got a good look at it. Most shied from it, a few paled, and fewer smiled.

“You know I lost half my hand in your nation. Desei blood has been spilled here for years. I have had no love for your nation, for you have been an annoyance since before I took the throne. I could easily have you slain and would be happy to turn Vallitsi into another Dark Sea. In fact, were it not for the spirit your warriors have shown me down through the years, that is exactly what I would do.”

He casually tossed his mailed gauntlet onto his chair, where it landed with a heavy thump. “Your warriors are your salvation, or can be. It is not because I feel threatened by them. Moryne should be ample proof I do not. The threat I feel comes from the south—the distant south.”

He mounted the steps to the small dais where his chair sat and plucked the gauntlet up again. “Prince Cyron will not be coming to your salvation because the threat I speak of threatens him as well. Erumvirine is being invaded by forces that have conquered as much as a third of the nation. They may have taken Kelewan even now. This is the reason Cyron pulled his troops from your border and sent them south.”

Pyrust sat and studied the ministers as they mulled over what he had said. Their surprise seemed genuine, and a few of the oldest of the ministers wore expressions of panic. They will likely have to die so more dynamic men may replace them. The others waited for him to continue, realizing the gravity of the situation but interested to hear what he had planned.

Minister Shir raised his head. “Highness, how certain are you of this information?”

“So certain that every Desei citizen capable of holding a pitchfork or paring knife is moving into Helosunde. Things are urgent enough that I have sent them here without sufficient training, weaponry, armor, or provisions. I know many will die, but I will not have Deseirion conquered.”

Pyrust held out both hands, one maimed, one mailed. “You will have to make a choice. You will surrender Helosunde to me entirely and issue calls upon your citizenry to support me. Your troops will move south with mine, through Nalenyr, to face the invaders. You will reap much glory and I shall be generous in my rewards.”

His mailed hand closed into a fist, then he extended his half hand. “If you do not surrender, I cannot move into Nalenyr or beyond. I will still face the invaders, but I will fight them here, in Helosunde. I shall lay waste to your nation, consuming every kernel of grain, burning every stick of wood, flooding the lowlands, flattening villages, slaughtering livestock and salting the fields where I do not sow bracken and thorns. I will make Helosunde an inhospitable wall warding Deseirion. What happens to you and your people will not concern me, because if you do not join me, you are allied with the enemy and therefore must die.”

Shir sat back on his heels while the other ministers kept their heads down. “Even if we accept what you tell us as true—and you have us at a disadvantage, so there is no reason you should lie—getting our people to join with the Desei will be very difficult. Generations of hatred cannot evaporate overnight, no matter the importance of the cause that unites us.”

Pyrust smiled carefully. “Your observation is wise, and has not been lost upon me. I have a solution. You know I took Duchess Jasai to be my wife. You know she is with child. You will elect her child as your next prince, and I shall make Helosunde autonomous beneath his rule. His mother shall serve as princess-regent until he is of age to assume the throne himself. I had sent you a message about this before, but apparently you did not believe it. The circumstances are real. The offer is real.”

Shir’s brown eyes tightened as he considered. Both men knew that Pyrust’s firstborn would also be heir to the Hawk Throne, so in his person both realms would be united. Then again, my son is not yet born, and many treacheries will live and die before he reaches his majority.

For a moment Pyrust realized how awkward a liaison between Jasai and Keles Anturasi would be. Materially it would mean nothing, for the Prince would claim the children and that would be that. He could and might well take other wives and have more heirs to play off against each other. Many treacheries. He slowly shook his head.

Shir nodded. “There is only one difficulty with your suggestion, Highness.”

“The matter of Prince Eiran.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Pyrust tugged his gauntlet on again. “It was this Council of Ministers which made him a prince. Unmake him.”

One of the older ministers sat upright. “That cannot be done.”

“No? I can think of a dozen ways.” Pyrust rose slowly and drew a knife from over his right hip. “In fact, I believe you were hoping I would terminate his reign at Meleswin. I did not simply to vex you. Now his existence vexes me. You do not want me vexed.”

Pyrust raised his right hand and brought it down. Soldiers stationed at the walls loosened ties so the pavilion’s walls flapped down. “I shall allow you to deliberate, but do not take too long. I can be patient when sufficiently motivated, but there has been little motivation so far.”

He strode from the pavilion and let the last flap slide into place. He motioned to the captain of the Fire Hawks. “Ten minutes, then go in and slay the old, fat minister in blue. Cut his throat, but try to keep the blood off the carpet.”

“Understood, Highness.” The man bowed.

Pyrust returned the bow, then walked up to the top of the berm. He studied Vallitsi, with its stout wooden buildings and low stone walls. He actually didn’t like it very much, and would be happy to see it washed down the river like so much debris. The only thing useful in it were the people—people with spirit, who had spent a generation learning how to fight against an organized host.

They are the treasure of Helosunde.

He felt the first patter of rain and watched the lake his men had created dance as drops struck it. Vallitsi’s reflection shattered on the water. Then the rain increased, and the lake reflected only chaos and the wrath of the gods.

He turned and found the Mother of Shadows there, huddled beneath a cloak. “Did you know of Koir Yoram’s death?”

“We had nothing to do with it. Koir overstepped himself and Vniel had him killed.”

“Not the question I asked.”

A low chuckle came from within the cloak’s hood. “I learned of it two hours before you did, but had no verification. We believed Koir to be in Vallitsi, so I had to wait and see if he would emerge.”

“Any other news from the south?”

“From Erumvirine, no. Those who do manage to cross the border are segregated. No news travels north, if there is any. Kelewan must be under siege by now.”

“And a long siege that will be.” Pyrust stroked his jaw with his half hand. “It would take nine regiments to seal it off, and nine times that many to be assured of victory without unacceptable losses. And then all you would have is a city, not a nation.”

“Perhaps the city is what is desired, Highness.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The assassin shrugged. “I mean that not every general considers the greatest gain when he begins a campaign.”

Pyrust laughed aloud, then wiped rain from his face. “Would you apply that axiom to me, Delasonsa?”

“Not on this campaign.” She nodded toward the pavilion. “Neither Cyron nor his nobles will come to you like dogs. You will succeed here, but only because you have Jasai and can offer the dogs hope with her child. Cyron will have nothing.”

Pyrust nodded. In The Dance of War, Urmyr counseled that one should always allow an enemy a route to escape. But circumstances conspired to deny that route to Cyron. He couldn’t flee south. North would be denied to him, and the west of his own nation had little love for him.

“Perhaps he will sail down the Gold River and follow his Stormwolf wherever it went.”

“Or perhaps the Empress Cyrsa will arrive and save him.” The Mother of Shadows slowly shook her head. “Both are equally improbable. Cyron will fight and many of his citizens will stand with him. Moriande may fall, but chances are just as good of its falling to the invaders as you.”

“If the invaders come north, you mean.” Perhaps the invaders only wanted Erumvirine, but the sense of that defied him. The forces they’d expended to take Erumvirine could easily have eaten up the eastern half of Nalenyr and could be surrounding Moriande even now. Nalenyr was far more rich a prize.

He looked at the assassin. “Why Erumvirine?”

“Not having met the enemy, my lord, I cannot guess his mind.”

“An invasion requires a great deal of planning. I would have expected probing attacks over several years before an invasion could be mounted, but these people came prepared. Either they had superior intelligence about Erumvirine, or something is chasing them, giving them no choice but to find a new home.”

“Given how swiftly they’ve eaten into Erumvirine, that may be the most dire idea of all. If they are fleeing, whatever chases them will swallow the Nine whole.”

“Let us hope this is not the case.” Pyrust nodded slowly. “Yes, Captain, you have news?”

The Fire Hawk captain bowed as the rain washed blood from his armor. “The ministers asked to speak with you, Highness.”

“Thank you.”

“Highness, I was unable to spare the carpet.”

Pyrust shrugged. “Fear not. Soon many of the ministers will be without employment. I will have them clean it.”