Chapter Thirty-four
26th 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
Kelewan, Erumvirine
I heard Captain Lumel enter the armory behind me, but I did not turn to face him. Instead I tightened the cords binding my armor on. There were only two things he could say to me. One, and I would have to kill him; the other and he would be the man I thought he was.
“So, you are abandoning us.”
“A statement, not a question; good.” I smiled, but didn’t let him see it. I concentrated on knotting the orange cords with a tiger’s-head knot. Despite my crest’s being a tiger hunting, I’d not used that knot in a long time—since before I became Moraven Tolo apparently, because my fingers fumbled at it. Still, I managed, working black cord in for the stripes and eyes. The knots made nice targets for archers with cord-cutting heads on their arrows, but so far the kwajiin had not employed them.
I turned, and he covered his surprise well. The armor I’d chosen had been last worn by a Morythian general who died at Bakken Rift, when the Bears had charged uphill and routed their enemies. The Tiger crest on the breastplate did not match mine, but the alternating black and orange cords, as well as the background stripes, suited me.
“You know I’m not abandoning the city. I told Prince Jekusmirwyn at the first that his city was lost. I never intended to stay.”
Captain Lumel wore the Jade Bears green-and-black armor well. He cut an imposing figure, and even a few cuts through the paint had not lessened his image. He’d defended against the enemy’s first forays, and had already become something of a legend within the city by challenging a kwajiin and defeating him in single combat. I’d watched the duel and felt the tingle of jaedun. If he survived the siege, Lumel would be a Mystic.
“It was assumed that you would stay because you did not flee with others as the kwajiin surrounded the city.”
“But that wasn’t an assumption you made.”
He smiled slightly, then shook his head. “I knew you wouldn’t stay. Your first analysis was correct. The city is indefensible. Those who got out early are likely to be the only ones who survive. Why did you stay?”
“To see how they fight. I’ve engaged them in small bands, and the kwajiin have changed things. I wanted to see how they would handle a city.”
He slowly nodded. “It has been an education.”
“For both sides.”
The kwajiin methodology of warfare promised many new things, but some I found hauntingly familiar. The invaders came in from the southeast and did make one run at Bloodgate. The vhangxi attacked in strength, but it still felt like a probe to me. The grey-skinned horde poured onto the plain and came at the gate. Archers rained arrows down from the walls while the vhangxi leaped nearly to the parapets to attack them. They had no equipment to hammer the gates down, so the attack really had no chance of success.
The Jade Bears had been on the walls repulsing them, and Captain Lumel’s troops fought hard. Had they been less disciplined, it would have been possible for vhangxi to get into the city, though I doubt they had the presence of mind to open the gates to their fellows. In case that was their plan, my companions and I were poised to interfere, but our aid was not called for.
When Captain Lumel issued his challenge to one of the kwajiin, I don’t think either knew what they were getting into. The vhangxi attack had faltered, and the kwajiin had come forward to call them back. He slew two of the vhangxi when they sought to rebel, and a third drove at his back. It might have gotten to him, but it did not because Captain Lumel ordered archers to bring the beast down.
The kwajiin raised his sword in a salute and, in words no one but I seemed to understand, said his life was Lumel’s. Lumel then pointed to the circle with his own sword, and the two of them agreed to meet. I translated, because I wanted Lumel to know what was happening. He didn’t have to challenge the kwajiin, but once events started to unfold, the Virine warrior did not shrink from them.
The two warriors entered the circle—Lumel having emerged through a sally port at Bloodgate. They saluted each other, then began to fight. The kwajiin preferred Eagle, Tiger, and Wolf as fighting styles. They let him be on the attack at all times, and he pressed it. While I sensed no jaedun radiating from him, he possessed a native talent that exceeded that of many warriors—even those of superior training.
Virine to the core, Lumel remained patient. Mantis, Crane, and Dragon withstood the invader’s attacks. Lumel was skilled, and jaedun flashed as he avoided some cuts and parried others. Still, he benefited from the fact that he was a more recent student of the sword, and refinements in techniques made it easier for him to defend against the kwajiin’s more archaic forms.
But the kwajiin died because Lumel broke form. The invader had lunged while Lumel waited in Crane form three. The blade slid along the Virine’s breastplate, but scored nothing more than paint. Lumel kicked out with his right foot, aiming for the kwajiin’s right knee. The enemy warrior twisted so the kick missed to the left, but Lumel then hooked his foot back and drove his spur through the kwajiin’s right knee.
As the enemy went down, he tried to slash at Lumel, but the Virine grabbed his wrist. Lumel followed him down, then drove his knee into the kwajiin’s right biceps, shattering his arm with a sharp crack. He brought his sword’s hilt down into the blue-skinned warrior’s face, smashing teeth. Two more punches left the enemy dazed and bleeding, then Lumel stood and harvested his head with a single stroke.
He still wore the sword he’d taken from the kwajiin, but he had strapped it to his back, where it served as a challenge to others to take it from him.
Thus ended the only noble part of the siege. After that the kwajiin commanders brought more troops up and encircled the city. They even placed troops on the other side of the Green River in case any of the city’s residents decided to swim for freedom. Their encirclement complete, they sent parties to the nearby forests to gather wood for the creation of siege machinery.
While waiting for their towers to be completed, they launched other attacks. In the depths of the night they released their winged toads. Ranai had seen them before, and many people died that first night. Those who didn’t die actually created more of a problem, for the deep bite wounds festered. Moreover, the creatures’ vile saliva loosened bowels and soon the city was awash in night soil.
The winged toads came again the next night, but we were prepared for them. Fishing nets had been taken from the docks and strung through alleys and between towers. People armed themselves with broomsticks, candlesticks, short knives and long. They pounded and hacked at anything that flew. While there were injuries visited upon each other in the frenzy, the attacks devastated the winged toads and showed how ineffective they were against a prepared populace.
The second assault proved more dangerous. As with any city, Kelewan had a sewer system. Gates and grates guarded against any enemy soldiers infiltrating that way, but the kwajiin employed a different weapon. They released creatures with the sharp teeth and voracious appetites of the vhangxi, but most closely resembled small otters or large weasels. They swam into the sewers and up through pipes, crawling into cesspits beneath toilets. They were possessed of singular jumping capabilities.
They attacked when people—many suffering from the winged toad venom—were least on guard. To hear the commotion described could almost make it seem comical—a man runs screaming from a toilet, sporting a furred tail. The fact that the tail shrank as the creature gnawed its way up through his bowels, on the other hand, painted the horror in stark terms that converted buckets into toilets, and the Illustrated City suddenly found itself with brown splashes trailing from every window.
The dung-otters proved almost as easy to deal with as the winged toads, once we learned they preferred live prey to carrion. Their weakness was fire, so dumping oil in a puddle in a sewer formed the basis of a trap. We’d throw a hapless cur down there to whine in the darkness. When it started barking, then yelped in terror, we tossed a torch down and ignited the oil. While we didn’t study the results all that closely, we got a fair number of dung-otters for each dog, and the kwajiin ran out of dung-otters well before our supply of dogs evaporated.
The Illustrated City endured the siege for a week before the kwajiin began to tighten the circle. They decided to attack at Bloodgate. I had no doubt it was a matter of honor, which made them remarkably predictable. According to Urmyr, that should have made them easy for us to defeat. But defeating them would have required an army capable of lifting the siege, and unless Prince Cyron was a day away with the whole of the Naleni military, the siege would not be broken.
In that week, the Illustrated City had broken. Aside from the brown stains and the inhuman stink, the bodies decomposing in the streets and the infirm wailing in pain, a more fundamental change had taken place. The Virine had always prided themselves on having been the Empire’s capital. I’m sure they believed that when the Empress returned, it would be to Kelewan and to the sealed throne room where the Celestial Throne waited in darkness. With every day, citizens looked to the northwest for some sign of her coming, then looked to the southeast to know that she would not arrive in time.
This crushed their spirit and, with few exceptions, they resigned themselves to dying with their city. They had lived for it. Their lives had been inscribed on its walls. It was their history, and it was about to be destroyed. Some people even took their own lives, choosing a peaceful passing over to what would befall Kelewan.
I slid my swords through the sash girding my armor. “You know I am leaving with my people. You’ll not try to stop me.”
He shook his head. “The Jade Bears and I are coming with you. We’re only a battalion, but the archers of the Sun Bears are coming as well.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What about your duty to the Prince?”
“This is part of it.” He glanced back toward the door of the armory. “Crown Prince Iekariwynal and your boy, Dunos, are being fitted with identical armor. We are tasked with getting the Crown Prince away.”
“It’s better the boy die here, you know.” I nodded toward Whitegate. “What he will see there will haunt him forever.”
“The same will be true of Dunos.”
“No, Dunos has lived through his nightmare.” I nodded to him. “Bring the Crown Prince. You know our plan. You hate it, of course.”
“Only the necessity of it. Midnight, Whitegate.” He bowed to me. “Kelewan will die, but Erumvirine will live.”
“Forget Erumvirine. Look to living yourself.”
Deshiel had the foresight to line up several wagons near Whitegate. They were actually corpse wagons, but as no traffic could get through Whitegate to the cemeteries beyond, no one had bothered to collect bodies for burial. It occurred to me that one benefit of this situation was that the kwajiin army would have its noses full of the stink of death.
My company had swelled to nearly eighty-one, which would have been a welcome omen save that this heavily taxed our supply of horses. In combination with the Bears, we had a substantial cavalry force, and had seen nothing in the enemy to rival it. Especially not in the forces opposite Whitegate, which seemed the least disciplined and weakest of the enemy troops.
Of course, one has to expect discipline to break down when one stations carrion eaters in graveyards.
The wagons had been fitted with barrels of oil and were drawn by four-horse teams. We’d even found people desperate or insane enough to drive them. Everyone knew we would set the wagons on fire and hope to cut a flaming path through the enemy line. It would be the only way out of the city, and countless people gathered amid the rendering houses, tanneries, butchers, and mortuaries of Whitetown to join us on this mad dash for survival.
I gave the signal and the portcullis was drawn up. The bar on the gates slid back, then the gates themselves slowly opened. The moment the gap proved sufficient for a wagon to make it through, Deshiel applied a torch and the driver cracked a whip. I was not certain whether the horses feared the whip, the fire, or the crowd of hungry people milling about, but they shot through the gate. Two more flaming wagons followed, then our cavalry went.
Whitegate pointed west-northwest toward a pair of hills covered with graves and mausoleums dating back to the Imperial period. The road curved north, then broke directly for the hills. The cavalry poured through the gate, then immediately south, to get off the road. We assembled in good order and trotted parallel to the road, onto which spilled a screaming mass of terrified humanity.
People had been reduced to nothing more than herd beasts. We’d started many rumors among them. To some we said that being in front was best, to get through the lines before the enemy reacted. To most others we recommended staying tight with the pack, as they would be but one among many and the enemy wouldn’t get them. A few contrarians hung back, assuming their best chance lay in seeing where the enemy went, then going elsewhere. We saw no reason to contradict their thinking.
The enemy reacted, and their kwajiin leaders could not control them. The vhangxi charged forward from their trenches and fortresses, abandoning barbicans and leaving their commanders screaming orders at them. They raced in at the refugees, saliva slicking their flesh, tongues lolling from their mouths.
Ranai, riding between me and Dunos, spoke sharply. “Don’t watch, Dunos.”
“He’s seen it before.”
She turned on me. “He doesn’t need to see it again. He’s only ten years old, Master.”
“And he will be eleven because of those people.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You gave them false hope.”
“They were dead anyway.” I shrugged. “Maybe some will escape.”
There was an outside chance that I would be correct, or there was until the vhangxi drew close to the first fire wagon. The horses shied and the wagon tipped, launching the burning barrels. They burst when they hit the ground, leaving the road awash in burning oil. A second wagon rode into the fire and its cargo exploded, lighting the night. The third left the road toward our side and flipped, sowing fire in a crescent from the road toward the south.
The people, confronting this vast arc of flames, stopped. The front ranks did anyway, then people slammed into them from behind. The forward ranks got pitched into the fire and the vhangxi, undaunted, leaped over it to fall on the milling masses.
By that time we’d ridden far enough forward that the fire hid the worst of the carnage. Three hundred yards from the enemy line, we lowered our spears and formed up in a double column eighteen wide. I aimed us for a point just south of the breastwork they’d raised across the road. As we closed to a hundred yards, we moved into a fast trot, then, at fifty, a full gallop.
The Sun Bears arced arrows above us that peppered the kwajiin and vhangxi remaining to defend their line. Half the enemy fell to that attack, and most of the surviving vhangxi fled. The kwajiin drew their swords and though I could not hear them over the thunder of hoofbeats, I knew they were announcing their histories and inviting us to join the company of all those their ancestors had slain.
A woman stepped into my path, facing me straight on, with both hands wrapped around the hilt of her sword. She braced to bat my spearpoint aside, then cut the legs out from under my horse. I knew the tactic. I’d done it before.
I’d seen others killed trying it.
I rose in my stirrups, spun the spear to reverse my grip, then hurled with all my strength. It flew straight, coming in faster than she had expected, and at a sharper angle. Though she did get her sword on it, it still pierced her hip. She spun down and away and I was past her.
Past her, past the enemy line, free.
Still high in the stirrups, I turned to look back at the city. The writhing shadows from the slaughter danced over the city’s walls. To the southeast, the first of what would be many flaming projectiles arced up from the kwajiin line to spread fire through the Illustrated City. People scurried about on the walls, and some arrows arced back, but the defenders clearly would not survive long.
Our cavalry made it through with few casualties. Had I given the order, we could have wheeled right and hit another part of the enemy line. We could have wrought havoc, and might even have been able then to turn back toward the city, kill the vhangxi around the fire, and usher some of the refugees away.
For a moment I considered giving that order. I knew I would be obeyed without question. My people would actually welcome the chance to do more, to avenge their city’s death.
The words waited on the tip of my tongue, but I did not speak them.
Had we turned, we would have done damage. We would have given those watching some hope.
False hope.
Kelewan would be avenged. That I knew. But not this night, not this place.
Turning northwest, we rode as if the whole kwajiin army pursued us.
Chapter Thirty-five
28th 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
Tolwreen, Ixyll
Stripped to the waist and already beginning to sweat, Ciras Dejote entered the circle in the heart of the metal tower. The sword he bore was the one that had come from the Ixyll grave. Over the time he’d been in Tolwreen, between being subjected to a variety of tests or feasts offered in his honor, he’d learned the blade had once belonged to Jogot Yirxan, a Morythian member of the vanyesh who had been a swordsman without equal.
Across from him, a hulking silver behemoth stalked into the circle. He bore a resemblance to a man because he had begun as one. All of his bones had been wrapped in silver, and the metal had been etched with very fine dragons coiling and cavorting along the polished surface. Over the years, as the work was continued, the bones had been split and extended, so now the thing known as Pravak Helos stood eight feet tall and boasted a second set of arms. They linked into the body right at the lower edge of the ribs, and were silvery whiplike appendages that ended in short, sharp dagger blades.
In his upper two hands, Pravak bore swords, each the equal of the blade Ciras carried. His opponent hardly needed the swords since his hands ended in long, very sharp claws and the outer edge of his lower forearm bone had been serrated. When he was fully alive, Pravak had enjoyed stalking and killing Viruk. In reshaping himself, he’d become more than their match.
His skull had likewise been coated in inscribed silver, but he wore a mask that resembled what he’d looked like in life. The fullness of his face, as well as the wild tangle of filaments that danced from a warrior knot at the back of his head, let Ciras imagine what he must have been when mortal. The fact that he had hunted Viruk did layer muscle into those bones, painting a picture of a fighter who relied on power more than speed.
And he has the advantage here again. Ciras bowed deeply and held it for a respectful time. His foe did the same, then set himself. He adopted the first Scorpion form, with both swords up and back, but the two tentacles darted forward, promising punishment for a rash attack.
Ciras drew the sword and scabbard from his sash and bared the blade. He kept the scabbard in his left hand. His foe’s stance offered him two easy choices for offense, and one for defense, but he really found himself facing two foes. Granted, they were joined at the hip and would coordinate their attacks, but he had to watch out for twice as much as he would with one opponent.
Then again, there is one set of legs, so there is a weakness. Ciras smiled, though he was truly unable to tell if that insight had come from his own mind, or through his connection with the vanyesh blade. He had a sense of having faced Pravak Helos before and having beaten him. That meant Pravak would be looking for revenge. He’ll be dwelling on the last time we fought.
Pravak took a step forward and Ciras noticed another weakness. His foe had a high center of gravity, so any lunges would overextend him. He would have to recover, but just how fast he could remained to be seen.
That is knowledge I require.
Ciras took one deep breath, then puffed it out quickly. He dropped into Dragon fourth and advanced quickly, his scabbard high and blade low. He twisted away from a slash by the left whip, then parried a sword cut high. He darted past on the left, then leaped back. Pravak’s right sword whistled down on a diagonal cut that struck sparks from the marble floor.
Ciras took one step forward, then whirled. He presented his back to his enemy for a heartbeat, then snapped the scabbard up and smashed Pravak in the face. The right tentacle whipped in, seeking to entangle Ciras, but the Tirati ducked. The tentacle wrapped itself around Pravak’s spine and, as Ciras spun away to the right, he brought his sword up and severed the slender cable.
The tentacle uncoiled and slithered down through Pravak’s pelvis to the ground. The lumbering behemoth turned to the right, but Ciras had already stepped back out of range of the return slash. He continued to move to his own left, keeping the second whip well away from him. He parried when pressed, slipped away when he could, and kept his enemy moving.
With a flesh-and-blood foe—especially one who would have been bleeding from having lost the tentacle—the strategy of avoidance would have proven very effective. But the creature he faced was not flesh and blood, and was drawing sustenance from the world around him. Ciras, on the other hand, was already slick with sweat. He wiped his brow and splashed the ground with a flick of his wrist.
A battle of endurance would only end one way.
Then Pravak did the unexpected. He kicked the tentacle at Ciras. It slithered across the ground and Ciras easily leaped above it. In doing so, however, he froze himself in place. Without a foot on the ground, he could not dodge, and that was the moment Pravak charged. Blades held wide, and the single tentacle extended like a spear, the vanyesh drove forward.
Three attacks. He could parry any two, but the last would get him. Panic shot through him, but Ciras fought it down. Then his right foot touched the ground and without thinking, he acted.
And felt himself awash in the tingling of jaedun.
Ciras dove forward, face-first, feeling a sting as the tentacle’s blade scored the flesh over his right shoulder and buttock. He landed on his chest and slid forward, then stabbed both arms out. The sword and scabbard each sank between the large and small shinbones. Drawing his legs in and then shooting them out forward, he slid between Pravak’s legs and past them.
Ciras’ weight twisted the behemoth’s legs, bringing Pravak’s knees together. The scabbard snapped in half, which sent Ciras off to the right. Then the silver filaments binding the shinbone at the ankle parted and Ciras spun away on his rump, sword still in hand.
He slammed up against the foot-high rim of the circle and almost made it to his feet before Pravak crashed down at its heart. Swords bounced free of hands and Ciras batted one out of the circle as he darted back in. Raising his sword over his fallen foe, he stroked the blade downward and slashed through the warrior’s knot.
With it went the strength in Pravak’s limbs.
Ciras stepped back and bowed to his enemy. He then turned and bowed to the others seated in the small amphitheater where they had battled. Though most of them remained shrouded in shadow, he saw a few shapes he recognized either as hosts at meals, or opponents he’d already defeated.
A low laughter ran from Pravak’s throat. “Have I not said he is Yirxan reborn? A brother has returned. It is an omen of the future.”
One of Tolwreen’s ruling council—a diminutive shape hidden in deep folds of a thick brown robe—bowed toward the combatants. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed through the Nine Trials. You have proven yourself worthy. Tonight you shall be initiated in the final mysteries of Tolwreen.”
Ciras bowed and started toward the edge of the circle, but the counselor called out. “Wait.”
The Tirati did as bidden and froze in place. The counselor raised his arms and though the robe’s sleeve slipped back, Ciras could see no hands or forearms. Still, a green nimbus gathered around where hands should have been. It formed into a green ball, which expanded as it drifted toward the circle. When it reached man height it bounced along on the ground like a bubble. He wondered if it would make it over the circle lip, but it did so without any difficulty. The moment it touched down in the circle, it expanded and fused with it, becoming a huge hemisphere that would have towered over Pravak had the creature been able to stand.
The air thickened within the bowl, and Ciras felt as if the entire weight of the mountain were pressing in on him. He couldn’t breathe, which ignited fire in his lungs. That fiery sensation flooded into his back, along the line of his cut. He could feel it mending, then the fire died. In its place came the itch of jaedun, like the familiar itch of a healing cut. The faster he recognized it, the easier he could invoke it.
In this fight he’d not consciously done that, but his panic had opened the way to jaedun. He’d known from Moraven Tolo that discipline would lead him to that path, but the utter lack of it had truly opened the new doorway. What he had done stood outside discipline, and yet magic had served him.
He would have allowed himself to keep thinking that, save for running over that last series of moves in his mind. While what he had done was of no single discipline, it was in keeping with all of them. The Nine Forms had been shaped to pit advantage against weakness. They demanded control of his body, a sense of balance, of speed and power, all mixed to avoid the enemies’ cuts while delivering maximum damage. He had recognized his own weakness, and had acted to avoid the enemy while exploiting his weakness.
I doubt what I did will ever enter a form, but it did work; just as refusing to show the bandit a form he recognized served to defeat him. Perhaps the route to jaedun lay in recognition of the principles underlying all the disciplines.
The green globe evaporated and Pravak, with his warrior knot mended, sat up. He snapped his left ankle back together and wrapped the severed tentacle around it to hold it in place. He then stood and limped over to Ciras. The metal mask creaked as the grim visage shifted to one more friendly, then solidified that way.
“I almost wish I could feel pain again so I could remember this duel more precisely.” He laughed lightly, then reached a hand back and tugged on his knot. “You needn’t have severed it. I would have surrendered once I was on my back.”
Ciras shook his head. “I would not dishonor you by letting you surrender.”
“You truly are Yirxan reborn. They were wise who let you keep his sword.”
“And I am in their debt.” Ciras bowed. “If you will permit me to leave, I shall clean this blade and then myself.”
“Of course. You and your servant will be summoned in three hours.” Pravak nodded. “Your coming is a good omen.”
Ciras smiled, bowed, then exited the circle. He walked to a small corridor and stopped before a circular opening. From a small square hole in the wall he drew a slender rectangle of a white metal that Borosan had identified as a silver-thaumston alloy, which, to the best of his knowledge, could not be created by anything short of sorcery. As he handled the metal slip, sigils incised themselves on its surface. He recognized them as the designation for his suite, smiled, stepped into a small spherical chamber paneled entirely with silver. He slid the metal key into a narrow slot and thought of the living quarters he had been assigned high in one of the towers. Behind him, a curved metal panel slid down, sealing the sphere, and his flesh tingled as magic washed over him.
Then the panel slid up again, admitting Ciras to the chambers he shared with Borosan. Because he bore a vanyesh sword, the citizens of Tolwreen had accepted him as something special—though exactly what neither he nor Borosan could determine. Every test he’d worked through, which ran the gamut from endurance and intelligence to combat, had ended with promises that he was one step closer to having mysteries revealed to him. And he certainly had been trained, for each opponent he’d faced and defeated became his mentor in preparation for the next test.
Borosan looked up from the table in the middle of the central living chamber and stretched. “You were victorious?”
Ciras nodded. “I wish my master were here. I believe I have found the way to jaedun.”
The inventor smiled. “Very good. It is, isn’t it? I would have expected you to seem happier about it.”
The swordsman nodded, crossing the room to a nook where he stored oil and cleaning cloths. “I have dreamed of this since I first began my training, but it almost seems like an afterthought. The path proves so simple that I think I would have grasped it from the start if someone explained it to me.”
“It could be none of them understand it as you do.” Borosan’s mismatched eyes narrowed. “But that’s not the whole of your discomfort, is it?”
“No.” He sat and began to polish the blade. “I wonder if the instructions and the tests were not meant to push me to jaedun. Your speculation that the filaments leading up to the mountain must be bringing the wild magic down has to be correct. I don’t think any of the vanyesh can survive outside this atmosphere unless they venture out wrapped in thaumston mud.”
“Then it’s good they don’t go far.” Borosan held up one of the keys. Light reflected from its surface, revealing etched letters. “These keys pick up impressions of us, and when we think of a place to go, the magic knows if we are allowed or not. I still don’t know if the balls move, or if we are sent to an identical ball in the location we wish to reach, but that is how we get around. With the special keys, however, the location and permission are etched on them.”
Ciras nodded. “It’s the only way we can get to places we can’t recall in our minds.”
“Right, but here’s the trick.” He let the card in his hand waver back and forth. “Each of my thanatons has a difference engine that I give a simple set of instructions. On this blank, I’ve inscribed far more instructions than a difference engine can deal with. If I replace the engine with a dozen of these cards, even writing big, I can create a creature hundreds of times smarter than they already are.”
The swordsman frowned. “If the vanyesh knew this, they could create thanatons, which could replace the wildmen and might even be capable of complex work.”
“Like building more thanatons.” Borosan set the key down. “Luckily, since I am your servant, I escape notice.”
“Not tonight you won’t.” Ciras wiped the sword clean and rested the blade on the rack. “Tonight all will be revealed to us. Just a couple of hours from now.”
“Is that good or bad?”
Ciras shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to find out.”
An hour before the appointed time, wildmen appeared and helped them dress. They’d brought formal robes of golden silk, trimmed with wide red hems and sashes. Ciras’ had the crest of a sleeping tiger embroidered in red because that had been Jogot Yirxan’s crest, but it was surrounded by a flaming circle in honor of his being from Tirat. Borosan’s robe had the Naleni dragon for decoration, but very small since he was only a servant.
Borosan shook his head, for the sleeves of his robe were easily two feet too long, and the hem was long enough that it had a three-foot train. “No one has worn robes of this style since the Empire fell.”
“They are designed so you must move slowly in them. It makes formal affairs stately, and prevents anyone from rushing forward to kill the Emperor.”
The wildmen also brought with them special keys, etched with sigils neither man could decipher. The two visitors shuffled their way into the sphere, pulled their robes in after them, then inserted their keys into the wall slots. Though neither felt any motion, they exchanged glances. Normally journeys were over in the blink of an eye, but this one took almost a minute.
When the door slid open again, they found themselves in a wide tunnel with a ceiling hidden in darkness. At the far end, they saw another opening glowing a soft gold. They began to walk toward it, and Ciras relished the fact that his robe prevented him from moving too swiftly. His sense of dread grew as he approached their goal.
As they walked along, golden light illuminated alcoves sunk into the walls. Tall statues carved in exquisite detail filled each niche. Each figure’s name burned brightly at the base. They had no idea who these were until one lit up bearing the name Pravak Helos.
“So the mask was him.” Ciras looked up, studying the person he’d defeated. In life Pravak had been big, but had a softness to his features the metal had not conveyed. Ciras could tell he’d always been large, even as a child, and while this stood him in good stead in combat, his size probably also embarrassed him. Ciras had known countless individuals who suffered from the same mind-set and he wondered if Pravak thought he’d lost his battle because he was too big, or moved too awkwardly.
Borosan kept pace with Ciras. “So these were the vanyesh.”
“What they were once. Now, the gods alone know what they are.”
“They don’t look evil.”
“I doubt evil was part of what the sculptor wished to reflect.”
“Good point.”
They continued on until near the end, when the alcove with Jogot Yirxan’s statue in it appeared. The man wore his hair long—nearly as long as Ciras’ master had—and he had a smile that Ciras returned. While they looked nothing alike through the face, their bodies and limbs were proportioned similarly. Not a surprise, then, that his blade comes so easily to my hand.
Borosan pointed toward the statue. “Look at his sword. The sigils on it. Can you read them?”
“I don’t think I can make it out.”
“It seems to read ‘shadow-twin.’ ”
Ciras shook his head. “It means nothing to me.”
“Nor me.”
They continued on in silence, then reached the doorway and stopped. Pravak, likewise shrouded in a robe of gold, stood just inside the doorway. He ushered them in with a nod, then a sheet of gold flowed down behind them. Silently it solidified. Serpentine sigils writhed onto its surface, and it sealed the room.
Ciras’ skin began to crawl, and it was more than the itch of magic. The hall into which they had entered was long and narrow. Seating rose in tiers on either side, and the vanyesh had all assembled there. Each wore a formal robe of gold, embroidered as was appropriate. And Ciras found himself thankful for the oversized robes because he wanted to see as little as he might of these creatures.
Fewer than a hundred filled the available seating, and each of them had lived in Ixyll since the Cataclysm. He’d known that Mystics could live beyond the natural span of a man’s years, but these people had lived beyond even a supernatural span. Those who most closely resembled humans had shrunk and shriveled until flesh clung to them like sun-dried leather. Some were long and lean, as if they were constructs of deadwood, while others had become misshapen, their bodies infantile and their heads huge.
And then there were the inhuman ones. At least Pravak had some pride of workmanship in his form. He’d maintained bilateral symmetry and only used two elements—silver and bone—to create a new body for himself. Ciras had seen gyanrigot in Opaslynoti that had been cobbled together haphazardly and were still works of art compared to some of the vanyesh.
It is a blessing for the world they cannot leave this place.
Before them, at the far end of the hall, towering gold curtains hid that end of the room. At the midway point stood two tables, one large, one small, and Pravak pointed toward them. Ciras advanced to the larger and Borosan, as befitted a servant, took the smaller. Plates laden with fruit and cheese sat at each place, and goblets had been filled with a dark wine that steamed.
Pravak advanced behind them, and when he raised his arms, the gathered vanyesh rose as one. “We have assembled as you have commanded, oh lord. We have with us a brother born again and come home. It is the omen that tells us you have defeated Death, and will be reunited with your faithful servants once again.”
As he lowered his arms, the curtains parted to reveal a blocky throne of immense proportion. The back of it was shaped in a disk with nine stars excised around the edge. Each one had been inscribed with the mark of a god.
Borosan shot him a glance. “It matches the Celestial Throne.”
Ciras nodded. “So then, who is that?”
A golden skeleton had been seated in the throne. A robe embroidered in purple with the Virine bear had been draped over it. The skeleton, unlike some of the skeletal vanyesh, had no life to it. Ciras wondered if that was because it also had no skull.
The vanyesh all bowed deeply, and Pravak’s heavy hands forced Ciras and Borosan to bow as well.
“Give him praise and honor,” the vanyesh intoned. “He is our lord, Prince Nelesquin. His arrival is nigh. The world shall tremble and he shall return all things to right again.”
Chapter Thirty-six
32nd 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
Ministry of National Unity, Felarati
Deseirion
Keles sipped the tea he’d been offered, then nodded. Somewhere between a black tea and a green, it had floral hints and no acidic bite. That meant it had been harvested recently, probably in the Five Princes, and shipped north. Smuggled north, most likely. I think it’s Tiger-eyes. For the Desei Grand Minister to be offering it to him bestowed an honor.
And made him very suspicious.
At least it’s a nice break from moon-blossom tea.
Keles had been given a black robe trimmed in gold, with his family’s crest embroidered in all the right places. He’d not be allowed to wear a sword, but instead had tucked a baton into his gold sash. It marked him as being someone of rank, though he hardly needed it. Most of the people remaining in Felarati had been involved in his building project and knew him by sight.
He’d arrived at the Ministry of National Unity and been surprised to see swordsmen guarding the entrance. Aside from a few old men and women armed with knives, he’d thought anyone with enough training to hold a sword had left the city. Other than the embassies where the visiting nation provided security, Felarati had been left all but undefended. While Keles did not doubt that the Desei had plenty of shadows and secret police lurking, the fact was that very few people inclined to cause trouble remained.
The guards had conducted him to a small room with cedar paneling. Blond reed mats covered part of the floor, but had been edged in red cloth that married them to the redwood floors. On one wall hung a rice-paper painting in black ink with red commentary. The simple representation of a cedar provided a quiet dignity and made the room seem even more of an intimate place.
Then the paper-paneled door had slid back to admit Grand Minister Rislet Peyt and a tea-master. The Grand Minister bowed in greeting, then he and Keles bowed to the tea-master. Keles would have towered over Rislet, and certainly weighed about a third more, yet the young man’s presence filled the room. He’d shaved his head so it glowed a soft gold that contrasted well with his deep blue eyes. His robe, decorated with the Desei Hawk, was likewise blue and secured with a white sash.
The only sound in the room came from the preparation of the tea, which the tea-master poured for each of them. He then bowed and withdrew. The Grand Minister offered Keles his cup, then they both drank and sat in quiet contemplation of the tea.
After a respectful silence, the Grand Minister put his cup down. “I take great pleasure in your visit, Master Anturasi. Your work has transformed Felarati. The people are pleased, as is my master.”
“Thank you, Grand Minister.” Keles took another sip of his tea, then set his cup down. “You have had word from the Prince?”
“Not recently, but tragic news travels more swiftly than good. Had ill befallen him, we would know.”
“So then, things are going well?”
The Grand Minister nodded solemnly. “Just over a week ago, our exalted leader met and defeated a Helosundian host nine times the size of his army. He is advancing on Vallitsi and will crush the Helosundian rebels once and for all.”
“Very good news for the Prince.” Keles smiled slightly to hide his sinking heart. If Helosunde truly were pacified, it would make escaping Deseirion much more difficult. Instead of just heading south, he might have to head out west, then sail on the Dark Sea to the Gold River and down to Moriande. It would lengthen the journey intolerably, and force him to reconsider the supplies they would need to get away.
The Grand Minister smiled. “I shall see to it that your congratulations are conveyed to His Highness.”
“You are too kind.”
“I fear you have not thought so, Master Anturasi, which is why I invited you here.” Rislet smoothed his robe over his thighs. “I have heard that you have voiced dismay over the fact that you are not getting all of the stone and brick you require.”
“It’s true.” Keles kept his voice even. “I know that not as much stone is coming from the quarries because there are too few wagons to transport it, but I was once getting ten an hour. Now I get seven, and yet ten pass through Westgate. I’m told the other three have been diverted to a project I know nothing about.”
The cartographer watched the minister’s reaction to his lie. When he’d been invited to visit, Jasai had coached him on how to deal with Rislet. “You can tell him what you know, but you cannot accuse him of lying. He is a minister, so lying is taken as given. You must approach everything as if it is a misunderstanding, and allow him to clarify. If the clarification does not satisfy you, ask for further clarification.”
“Ah, I see where a misunderstanding has occurred, Master Anturasi.” The Grand Minister smiled. “It is entirely my fault. Though I have done well in the ministries, and have risen far further than I ever imagined I would, I fail to communicate as well as I should. You see, I meant to ask for your help with my project and while my subordinates swung into action, I had not yet scheduled this meeting. Please, forgive my lack of manners.”
“It is forgiven. You will appreciate my alarm because I had intended the stone and brick you have taken to build a small stronghold on the river. It would secure the new houses until the walls can be extended.”
“We appreciated this, Master Anturasi, but it seems that our Prince’s successes make the likelihood of an attack on Felarati very small.” He opened his hands. “His successes are creating another demand. We have diverted the stone and brick to begin construction of a new ministry building. There we will house those who will help oversee both the conquered territories and the vast new holdings your work has opened up for us.”
Keles nodded. “And you would like my help with this?”
“So kind of you to offer, Master Anturasi.” The man gave him a simple smile. “We hoped we could ask you to integrate our building into your plans. I was especially certain you would undertake a construction of this nature if you realized how events were progressing. We wish for our building to fit seamlessly with what you have already created.”
Keles picked up his cup and sipped more tea. He might not have been sophisticated in the ways of ministers and bureaucracy, but Jasai had been correct. The Anturasi family had moved beyond the point where ministers could manage them. This attempt to hide the ministry building within his plans, however, was not so much sophisticated as childish. If Pyrust returned and objected, the ministers would place the blame on Keles. They would say they could not countermand Keles since the Prince had given him a free hand. If Pyrust approved, then Keles would gain praise for foresight, and the ministers would get their new building. Control of Pyrust’s burgeoning empire would be maintained in Felarati, which would make Rislet Peyt more powerful.
What made it seem more childish was the ministry flexing its muscles in the absence of the Prince. Rislet was far younger than any Grand Minister Keles had heard of. He might well have been brilliant, but Keles guessed he’d been offered the position because the other ministers felt he was expendable. If Pyrust did not approve of his actions, Rislet would end up dead, but would have insulated those who began the policies that angered the Prince. Rislet, by creating the new building, would position himself to advance over those who had been using him.
It was a ploy that both fascinated and disgusted Keles. But, as Jasai had taken pains to make clear to him, it was part and parcel of how the world worked. Rislet had to make his move at this time because if Pyrust died on his campaign, he would be without an heir. The nobles who sought to replace him would have to deal with Rislet, and there was every possibility that Helosunde’s Council of Ministers formed a model for how Deseirion might be governed in the future, making Rislet prince in all but title.
Ministries manipulated to get what they wanted and, therefore, could be manipulated themselves. This, too, Jasai had assured him would be part of his discussion with Rislet. Between the two of them, they came up with a few things he could ask for.
“I believe, Grand Minister, I can accommodate your request.” Keles set his cup back down. “And your news is interesting in that it plays along with a dream I had recently. A prophetic dream, akin to those which guide Prince Pyrust.”
The Grand Minister smiled, but clearly it took a bit of an effort. “Please, relate to me your dream.”
Keles nodded, and for a moment was tempted to tell him of the one where he had found himself walking with his sister in her paradise. That would confound him. Instead, he stuck with the script he’d created with Jasai.
“Deseirion has a rich Imperial history. I’ve studied maps and, west of here, there are several ruined Imperial fortresses. I would like to travel there and select stones to incorporate into the new buildings. It would create a linkage between old and new. You see the importance of that.”
“I shall have people fetch you stones, Master Anturasi.”
“No, I am afraid that will not do.” I need to get out there to scout the landscape. “Truth be told, I do have an ulterior motive.”
“It would not matter, Master Anturasi, because the Prince’s orders were clear. You are not to leave the precincts of the city.”
“I know what his orders were, Grand Minister.” Keles flashed a smile. “You know that Lady Inyr Vnonol has been my companion. I hoped to take her with me on these trips, so I could spend time with her away from Felarati. You can understand that.”
The Grand Minister nodded. “I do, but again there is the matter of the Prince’s orders.”
“Yes, I have thought of that as well. I suggest, Grand Minister, that, in the Prince’s absence, you simply annex those sites and make them part of the city. You can even be credited with the foresight of seeing growth in that direction, too. When Felarati is the Imperial capital, you know it will continue to grow.”
The small man’s eyes narrowed. “Your plan has merit, Master Anturasi. I shall consider it.”
And approve it once you have bought up the best tracts of land in that area.
“As I shall consider the best design for your new building.” Keles looked around the cedar room. “I can see a room like this becoming your sanctuary in its most heavenly precincts.”
The Grand Minister raised his cup. “And, if you do travel west, you will agree not to escape?”
Keles gave the man a surprised look. “I have promised the Prince I should not leave Felarati. I will maintain my word until released of it by him.” Or by necessity.
Rislet Peyt bowed his head. “Then let us drink to the growth of Felarati and Deseirion. The world will look here to see where miracles were wrought.”
“So they shall, Grand Minister.” Keles likewise raised his cup. The first among them being the escape of Princess Jasai and the free birth of Deseirion’s next ruler.