Chapter Four

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

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Though Grand Minister Pelut Vniel appeared quite calm as he delivered his reports, something about his manner set Prince Cyron on edge. Pelut’s predecessor had always insisted on a formal setting for their discussions, so Cyron had taken it as a good sign that his new Grand Minister was willing to join him in his private chambers. Pelut did evidence some lingering traces of stiffness in the Prince’s presence, but that seemed to be largely affected.

Which means he is using it to hide something. Cyron’s shoulders sagged slightly as a great weariness washed over him. He remembered well how sitting on that same throne had aged his father so quickly. And Father ruled during a time of prosperity, with no enemies actively seeking his destruction.

Muted light glowed gold from the room’s wooden floor and Pelut’s shaved head. “Because of the relatively mild winter, my lord, we anticipate both a bountiful harvest of winter crops and an early planting season. We have no sign of drought and no reason to expect anything less than the abundant harvest with which we were favored last year.”

Cyron nodded, an unruly lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. “This may be true of crops, but if the winter is mild, both the Helosundians and Desei will be free to campaign early. Prince Pyrust would take great delight in attacking during the month of the Hawk.”

“Your Highness’ perception of the political climate is, as always, stunning.”

Cyron held up a hand. “You have no need to gild gold with me, Minister. Your predecessor raised empty praise to an art form, which is why I found dealing with him rather tedious.”

“I understand, my lord.” Pelut bowed low enough to touch his forehead to the floor. His golden silk robe, trimmed in yellow with small red dragons embroidered on it, shimmered and shifted. It allowed Cyron to imagine that his minister was not human at all, but some nightmare creature sent to torment him.

Cyron narrowed his light blue eyes. “You have been monitoring the shipments of rice to Deseirion. For every quor we send north, how much actually reaches Deseirion?”

Pelut straightened. “Minister Kan Hisatal is overseeing the shipments, Highness, and he has been most efficient. He reports to me that ninety-five percent of what we send to Deseirion reaches its intended destination.”

“Really?” Cyron leaned forward, not quite menacingly. “We were going to send a million quor north, so this would mean nine hundred fifty thousand quor will make it. And yet, you told me that forty thousand quor were destroyed in a warehouse fire in Rui.”

“That is true, Highness.”

“You might wonder why I mention this fire. Prince Eiran had ridden to Rui, to meet with other Helosundians and urge them to forestall provoking the Desei in the spring. I had a note from him in which he said he admired our people for their industriousness. He could not believe how quickly they had rebuilt Rui, after the fire.”

Pelut blinked, but Cyron could feel it was forced. “Highness, the destruction was confined to a warehouse.”

“Your informant on that matter was incorrect, Minister.” Cyron rose from his chair and began to pace crisply. His heels clicked sharply with each step and his robe—black, trimmed with gold, embroidered with brightly colored dragons at breast and back—whispered ominously. “A single quor is enough rice to keep a man alive for a year. It occupies roughly six and a third cubic feet. It would take a warehouse one hundred sixty feet on a side, rising to ten stories, to hold it all. Rui may have grown in the past nine years, Minister, but it hasn’t a building over four stories. The fire that consumed that much rice would have consumed the whole of the town.”

“I can see that, Highness.”

“But can your man, Hisatal? Does he think we are blind and stupid? Knowing Eiran would be going to Rui, I asked him to look for fire damage. I had already done the math.”

“Highness, you should have brought your concern to me. You did not need to send Prince Eiran as your personal spy.”

Cyron stopped and glared at Pelut. “My personal spy?”

Pelut’s face tightened, then he bowed to the floor again. “Forgive me, Highness.”

“No, Minister, this bears discussing. Have I not the right to information about my nation? You are the chief of all my ministers, from the grandest to the lowliest clerk. Shouldn’t any information I want come through you?”

“Yes, Highness.”

“I believe that, too, Minister, but I believe you have served me poorly in this matter. What disturbs me more than Hisatal’s fraudulent reporting—and we both know he is diverting grain into markets where he can benefit—is that you saw fit to provide me with the raw reports he sent to you. You did not even correct so elementary an error. Could it be you wanted me to catch it and therefore demand his removal or punishment? Did you want him caught because you had not approved his theft, so therefore the proceeds of his crimes never benefited you? Or was it merely that you saw his actions as a way to undermine a program you never liked?”

“Highness, if I might explain . . .”

“Can you?”

“I believe so, my lord.”

Cyron folded his arms. “Please. This will be fascinating.”

Pelut sat back up, but kept his head bowed. “I had noted the anomaly, Highness, and had begun my own investigation into the truth of the matter. I did not mention it to you because I did not want to cast aspersions on Minister Hisatal without just cause. If it were his subordinates who were stealing and he was just being sloppy in his reporting, he would have to be dealt with—but in quite a different manner than if he were actively stealing.”

“Your explanation makes sense, but I think that is only half of it, or less.

“You misjudge me, Highness.”

“I don’t believe I do. You have never approved of the idea of our sending rice north to keep the Desei from starving. You see the Desei as a threat, and if they starve, there are that many fewer to descend upon us. The diverted rice, if not being sold on the black market, could certainly be waiting as provisions for Helosundian troops this spring. Not only would it not have fed Desei, but it will strengthen those who would kill more of our enemy. That means the chances of disruption to our society is minimal—and that goal is exactly what you have been trained to promote.”

“Highness . . .”

The Prince shook his head. “You need to be listening right now, Minister. As your own Urmyr would put it, ‘The chittering of the dulang masks the approach of the wolf.’ ”

Pelut nodded silently.

“You must remember that Empress Cyrsa, lo these many years ago, divided her Empire among the princes and entrusted it to them, not the Imperial bureaucracy. Do you know why? Because a society that is perfectly ordered is a society that becomes stagnant. It becomes inflexible. You would have it such that every family is a man, a woman, and two children—preferably one of each gender—for it keeps things perfectly stable. But life is not stable. Families change for any of nine thousand different reasons. No planning can encompass them all, which means circumstance is reduced to a controllable number, everything is lumped together, and the society frays because the needs of individuals are not accounted for.”

Pelut’s head came up and fire flashed in his azure eyes. “But, Highness, a society that caters to each individual is one that descends into chaos. It has no stability. No one knows how to act since all acts are valued equally.”

“Nonsense, and you know it. Your society of anarchy is as much a dark fantasy as is mine of perfect stagnant stability. You deliberately miss both of my points. The first is this: by rising to deal with challenges, a society gets better. Look at our current prosperity. Remember how my father and I fought to get ships built for exploration. Doing something new and different has been of a great benefit to the nation. It promotes our long-term welfare and provides us with the resources to deal with new threats.”

Cyron spread his hands. “And my second point is this: the Empress entrusted the nations to the nobility, not the bureaucrats. It is true that I could not administer the nation without you and your people. I acknowledge that and thank you for it. There may well have been princes past who were content to let the ministries do everything for them. I am not among their number. I need information. I need good information, and I will get it from you, or I will get it some other way. It is not because I resent or dislike the ministry; it is because Nalenyr’s welfare is my responsibility. And nothing will prevent me from acquitting it.”

Pelut bowed sharply. “Yes, Highness, I understand.”

“Good.” Cyron returned to his chair. “From now on, I want only accurate information. If you have suspicions, I want them brought to me immediately. How much do you think Hisatal has stolen?”

Pelut’s momentary hesitation told Cyron his answer was a lie. “I suspect him of diverting roughly six percent of the grain into other destinations. As you suggest, some is going to the Helosundians; he has ties to that community. Some has been sold—price fluctuations in some of the northern provinces could be the result of his selling stock off. There are, over all, indications of eight percent shortages. The difference is pilferage by workers, grain consumed by pests, spoilage, and circumstance.”

“I see.” Cyron turned away from the minister and crossed to a pair of doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking his gardens and animal sanctuary. They’d been shuttered for the winter, but still the winds howled faintly through them. He very much wanted to push the doors open, vault from the balcony, and wander through the snowy enclosure, but doing so would be an escape from the very responsibility he’d used to chide the Grand Minister.

He glanced back over his shoulder. “You are dismissed, Minister.”

“But, Highness, there is much more to report.”

“I am aware of that, but I am granting you time to check your figures before you waste more of my time.”

“Yes, Highness. Strength of the Dragon be with you.”

“And you, Minister.”

Cyron again stared at the doors until he heard Pelut slide the room’s other door closed behind him. Convinced he was alone, Cyron raked fingers up through his hair and stifled the urge to scream. He’d had great hopes he could trust Pelut Vniel, and having them dashed was almost more than he could bear.

He took a step forward and rested his forehead against the chill glass in the doors. The secret of Naleni prosperity had been the charts made by the Anturasi family. Qiro, their patriarch, had been a venal, cantankerous, moody man, but his genius with charts had compensated for that. Cyron had indulged the old man as much as he could. As long as Qiro produced the charts that kept Naleni ships safe on the high seas, there was no end to their prosperity.

The difficulty was that Qiro was now missing.

The sheer impossibility of his disappearance would have baffled Cyron, save that he’d been through Anturasikun himself and found no sign of the man. The tower had been a magnificent cage for a genius, and Qiro had only occasionally chafed at his imprisonment. It was almost as if his having supreme knowledge of the world was freedom itself.

What disturbed Cyron most was the map on the wall in Qiro’s personal work space. The world had been drawn in with care, every detail exact. Cyron had always marveled at it and many details had been added since Keles and Jorim had been sent off on their quests. The Prince had no doubt that it represented the world as accurately as possible.

The difficulty was that it showed a new continent to the southeast, occupying what had previously been an unexplored portion of the ocean. The continent had been labeled Anturasixan, and showed all the signs of being a land populated by diverse and ancient cultures.

Cultures of which no one in the Nine Principalities had ever heard.

Worst of all, it had been drawn in Qiro’s blood. And the legend beneath it simply read, “Here there be monsters.”

A shiver skittered down Cyron’s spine. Qiro, genius that he was, arrogantly assumed that his place was rightly among the gods. If he had discovered this land—or, worse, shaped it through magic—there was no telling what sort of creatures lurked there or what their intention would be toward the Principalities.

He would have every right to want revenge! Qiro’s granddaughter, Nirati, had been horribly butchered by a murderer who had gone unidentified and uncaptured. The Prince had ordered a full investigation, but nothing had borne fruit so far, and he was doubtful it ever would. The murder would go unsolved, and Qiro’s wrath would be limitless.

Cyron had wanted to confide the news about Qiro to Pelut, but the man’s willingness to lie meant he could not be trusted with so delicate a bit of information. And yet, without telling him about the possible threat, there was no way the nation could be prepared to handle it. If I dole out just enough information, I will be playing the same sort of game he is.

The Prince straightened up, then ran a hand over his face. Pressure from the north, pressure from the south; rumors of discontent among the inland Naleni lords—it was all slowly crushing him. He crossed to his chair and dropped heavily into it.

Perhaps I should let Pelut just run everything. Better his collapse than mine.

He smiled, then threw his head back and laughed, trying to keep a note of hysteria from it.

A tiny tapping came at the interior door. It slid open enough to reveal a kneeling servant with his head pressed to the floor. “Does his Magnificence require something?”

“No, Shojo, I am fine.”

“Yes, Master.” The older man began to slide the door shut again.

“No, wait, don’t go.” Cyron drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Send a runner to the Lady of Jet and Jade. If it would not be an inconvenience, I would enjoy the pleasure of her company this evening. I have need of relaxation.”

“Yes, Highness, of course.” Shojo lifted his face enough for the Prince to catch the hint of a smile. Not because the Prince was summoning the nation’s legendary courtesan to attend him; Shojo found no scandal in that. He smiled because he didn’t think Cyron did it frequently enough.

“Shojo.”

“Yes, Highness?”

“Don’t send a runner. Convey the message yourself. All arrangements will be in your hands.”

“I shall see to it, Master.”

“Thank you.” The prince bowed his head as the man slid the door shut again. “If only Pelut would serve me as well as you.” Cyron slowly shook his head. “But he does not, which is why the burden of the nation’s future rests squarely on my shoulders. But for how long?” Cyron could sense doom lurking. “And from what direction shall destruction come?”

 

Chapter Five

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

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

Nirati Anturasi rather liked being alive. She dwelt in a paradise that had been a childhood fantasy she’d shared only with her grandfather. Somehow he had shaped it for her and put it at the heart of a vast continent. In Kunjiqui, flowers always bloomed, clouds never cluttered the sky, and water ran cool in streams. Whatever foods or refreshments she desired would be borne to her by small fanciful creatures that, if the expressions in their large eyes could be credited, worshipped her.

The only thing that disturbed her was that she seemed to have remembered dying. Lying naked on the grasses at the edge of a stream, with one toe dipped into the water and fat goldfish nibbling at it, she tried to recall the circumstances of her death. They would not come—though it seemed to her that she had shed her old body the way she shed clothes, and had come to Kunjiqui newborn, innocent, yet a bit wiser and more perceptive than before.

Dying certainly was unpleasant business, and she felt no impetus to dwell upon it, save from time to time when nothing distracted her. These moments of pure peace came seldom on Anturasixan, for much was being done and, she had been assured, much also needed doing.

As her grandfather had shaped her sanctuary, so he shaped and reshaped Anturasixan. From where she lay, she could see him silhouetted as a dark speck against the dying sun. She knew he faced north, but only because along what would have been the line of his vision, a sharp mountain range rose slowly and inexorably, its grey teeth piercing the sky. In one heartbeat snow capped the peaks, and in the next had melted and flowed down into valleys she could not see.

She had not puzzled over how he could do this because, in a sense, he always had been able to do it. When Qiro Anturasi added features to a map, it meant they truly existed. Qiro had defined the world for countless Naleni merchants and sailors. Here he defined his own continent, revising and reshaping it as he would have in changing the details on a map.

Nirati heard a delighted squeal and brought her head up. A tiny creature—barely the size of a two-year-old child, yet with the body and well-formed limbs of an adult human—came bounding through the grasses. Takwee would have appeared to be entirely human, save that a soft ivory down covered her body. Her head, which was slightly large for her body, held big gold eyes, a slightly protuberant muzzle, and was crowned with a glorious golden mane that ran down her spine and matched the tuft at the end of her tail.

Takwee had been born in one of the Anturasixan provinces. Nirati did not know if she were the only one of her people in Kunjiqui, but Takwee did not seem to suffer loneliness. She seemed content to spend time herding the serving creatures or washing and braiding Nirati’s hair. She would chitter and whistle away gaily—Nirati could not understand a thing she said—but the squeal usually presaged one thing only.

In the tiny creature’s wake, a man crested the hill to the north. Quite tall and powerfully built, he descended toward her with a casual confidence. His long black hair danced at his shoulders. The hue matched his beard and the thick mat of hair on his broad chest. His loincloth and eyes both were a deep blue, and Nirati felt joy rising in her at his approach.

She sat up, but made no attempt to cover herself. She and Nelesquin had become lovers. In fact, he had taken her within minutes of their meeting. The memory of it still shocked her—not so much because she had never given herself to a man so quickly before, but because it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was as if upon meeting him, she had discovered the lover she had always been meant to have.

Nirati smiled. “My lord, you have been away much today.”

“And every moment away from you has been as if a year under the lash.” He came and sat at her feet, then leaned over and kissed her. He pulled back after only a second, stared into her eyes, then smiled before kissing her again, more fully and deeply.

Nirati broke their kiss but lingered with her forehead pressed to his. “And why was it you were away so long?”

A little tremor ran through him, and it surprised her. He straightened up and pulled away, his eyes half-closed. “Memories come back slowly, Nirati, and not all of them are pleasant. I collected scrying stones and have consulted them—this helped, but also revealed a number of things to me. I had to sort through them to help me focus. Your grandfather and I will work well together, though his lack of focus hurts us.”

“I am not sure I understand, my lord.”

Nelesquin smiled and caressed her leg. “Take your dear Takwee here. A delightful creature, with many uses, but not suited to the tasks we need to accomplish.”

Takwee, upon hearing her name, looked up from the stream bank where she crouched. She smiled, baring all her teeth, then returned her gaze to the stream. She barked harshly, then dove deep, scattering a small school of bright green fish.

Nirati laughed at her antics and Nelesquin joined her. “I think your grandfather modeled Takwee on the Fennych. He worked from memory, and had not heard the true tales, or sought to forget them. It seems much of the truth of the world has been lost.”

She smiled indulgently. “I have no doubt it is as you say, my lord.”

“And I am chastened for telling you my conclusions without sharing my full thoughts.” He nodded. “Indulge me, please, Nirati.”

“As you desire.”

“Tell me what you know of Empress Cyrsa.”

Nirati frowned, not at all certain what the last empress had to do with anything on Anturasixan. “I only know her from the tales told to children, my lord. At the time of the Turasynd invasion she gathered together all the greatest heroes of the Empire. She took them west, along with the Imperial treasury, so the barbarians would follow her into the far provinces. There they fought a battle that released much wild magic. It devastated the provinces and created the Time of Black Ice. Millions died as magic and years without summer ravaged the land. Some say she was killed in the battle, others say she waits in far Ixyll for a threat to the Empire to rise, whence she will return with her army to restore peace and order.”

“I thought as much.” Nelesquin shook his head. “She is a hero.”

“Yes. She saved the Empire.”

“But she was the one to split it into the Nine Principalities, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, but only to prevent the power-hungry from tearing everything apart while she was away.” Nirati frowned. “Is this not true, my lord?”

“In some ways I suppose it is, Nirati, for any tale that survives the generation that lived it becomes the truth. It is not what I remember. It is a story that masks a monster, and it is against that monster your grandfather and I will strike.”

Nelesquin turned his head from her and gazed northwest, toward the land once known as the Empire. “Cyrsa has, no doubt, been counted as one of the last emperor’s many wives. He did have quite the harem, for along with a love of peace, he loved women and spirits. He was, by all accounts, weak-willed. Still, we hoped, he would someday be able to pick an heir from among his many sons. I eventually attained that position, but that is somewhat beside the point.

“Cyrsa was not one of his wives of long standing. She was a common whore, gifted to him by a noble who sought his favor. She infatuated him and distracted him at a time when distraction was the last thing we needed.”

Nelesquin’s eyes narrowed and his expression darkened. “When the Turasynd invaded, we all beseeched the Emperor to act. We were ready to gather an army, but with each report of their attacks, the Emperor withdrew a bit more. He knew what fighting them would do to the Empire and could not bring himself to order such destruction. Yet his good intentions doomed the Empire.

“Cyrsa acted. She murdered the Emperor in his bed and was found naked and blood-spattered by Soshir. He should have slain her outright, but he did not. He wanted to be her consort, clearly, so he supported her claim that she was now the Empress. She issued orders to gather an army and head west. She sundered the Empire, looted it, and fled the capital.”

Nelesquin looked at her, his expression opening. “I tell you in truth, dear Nirati, that I was prideful in my youth, but I was not stupid or untalented. The whore’s division of the Empire made me the Prince of Erumvirine, the Crown Province. Perhaps that should have satisfied my ambitions, but it did not. I gathered my loyal retainers and went with her. I suspected treachery, and was rewarded with it. I died in Ixyll because of her. She was so afraid of the esteem in which I was held that she split my army off and offered me as a sacrifice to the Turasynd.”

Nirati closed her eyes tight as memories of pain washed over her. She drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she slowly opened her eyes. “But if you died, how is it that you are here now?”

Nelesquin, gaze focused distantly, shook his head. “I do not know, but the how of things does not concern me. It is the why that intrigues. And from our conversations, from what I have learned from your grandfather, I think I know the answer. If I am correct, the world may face a challenge yet greater than the Time of Black Ice.”

“How so?”

“Consider this. Cyrsa was never a stupid woman. She knew the sort of catastrophe her battle would unleash. She had no idea if the world would survive or not, but she was certain it would be devastated. She planned, therefore, to deal with the world after it had been healed. She planned her return then, when things would be closest to what they were when she departed.”

“But how would she know when that time was?”

He smiled grimly. “It is simple, Nirati. She created a sanctuary in Ixyll, where she could wait out the years of wild magic. The Turasynd have a different understanding of it than we do, and she captured and tortured enough of their shaman to learn their secrets. She creates her sanctuary and waits, like a spider tucked safely in her web. When the wild magic has receded enough, explorers will come. All she has to do is capture them, learn from them, and plot her return.”

Nirati’s eyes grew wide. “But my brother, Keles, is bound for Ixyll.”

“I know. Your grandfather has told me this. Still, it could have been worse. If Qiro had succeeded in finding her earlier, Anturasixan would not exist. We would have no base from which to fight her.”

“Can we fight her?”

“Oh yes, most assuredly.” His smile warmed. “With my help, your grandfather is preparing an army that will oppose her. His initial efforts have had modest results—he learns quickly, but has no background in warfare. But the mountains he raised today are full of iron, and I have shaped creatures that will mine and refine it, creating steel for armor and weapons. In other provinces we will raise warriors worthy of the name, whose skill at combat will be finely honed. We will be ready.”

“But Ixyll is a long way from here.”

“Agreed, but we have our second purpose to consider, as well as the first. We will need a base of operations, so our armies will first return to me my birthright. I shall be Prince of Erumvirine again. After that, we shall consolidate our position and wait for her arrival.”

“And your second purpose?”

Nelesquin smiled softly and drew her into his lap. “Do you not remember my telling you that you would be avenged, Nirati? I know what they did to you there. I don’t know who did it but I know there is punishment to be meted out, and unruly princes to be brought to heel. Order shall be restored to the lands of the Empire, so we may face Cyrsa with a united front. To do otherwise would be foolish.”

“Yes, my lord.” Nirati reached up, sinking fingers into his black hair. “And once she is destroyed, we can go home again?”

“Yes, Nirati.” Nelesquin nodded solemnly. “I shall return the world to the perfection that was the Empire, and together we will make the world into paradise.”

 

Chapter Six

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

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Nemehyan, Caxyan

For at least the third time that day, Jorim Anturasi wondered if all the gods had gotten their start this way. He sat on a circular stone platform set in the bottom of a bowl-shaped room. It had been buried in the lower reaches of the largest ceremonial pyramid in Nemehyan. A star-shaped stone had been fitted into the ceiling about twenty feet above him. The Amentzutl maicana—the ruling magician class—had shaped and set the stone with magic. They’d pierced it with tiny holes, so the stone wept. Its tears poured down on him.

The water soaked him, pasting the golden robe with the black dragons embroidered on it to his body. He found its clinging an annoyance, but on this, the fifth day of his ritual cleansing, at least he would actually get clean. He’d endured one ritual for every day of the Amentzutl creation story, with each rite centering on that day’s symbolic element—although the sequence ran in reverse. The first day, he dwelt in a tree because the rain forests were the final bit of creation. The third day, for earth, he lived in a cave. He’d survived that and the ordeal of fire, which brought him to water.

The relentless dripping was enough to drive him mad, so he did his best to shut his mind to it and concentrate on his predicament. By agreement with Anaeda Gryst, the Stormwolf’s captain, Jorim had communicated nothing of his discovery to his grandfather. No one in Nalenyr knew where the expedition was or what it had discovered. Besides, in his most recent attempts to reach his grandfather, he’d been unable to make mind-to-mind contact. He knew that his grandfather was out there—and his brother as well—but both of them were distracted enough that he couldn’t even be certain they noticed his attempts to reach them.

It would not have mattered much if they had, because he still could not have gotten across the whole of his experience. As part of the Stormwolf expedition, he’d sailed on Nalenyr’s largest ship into the vast Eastern Sea. At its far edge they’d discovered a continent no one in the Nine knew existed. The people who lived there called themselves the Amentzutl, and believed Jorim was the incarnation of their god Tetcomchoa, who had returned to save them in a time of dire peril.

To complicate matters, the Amentzutl identified the threat as the rising of a demon-god, Mozoloa, in the west. Iesol Pelmir, the Stormwolf’s ship’s clerk, had noticed a curious linkage between one of Mozoloa’s secondary names and that of an old Imperial prince, Nelesquin. Iesol said there were stories that Nelesquin, like Empress Cyrsa, would rise again from his grave and return to the Nine—but only to wreak havoc.

A howling shriek broke his concentration. He turned his head and saw a small, stout creature spinning and sliding down the inside of the wet bowl. For a moment, he reminded Jorim of a small bear he’d once seen playing in Prince Cyron’s sanctuary, especially when he abruptly sat down with a splash and glided right into the puddle at the room’s base. The creature looked up, his tufted ears rising. He leaped up, fur dripping, and tackled Jorim.

“Jrima, Jrima, glad, heart-glad.”

“Me, too, Shimik.” Jorim grabbed the Fennych and held him up much as a father might a child. “How much have you changed since I last saw you?”

The Fenn wriggled free of his grasp, then stepped away and slowly twirled. The fur that covered his sturdy body had once been all shades of brown, but had changed significantly during his time with the Amentzutl. The fur on his head had become mostly gold, but striped with jade. Likewise, gold and jade twisted into a pattern reminiscent of the dragon crest decorating Jorim’s robe. Finally, two tufts of hair rose from his forehead; tiny twins of the sorts of feathers the Amentzutl used to decorate their masks of gold.

“A bit more gold. Not unexpected.”

“Actually, Jorim, it’s surprising he remains that much the same.” A tall, slender woman with dark hair and hazel eyes walked along the bowl’s edge. She wore the robes allowed her as the captain of the Stormwolf, this one of deep blue with white wolf’s heads embroidered on them. “He was fairly frantic when they took you away and went hunting in the jungles to find you.”

The Fenn nodded slowly, his dark eyes growing wide. “Lost, Jrima lost.”

“Not lost, just away.”

“Jrima found!”

The Fenn’s elated shout made Captain Gryst smile, and the small man who trailed in her wake laughed. Iesol Pelmir looked every inch a clerk, from his bald head to his ink-stained fingers. Though he wore a ship’s robe—this one of white with black wolf’s heads much smaller than those on Anaeda Gryst’s—no one could have mistaken him for a sailor.

Jorim looked up at his visitors. “You wouldn’t be here if the maicana had not allowed it.”

“No, they agreed. They’re an interesting lot.” Anaeda sat on the bowl’s lip and let her feet dangle. “While they all profess agreement with our plans to leave inside a week, they are doing little to see my ships provisioned. Day after day they agree that things will be finished in a week, but that week shows no sign of ending.”

“Really?” Jorim frowned. “We were very clear on our intention to leave. I wouldn’t think they would deceive us this way.”

The clerk raised a hand. “I don’t believe, Master Anturasi, they are being deceptive. As the Master says, ‘A tree is tall save when the eagle passes over it.’ ”

“You’re quoting from Urmyr, not the Amentzutl Book of Wisdom?”

“No, but there are parallel sayings.”

Anaeda raised an eyebrow. “And, Minister Pelmir, your thoughts about deception are?”

The clerk stiffened. “Forgive me, Captain. It is just that a week for us and a week for them may be different.”

Anaeda shook her head. “I’ve seen their calendar. Their weeks are nine days long, just like ours.”

“But, Captain, we are in centenco. We are outside their calendar.”

Anaeda frowned. “In what way?”

Jorim sighed as Shimik wandered around the platform, head back, tongue out, trying to catch droplets. “The Amentzutl figure time on a cycle running seven hundred thirty-seven years. After that they enter a time called centenco. It’s like our festivals.”

“But our festivals last a week, then we are back to another trimester.”

“Right. For the Amentzutl, centenco lasts only a week, but may have many more days than nine. It lasts however long it takes for the new cycle to begin. I gather there have been times when it has lasted years.”

Anaeda scowled darkly. “So when they agreed they would train you and give you back your divine powers ‘in a week,’ they meant by the end of centenco.

“Right.”

“That is not acceptable.” She shook her head. “We are on an expedition for Nalenyr. Just having discovered the Amentzutl and their continent is of very great importance. I cannot allow my fleet to be bound up here for an undetermined length of time. The considerations of our mission are paramount, over and above concerns about the threat they report from the west. If the threat exists, Nalenyr may have no idea it is being threatened, and we have a duty to inform the Prince of his peril.”

Jorim stood slowly. “I don’t disagree, but we have two other considerations to keep in mind.”

“Such as?”

“The original reason we agreed I would not inform my grandfather about what we had found is because knowledge of it could create chaos back in Nalenyr. Countless ships could be launched toward Caxyan without reliable charts, and those who made it might well cause harm to the Amentzutl.” Jorim hooked his hands behind his neck. “Other nations might see this as something that will make Nalenyr so rich it cannot be opposed, so they will strike. To bring back knowledge of the Amentzutl before learning as much as we can about them would be foolish.”

“But, Captain, if I may, we have a greater difficulty.”

Anaeda and Jorim both looked at Iesol, so he continued. “If this threat is real, then the Amentzutl believe that Tetcomchoa-reborn is the only way it can be dealt with. Jorim must be trained to accept his powers, else all the warning in the world will be to no avail.”

“But they could be wrong.”

“True, Captain, but you are picking and choosing which parts of their beliefs you will validate with no information to help you make that decision.” Iesol shrugged. “The understanding I have of their history, meager as it is, suggests they are not wrong.”

She snorted. “I know.”

Jorim smiled. “Anaeda, you just don’t want to be stuck here doing nothing. I can feel the restlessness in you.”

“It’s not just me, it’s the whole expedition. While we were exploring, we had a purpose. Without purpose, the crew will fragment. It has already begun.”

“Really?” Jorim frowned. “What’s been going on while I’ve been going through these rituals?”

She raised her chin, her face an impassive mask. “Ships’ crews are superstitious. Rumors have flown that you are to be made maicana. You’ll be learning to use magic, and many tales are being told of the vanyesh.

Vanyesh. The word sent a trickle of fear down Jorim’s spine. The Cataclysm that brought the Time of Black Ice had been the fault of Nelesquin and his vanyesh. While anyone who trained hard enough in any endeavor could hope to become a Mystic, the vanyesh worked to harness magic by working with magic. Tales of the vanyesh were vile and used mostly to frighten children—but men can easily rekindle that fear in themselves.

“So, they think I’ll become a new Nelesquin?”

“Not all of them. Some know of the last vanyesh trapped in Moriande. They know Kaerinus heals people during the Festival, and they say the Amentzutl maicana don’t seem to hurt anyone. Still, they’ve seen strange things on this journey. They’re a long way from home, and unusual things make them uneasy.”

“I know.” Jorim looked down and watched water drip from his braided side locks. “They’re not the only ones afraid of my training. But it really doesn’t matter if they are afraid that I’ll become like Nelesquin or not. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Surprise widened Anaeda’s eyes. “You, afraid of something?”

“Only myself.” He looked up at Iesol. “What does the Master say that is relevant?”

“Many things, Master Anturasi, but Book Nine, Chapter Five, Verse Nine speaks most to your point.” The clerk knelt and his voice became very solemn. “And the Master said, ‘Wisdom often begets power, but the child often destroys the work of the father.’ ”

A jolt ran through Jorim. “Yeah, that pretty much covers it.”

“You are afraid of power?” Anaeda grinned. “That’s not possible. You have been raised in one of the most powerful families in Nalenyr. Your grandfather’s merest whim is something the Prince treats like a command. You can’t fear power.”

“I don’t fear power, I fear what I might do with it.” He looked up at her. “You know of my grandfather, but you don’t know of my uncle, and my cousins and their children. You’ve not seen how my grandfather’s use of power has left them. Uncle Ulan was once his equal, but years of Qiro’s belittling have worn him down. I can barely remember a time when Ulan did not quake in my grandfather’s presence. Yes, I grew up around power, and I know how it can twist someone.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Jorim.”

“No? Urmyr’s opinion seems to be that there is no other result.”

Anaeda glanced at the clerk. “No disrespect to Urmyr, but this is not always true. Power distills and concentrates what is already there. I sail for the Prince of Nalenyr, and I have sailed under captains both good and bad. Aboard ship their word is law, to be obeyed without question. Some captains are cruel and live in fear, and it consumes them. Others are smart and brave, and their crew thrive with them.

“If what Urmyr said was an absolute, we would have no navy. We would have no leaders because the moment anyone rose to power, it would consume him. This isn’t true; we’ve all seen that.”

Jorim bowed his head toward her. “You’re a fine example, Anaeda. You are firm and fair, quick to discipline, but quick to praise. You’ll punish, but you’ll forgive and you listen to reason. I can accept you as proof of what you say. The question then is, how do you know how you will handle power?”

She laughed quickly. “It distills, remember? Look at how you handle everything, Jorim. Look at your life, at times when you have had to lead, or chafe under the leadership of another. How you act and have acted will tell you.”

He smiled, but she raised a hand. “One thing, however, will be very important. You need to think about the consequences when you’re wrong.”

“With the powers of a god at my command, they could be catastrophic.”

“Of that there is no doubt.” She stood and beckoned to Shimik. “We will leave you now, so you can reflect. Imagine the worst you can possibly imagine, then double and triple it. Then you might begin to see the first glimmers of how bad things could be.”

Jorim’s shoulders slumped. “You’re making this very hard.”

“No, I’m just helping you define the challenge.” Anaeda Gryst regarded him with sharpened eyes. “If you think that challenge is something you couldn’t handle as a man, you don’t want it as a god.”

“I don’t think I have much choice.”

“Perhaps not.” She took Shimik’s paw in her hand. “But then you better find it in yourself to answer that challenge, for failure to do so may be the greatest catastrophe of all.”