Chapter Ten
25th 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
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
Despite the roaring fire in his chambers, Prince Pyrust wore his cloak. He found the room uncomfortably warm, but the visitor he expected would be half-frozen and exhausted. The warmth would be welcome, and he had every hope Keles Anturasi would feel welcome as well.
The Prince had made the decision to meet Keles in his personal chambers rather than any place more grand. Pyrust suffered no illusions about the Naleni cartographer and where his loyalties lay. In their previous meeting, Pyrust had made overtures to him, and Keles had politely but firmly rebuffed them. Pyrust actually respected him for that display of familial and national loyalty.
The fact that Deseirion’s need would require that to be crushed was another matter entirely.
A gentle knocking came at the door. Pyrust glanced in that direction. “Enter.”
The door opened silently. Pyrust almost didn’t recognize the young man framed in the doorway. Since they’d met he’d acquired a puckered scar on his forehead. He’d lost weight on his long journey. Exhaustion rimmed hazel eyes with red.
Though he was clearly tired, Keles’ eyes still sparked with intelligence and surprise. He even half made to bow, but caught himself with a hand before he sagged against the doorjamb. As it was, he grimaced when his right shoulder hit the doorway.
Pyrust crossed the distance between them and took his left elbow and shoulder, steadying him. “I did ask them to convey you here as fast as possible. If you were hard used, I will have the men beaten. Killed even.”
Keles shook his head slowly. “I’ve no love for them. They murdered a friend of mine, but they did their duty.”
Pyrust guided him to a seat beside the fire. Keles slumped in the blocky wooden chair. He cradled his right arm against his chest and his head lolled toward the left. He stared into the flames. “You know I will not work for you.”
“You made that clear in Moriande.” Pyrust walked to a sideboard and poured two pewter goblets of dark wine. He brought both and offered them to Keles. “It is customary for us to welcome guests with wine. Rice and cheese will follow. You may choose which goblet you prefer.”
Keles looked up at him, then reached out with his left hand and took the goblet from the Prince’s half hand. “If I am a guest, will I be permitted to leave when I desire?”
Pyrust stared down past his wine. “You know that is not possible. Nor will you be allowed to communicate with your family. I know you can reach your grandfather and brother through your mind. I could have you drugged to prevent that, but I would prefer to have your word that you will not attempt it.”
Keles drank, then frowned. “You would accept my word?”
“I would.” Pyrust set his goblet on the mantel over the hearth. “You are a smart man and you know the way of the world. If your grandfather learns you are here, Cyron will threaten war. And, quite likely, blood will flow before you are returned to Moriande. On the other hand, news of your presence here will slowly be communicated through the ministries. They will inform Prince Cyron in a manner that demands diplomacy. We will negotiate, and what he would have had to win through blood, he will pay for in time—time you will spend here.”
“What good will that do you?” Keles pulled himself upright and gingerly rested an elbow on the chair’s arm. “I’ve said I won’t work for you.”
“I hope I can convince you otherwise.” Pyrust smiled. “You think I want the Anturasi charts of the world? Everyone does—and if they were offered to me, I should not spurn them. Those charts have allowed Naleni ships to sail far and wide, reaching new nations and new trading partners. Those charts have brought Nalenyr a prosperity that may let Cyron buy the provinces back into an empire.”
“And you’d like to stop that.”
Pyrust nodded, his green eyes narrowing. “I have never hidden my ambition to become the Emperor. Ambition, however, is hardly a virtue that is easily sated. Believe me when I tell you that I do not desire the Anturasi charts of the world, nor will I ask you for them.”
“I am too tired for that to make any sense.” Keles slowly shook his head. “If it is not that, what do you want?”
Quicker to the question than I would have imagined. Pyrust took Keles’ wine and placed it on the mantel. “Please, come with me.”
Keles stood. Pyrust removed his cloak and settled it around the young cartographer’s shoulders. Gently taking his left elbow in hand, the Prince guided him to the chamber’s external wall, opened the door, and ushered him onto the south balcony.
The sun had just set, leaving the cloudy sky streaked with grey. Around them, from the Prince’s tower to the Black River and beyond, Felarati stretched out. Pyrust knew the city well and loved it, but he saw it as it truly was, not colored by romance or nationalism.
“Tell me what you see, Keles Anturasi. Tell me about my city.”
Pyrust could feel the tremor running through Keles’ body. The cartographer slowly studied the city, starting with the western precincts, following along the Black River, and ending east, at Swellside, where fog was already beginning to grow like fungus over dark buildings.
“I will compare it to Moriande, and you know it will suffer.” Keles looked at him. “And you know that is not just national pride talking.”
Pyrust nodded solemnly.
“Felarati has grown without much planning. It started near the bay, on the north side. The south was farmland and benefited from spring flooding. As the population grew, you constructed levees and buildings, but you still have flooding there and the sewer system is constantly in disrepair.”
Keles pointed to the factories spewing smoke in the middle of the city. “You can see that the water above those factories is cleaner than that below, which means the people living closer to the sea have poor water. You have a lot of sickness there. Upriver is not much better, because of the silt in the river. If it were flooding into fields, once again your land would be more fertile, but now it is wasted. The air stinks of smoke and sewage. The city is dark, and the people clearly suffer from melancholy.”
Pyrust raised his chin. “Is that all you can tell me?”
Keles frowned again, then continued his survey. “Your development of the riverside is insufficient to handle the sort of trade the Anturasi charts would bring to you. I already know the Black River is not navigable for any significant distance. We were constantly riding overland between one river station and another to get here. Your ability to get wealth to and from the interior would be limited to cart traffic. Even if those factories can turn out gyanrigot capable of moving freight, the cost of taking it very far would eat up any profit.
“And I will tell you this, Highness. I kept my eyes open as I moved through your nation. Your people work hard, but they are living skeletons working a harsh and unforgiving land.” Keles hesitated for a moment. “Yet, as little as they had, they offered us everything once they learned I was bound for your court. Your people have nothing, still they love you and would do anything for you.”
“Perhaps they fear what will happen if they displease me.”
“Some certainly, but most I saw spoke of you with great affection. Some even call you Little Father. How is that possible when you have so much here and they have so little?”
“You really mean to ask me how I can care so little for them when they care so much for me.”
Keles nodded.
“Come back inside.” Pyrust waved Keles past him to the chair by the fire. He waited for his guest to resume his seat, then clasped his hands at the small of his back. He looked into the flames, then began speaking in a low voice.
“You know the Desei are a hard people. We survive on pride. We have always been a frontier people, eschewing the comforts of the south. The south is weak—this we tell ourselves again and again—and yet we harbor secret dreams that someday we shall know the pleasures of its existence.
“I am seen as a hard man—cruel to the point of barbarism. It’s convenient for the southern princes to characterize me thus. It serves me to let them. While none of them truly believes I can mount an invasion, they fear what I would do to an invading army. Their image of me keeps their ambitions in check, and this simplifies my life enormously.”
Pyrust walked to the hearth and passed Keles his cup of wine, then recovered his own. “The truth of the matter is less than the illusion. I have dreams, Keles, in which I see how my nation can change. All these things you pointed out—things you saw in an instant—haunt my nights because I feel the devotion of my people and yet find myself powerless to save them.”
He sipped wine, relishing the dry taste. “What you said of the southern shore is correct, but how do I deal with it? If there were a solution, I could implement it, but solutions elude me. If you were me, what would you do? What would you do if you could do anything at all?”
Keles blinked, then pursed his lips. “Anything?”
“Your fantasy.”
“I would return it to farmland. A mile to the south, in the hills, you could build housing and put a sewer system in place. An aqueduct could bring water from further upriver.”
“I would have to move the factories as well?”
Keles nodded. “They’re fouling the river. You could divert part of the river to feed a small lake. They could draw water from it. I’m not sure that would work, but it could be explored.”
Pyrust smiled. “Very well. It shall be done. I shall start tomorrow.” He pointed his goblet toward the balcony. “You’ll come back here tomorrow evening and you will see how your plan is working.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
Pyrust frowned. “Of course I can, my friend. This is my realm. What you have said will improve it. All of it will be done.”
“No, no, no. Wait!” Keles winced as he pointed to the south. “You would have to make sure drainage was right. You have to have a plan that will work with the land.”
“Ah, you see, Keles, that might be the way it would be done in Nalenyr, but there you have the luxury of having those who can draw such plans. If we had such people, do you not think we would have done this sort of thing?” Pyrust slowly shook his head. “This is why I brought you here, Keles Anturasi. You saw—the Anturasi charts would be worthless to my people because we could not profit from them. But you did the Gold River survey. You know how my city can be changed to benefit trade and the people. That was what I asked you about in Moriande.”
Keles’ head came up. “It’s true, you did.”
“Please understand, Keles, that my dream for Deseirion is not that it become the new Imperial capital, but that it becomes a nation the new Emperor would welcome in his Empire. The changes you have described bring me much closer to that reality. We may not have the skills to accomplish it as efficiently as you would in the south, but my people are strong and willing to endure hardship for their prince and their nation.”
“But if you do things quickly, without sufficient planning, it will make for unnecessary hardship. Can’t you see that?”
Pyrust shrugged. “I see the hawk fly, but I do not have wings. Therefore, I walk, even though my feet may complain. The journey, though swifter by wing, must begin regardless.”
Keles glanced into the fire, then up at Pyrust. “How long will you hold me here?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Then I’ll make you a deal. Four months. I’ll do some surveys, I’ll draw some plans, I’ll teach some people.”
“That’s what you offer me. What must I offer you?”
“You’ll abide by my plans and my timetables.”
“Are these things subject to negotiation?”
Keles nodded. “I won’t be unreasonable. I’ll give you my best estimates. You’ll return me to Moriande for the Harvest Festival.”
Pyrust raised an eyebrow. “And if your work is incomplete?”
“I will grant an extension of my time here. Another two months.”
Pyrust closed his eyes for a moment, then glanced down at Keles. “Can you transform my nation in six months?”
“I can blaze a trail. You’ll have to make the journey.”
“Done.” The Prince raised his cup. “You will have the best of my nation while you are my guest. If you have a need, it shall be fulfilled. If you have a desire, it shall be granted. And you will always have my nation’s gratitude.”
Keles smiled, raised his goblet, then drank.
Pyrust nodded to the servants who opened the door and brought in trays with cheese and rice. “Eat and drink, Keles. We wish you to feel very much at home.”
“Thank you, Highness.”
Pyrust smiled, hiding it behind his cup. Yes, enjoy our fare, Keles Anturasi. From this day forward, and for the rest of your life, Deseirion shall be your home. You give us your thoughts now, but soon you will surrender your secrets. This is how it must be.
Chapter Eleven
26th 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
Prince Cyron sat on the Dragon Throne, making no pretense of polite pleasure as Grand Minister Pelut Vniel approached with shaved head bowed. The Prince had endured two weeks of meetings in which Vniel had told him there was nothing to worry about—a continuance of his previous behavior. Though the Prince pressed him for more details, Vniel had not been forthcoming. Then he surprised the Prince by asking for a meeting in the audience chamber.
This cannot be good.
The Prince had not donned formal state robes for the meeting. He couldn’t abide the suffocating folds of silk, and relished the freedom of more utilitarian garb. He had chosen black silk trousers and robe, with an overshirt of gold. Dragons had been embroidered on the robe and overshirt—in gold thread on the black, and the reverse on the gold. A gold sash held everything in place and the Prince had refrained from wearing a sword.
I might have been tempted to use it.
Vniel shuffled forward with his head lowered. His gold robes flowed out and obscured his body. The man could have been a snake slithering forward, but Cyron dismissed that image. It would have made Vniel too close to a dragon, and this Cyron would not grant him.
Finally, the man knelt—though coiled would have more accurately described his motion—and bowed deeply enough that his forehead touched the floor.
The Prince answered with a nod. “What is it you have to report? Have you come to the bottom of the embezzlement of grain shipments north?”
“Would that what I have to report were so trivial, Highness.” The man’s voice wavered, and that further surprised Cyron. He had no doubt Vniel could be a consummate actor, but he was also an egotist and fear was not a big part of his repertoire. “I have grave news.”
Does he know Qiro Anturasi is gone? “Tell me.”
Vniel’s head came up and he visibly paled. “News has trickled north from Erumvirine. The nation is under attack. Hideous creatures, worse than the demons of the Nine Hells, have launched themselves from the ocean. Poisonous toads that fly and odd ape-things have attacked. They are pushing inland from the coast toward Kelewan.”
Cyron’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Poisonous flying toads?”
“Your tone mocks me, Highness, but what benefit would there be in bringing you such a fanciful story were it not true?” Vniel actually sounded offended. “You have accused me of hiding information, so my credibility has suffered. Were this not true, my credibility would be utterly destroyed, and you would have me removed. And I would deserve it.”
Cyron leaned forward, scrubbing his left hand over his jaw. “What proof is there?”
“Of the creatures? None other than stories from refugees. But something is happening in eastern Erumvirine. None of the wood harvested near Derros is reaching Kelewan. Market taxes from that region have not been brought to the capital. A squad of troops sent to determine what delayed them has not reported back.”
“Signs that something is wrong there, certainly, but is it an invasion? There are many other explanations. The eastern lords could be in revolt. There could be a plague . . .” Prince Cyron’s recital tailed off as he recalled a dream he’d had, in which a dragon lay shattered and a carpet of black ants devoured a bear as they made their way north to feast on him. The dragon was the Naleni national symbol, and the bear represented Erumvirine.
And the ants?
The Prince shivered. Qiro Anturasi’s map added a new continent, home to monsters. If they had launched an attack, they might have made landfall in Erumvirine. It would have made more sense for them to have sailed directly up the Gold River, especially if Qiro was bent on avenging his granddaughter’s murder. But while an error in navigation might have put them in Erumvirine, Cyron refused to countenance that as a possibility. There is no way troops associated with Qiro Anturasi could have ever made an error in navigation. Either they were not associated with him at all, or they had a purpose in taking Erumvirine first.
He glanced at the minister and saw hope blossoming in Vniel’s eyes. “You would know if it was a revolt because the bureaucrats would know. So, you really don’t know what it is, do you?”
Vniel slowly shook his head. “I only know what I have told you, Highness.”
Cyron sat back in his throne and felt as if a hundred quor of rice had just landed on his chest. As much as he had hated the bureaucrats, they had always protected society. No matter how depraved a ruler might become, they insulated the people in the same way they insulated the ruler. They provided stability and assured that when destruction came, it would only go so far.
But now even they didn’t know what was going on. The invasion—or whatever it was that was eating up eastern Erumvirine—was beyond their control. They had for so long used their tools of deception and diversion to control events that they knew no other way of doing things. They were not prepared to handle emergencies; they’d just done everything they could to prevent them. And this they had taken to be one and the same thing, which it was not.
Cyron’s growing horror encompassed more than just the events in Erumvirine. If the bureaucracy failed there, it could fail elsewhere. Previously, the bureaucracies had been largely immune to harm, since everyone needed them to maintain order. But once they lost that power and began to panic, entire nations would fail with them.
“What would you have me do, my Prince?”
“Give me time to think.” Cyron forced himself to stand, then glanced down. “What word have you of the Virine military reaction?”
“Most of the Virine troops are in the western and central districts, Highness, guarding the borders with Moryth and Ceriskoron. They are moving troops east, but slowly. Prince Jekusmirwyn has always prided himself on being deliberate. He has not called up his populace to defend the nation.”
“Ministers have raised the alarm and he is not receptive to their message?”
“As you are, my lord, he is suspicious of them.” Vniel shrugged. “There was the Miromil misunderstanding.”
“Ah, yes.” Cyron nodded distractedly. “The negotiations to marry his daughter to the Crown Prince of Miromil were unnecessarily contentious, with each set of ministers misquoting their master to slow things down.”
“Errors in transcription . . .”
“Spare me, lest more errors cause needless delay here.” The Prince frowned heavily. “When did you first have word of this?”
“A week ago, but then it was nothing but horror tales.” Vniel opened arms swathed in gold silk. “By the time I began to see fire where there had just been smoke, so many reports were coming in that I could not group them into any cogent story.”
“And you were worried that members of the bureaucracy were in jeopardy, especially those staffing our legations in Erumvirine?”
The minister’s eyes tightened. “Fault me for that, Highness, as you wish, but without them we are blind.”
Cyron held a hand up. “Spare me your ire and I shall do the same, Minister. Something is attacking Erumvirine in the east—something you do not understand. The chances of success are incalculable and immaterial. Refugees will flee north, west, and south. Those who come north will take refuge in the mountains. If Kelewan falls, they’ll come north on the Imperial Road or head south. They’ll cause a panic, and that will not do. There are those in the Five Princes who will become ambitious.”
As he spoke, Cyron envisioned the world as a giant game board. His grandfather had used toy soldiers to wage imaginary wars, and the education he obtained from that allowed him to depose the previous Naleni prince and establish the Komyr Dynasty. Would that I had followed your example more closely, Grandfather.
What happened in the Five Princes really was immaterial. Each of those nations balanced the other. Had they ever been united, they might have posed a threat to the four larger nations. Efforts such as the dynastic marriage Jekusmirwyn had arranged had long helped play one nation off against the other. But even if the five of them united to attack Erumvirine while it was weak, they would still have to face whatever was attacking Erumvirine. And even if they succeeded there, chances were their alliance would fracture before they ever moved north through the mountains and set one foot on Naleni soil.
Cyron could not rely on Erumvirine to defend itself. And even if it did beat back the invaders, the refugees would cause serious problems in the south. Cyron would have to send troops to maintain order and be ready to defend his nation if the invaders moved north.
Unfortunately, the troops he would move south would have to be pulled from his border with Helosunde. He’d be forced to move some of his Helosundian mercenaries south as well, which would leave his northern border vulnerable. While he doubted Prince Pyrust would strike south and attack him, the Desei ruler might take the opportunity to solidify his grasp on Helosunde. Since Cyron’s troops acted as much as a brake on Helosundian adventurism as they did on Desei ambition, to pull troops south was to invite chaos on his northern border.
In his mind, he could see soldiers moving from one point to another, with troops of other nations drifting in to fill the vacuum. The amount of time it would take to move the troops, and to raise others to put in their place, would become critical. If he could keep Pyrust unaware of what he was doing for long enough, he would be able to get troops from the interior in position to defend the nation.
Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t see the maneuvers working. Desei troops advanced too quickly, and Helosundian units evaporated. Besides, Pyrust had married Jasai, Prince Eiran’s sister. If he used her influence to convince the Helosundian ruling council to agree to a truce, the Desei could pour into Nalenyr while Cyron fought to keep his southern border inviolate.
The Prince exhaled heavily. “Does this terrify you as much as it does me?”
“I am worried, Highness, but I am sure I do not see things as you do.”
Cyron clasped his hands at his waist. “I have no choice but to send troops south and they must be drawn from the northern garrisons, as those are our best. I can and will call up troops from the inland lords and send them north. Unfortunately, I have little control over what your counterparts in Helosunde will do. If past conduct is any indication, they will make the least intelligent move possible, which will invite Deseirion to descend.
“I cannot let them know the threat we are under from the south, because they would use that pressure as a bargaining chip. You can see that, yes?”
“Plainly, my lord.”
“Good. I am then given two other choices. One is to confide in Pyrust. He might be convinced to send troops to aid Erumvirine, but that is unlikely. He does not have the shipping needed to convey them there quickly. Like me, he will look to his southern border, which means a push to my northern border and, if it is seen as weak, a further push to the Gold River, which is the next logical line of defense.”
The minister nodded. “And your other option is to tell him nothing?”
“Exactly. I tell him nothing and hope he learns nothing until it is too late for him to profit by the news.”
Vniel closed his eyes for a moment. “The latter choice is the only viable one.”
“I agree, but its success hinges on maintaining the secret.” Cyron stared hard at his minister. “You cannot allow this news to leave Nalenyr. You cannot allow it to leave Moriande. There is to be no informing the network of bureaucrats. I know you have skills at hiding information, but now you must hide it from others of your kind.”
Vniel’s lips quivered. “But, Highness, to do so undermines the stability of the world. If the bureaucracy fractures, all is lost.”
The Prince sighed. “You’re a fool, Vniel. The bureaucracy is already fractured. You don’t know what is going on. Even with your agents in the south, you’re still blind. What will you do when your Virine brothers beg you for help—help you know will do nothing to save them? Will you send it, or will you keep it to arm and armor our people and save Nalenyr?”
“I serve our nation, Highness.”
“Don’t give me the answer you think I want to hear. Think. Know in your heart what you would do.”
Vniel lowered his head. “I would save Nalenyr.”
Cyron nodded, having heard the truth from the man for the first time. “Do you expect your brethren in Deseirion and Helosunde will react any differently? You may all work to preserve the power of the world, but when the world is being devoured, you will fight to save your piece of it. That’s not a vice, but a reality. You must pledge to me, on your life and those of your children and their children, that you will do whatever is needed to keep knowledge of the invasion a secret for as long as possible. If you do not, all will be lost.”
Vniel nodded solemnly. “It shall be as you desire, Highness.”
“Good. Go now, bring me all reports you have on the readiness of my people to deal with an invasion. And I want real numbers, not figures intended to make me happy. I’d rather shed tears now before I defend my nation, than shed them in its ruins.”
Chapter Twelve
28th 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
Jorim Anturasi stood alone in the dark as the heavy gold door closed behind him. It shut out all light, leaving him blind in the subterranean chamber. Even when it had been opened, the weak light coming through had let him see little more than the end of the walkway a dozen feet into the room.
He moved forward, cautiously, feeling for the edge with his toes. He could hear water splashing and echoing through the cavern, but the faint sound did not help him navigate. Instead, the dripping reminded him of how the chamber had been formed and, while the Amentzutl had clearly worked portions of it, they had left most of it untouched.
His toes reached the edge of the walkway. One more step and I am on the path to becoming a magician. That very thought sent another chill through him, but in its wake ran a thrill. He had always been an adventurer and explorer, and now he would be the first man from the Nine to explore magic. It might have ruined men like Nelesquin and his other vanyesh, but the Viruk clearly used it, as did the maicana. Or in a more controlled manner, every Mystic.
All the terror tales of the vanyesh crowded into his mind, but then he remembered Kaerinus. He had survived since the Cataclysm. He now resided in a prison in Moriande, and during the Harvest Festival conducted healings. If that is not a good use of his power, what would be? His sister Nirati had even been healed in the last Festival, and while he saw no obvious change in her, she had been happier afterward than he’d seen before.
He rolled his shoulders to loosen them, then took a step forward into the darkness. His left foot hit something solid where nothing should have existed, and this surprised him. He took another step and, this time, his right foot encountered emptiness and he began to fall.
Upward.
Panic arced through him as he ascended faster and faster. He pulled himself up into a ball, utterly confused, then his body splashed into water, headfirst. Cold and bracing, it closed around him. He started to sink, but it still felt as if he was rising, which was impossible. Without light, he had no way to orient himself.
Then, ahead of him, a golden spark blossomed and began to grow. He stretched out and started swimming toward it. As he grew closer he could see it was light pouring down from above. But it’s coming from a direction that should be below! Still puzzled, he struck for it and twisted himself through a narrow tunnel that ended in a heavy wooden grate.
Jorim gathered himself beneath the grate and braced his arms and legs against the tunnel’s sides. He pushed up, ignoring the burning in his lungs, and slowly the grate began to rise. Kicking hard, he rose through it, feeling the edge scrape down along his back.
The light from above vanished, but Jorim swam hard for where it had been. He broke through to air again far more quickly than he had expected, and his feet found solid purchase at the tunnel’s edges. He stood there for a while, head and shoulders above the water, catching his breath.
He remained in the darkness until his breathing returned to normal. Then he looked around and, at first, could see nothing. Then, off to his left, a soft green glow began. He turned toward it and found the light growing to illuminate three individuals—two men and a woman. They all wore loincloths and golden masks. Though he could not see their faces, he recognized them as three of the eldest maicana by the serpent images on their masks.
The woman, who stood flanked by her companions, raised both hands to shoulder height. “In your birth into this place, you have experienced all of the elements. It is through them you reach mai. The recovery of what you entrusted to us, Tetcomchoa, shall begin here.”
Her companions likewise raised their hands, then all three brought them together, quickly, in the same motion one might use to strike flint against steel. And as if their hands were made of such, sparks flew. They danced in the air as if rising on a column of smoke, then congealed into one spark that arced over Jorim’s head.
He spun to see where it landed. A small flame began to burn in an earthenware lamp. It rested on a small island in the lake, created by concentric stone disks, stepped like the pyramids the Amentzutl raised. On the uppermost, on the opposite side from the flame from him, a slender young woman knelt, her hands on her knees, her head bowed, her long, dark hair hiding her breasts.
Nauana. Jorim smiled, not having seen her during his ritual purifications. What he knew of Amentzutl beliefs came from her. She had served as his liaison with the maicana, and through her the orders needed to destroy the invading Mozoyan had been issued.
He turned back toward the elders, but their light had already vanished. Given no other alternative, he slowly approached the island and mounted the steps. Water dripped from his beard and hair, down his lean body. He did not hesitate as the water exposed him, for the Amentzutl did not share his people’s taboos concerning nudity. Reaching the penultimate step, he slid to his knees on the top platform and faced Nauana.
Her dark eyes flicked up. “Welcome, Tetcomchoa. The maicana have chosen me to teach you the ways of magic. If it pleases you, we shall begin.”
Jorim nodded in accord with the formality of her words and manner.
She looked down at the flame for a moment, then back up. A tremulous note entered her voice. “I would ask of you one favor, Lord Tetcomchoa. I am returning to you what you gave the maicana. Please do not humiliate me for showing you what you already know. Do not patronize me. Guide me and all I possess will be yours.”
Jorim let the corners of his mouth twitch back in the hint of a smile. “I would never humiliate you, Nauana. I know nothing and am anxious to learn.”
She remained silent for a moment, then pointed a finger at the flame. “You will learn the most important invocation first. You see the flame. Which of the elements does it possess?”
Jorim concentrated. The Amentzutl had developed an interesting cosmology, which was all tied up with their six gods, half of whom had two aspects. The three singular elements or aspects of anything were solid, fluid, or vapor. Tetcomchoa, the serpent god, ruled the aspect of vapor, since smoke rose and twisted in most serpentine ways. Three other gods, with their dual aspects, covered the paired elements of light and shadow, heat and cold, and destruction and healing. In the Amentzutl world, anything could be described as a mixture of those elements.
“I see it as having four elements: heat, light, destruction, and vapor.”
She nodded. “It also heals, for in destruction new things are created. Recall that Omchoa, the jaguar, slew his twin Zoloa and consumed him, so he is two that are one. This flame has five elements, all in a balance that allows the flame to thrive. At the same time, the elements of shadow and cold have been unbalanced.”
“I see the sense in that.”
“Good, then we shall have you see the sense in something else.” Reaching back, she dipped a finger in water and then allowed a droplet to drip onto the lamp. It hit close to the flame, sizzled, and rose in a puff of steam. “Here you see water that is fluid become water that is vapor. You know that water can also be solid.”
“Ice, yes.”
“But you know it cannot be those three things at the same time, yet it is always water.”
Jorim nodded. He’d not thought about anything in that manner before, but could instantly see that most everything could be found in those three states. He’d seen metal turned fluid in a furnace, and had no doubt that were it hot enough, it might rise as steam.
Nauana half closed her eyes. “The very nature of a thing’s being—that which makes it what it is regardless of form—this is how these things exist in the mai. Mai is like the light from the sun, but there are many suns and they always shine. Mai is everywhere and defines everything. That which we see and touch and taste and experience are all maichom—you would call it magic-shadow. Only through mai may we see the thing as it is, and as we know it through mai, we can use and manipulate it.”
She reached a hand toward the flame, palm out. “Use a hand to feel the flame. Feel the heat. See how the light plays over your flesh. Watch the flame dance. Encompass all of it.”
Jorim took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He raised his right hand and stretched it toward the flame. The light did play over it, wavering shadows as it twisted and flowed. He brought his hand close enough to feel the first hints of warmth, then closer. The heat intensified and where his hand eclipsed it, some of the light glowed red through his skin. He watched the flame, matching its undulations to the rise and fall of heat and the sway of shadows.
Her directive to “encompass” the flame baffled him for a moment. What she wanted was for him to take physical aspects—things he could sense—and to carry them into the theoretical realm of the mai. He knew magic existed, but only in the way that he accepted the existence of things he’d never seen. While he had seen Mystics duel and otherwise had seen evidence of magic, he had still been insulated from its reality. She wanted him to push past that.
He could identify the aspects of the flame and sought to keep all of them in his mind, according none of them ascendance, even as the light flared or the heat rose. By opening himself to all of them, embracing all of them, he would not be doing what most people did, which was to diminish things. Most people, while they knew all the elements that went into fire, tended to concentrate on one or the other. If you needed light, you lit a torch. If you were cold, you kindled a fire. If you wanted to clear brush or get rid of debris, you burned it, then spread the ashes on the fields as fertilizer. Fire was thought of not as what it was, but as a means to an end.
Jorim refused to allow himself to be so lazy. He forced himself to experience the flame as an amalgam of his sensory experience. He listened for it, watched it, felt it. He brought his hand through the flame and back, feeling the way it caressed his flesh. He caught the acrid scent of hair singeing on his hand.
And then he found it. Just for a heartbeat, there was something more. A fusion of everything that surrounded its true essence like a shell on a nut. He sensed the thing within. It existed, the truth of fire. The second the concept of truth struck him, he knew that was how his mind would classify the essence. It was truth. It was distillation. It was that without which the thing did not exist.
His head snapped up. “I felt it. I saw it. The truth of fire.”
Nauana smiled. “Very good. My lord recovers his knowledge quickly. The truth, as you call it, is part of the secret teaching. When you realize that, you have the key. That which defines the truth is mai. The mai is what you use to change the truth, to redefine it. For this first lesson, however, you only need a trickle, and you only need to modify two aspects of this particular flame.”
“Which two?”
“The flame exists because enough mai was used to stabilize an imbalance. Where the flame exists, cold and shadow are held at bay.” She looked into his eyes. “You will touch the mai and rebalance things.”
Jorim found himself nodding matter-of-factly even though his hand trembled and his stomach began to tighten. His first brush with magic, just sensing the truth of flame, was passive, learning to see things in a new way. He’d had that experience countless times before. As a cartographer, he saw the world quite differently from others.
He steeled himself. He did not know if he truly were Tetcomchoa-reborn or not. He did not know if he could use magic—at least not beyond how it would be used as a Mystic cartographer, if he ever became that good. His learning how to use it, however, did not demand that he would use it. The learning itself did no harm; it was only in how it was used that could do harm.
And if the Amentzutl are right about centenco, to refuse to learn could be a disaster.
Jorim calmed his mind and reached out to find the truth of fire again. It took work, but he retraced the steps that had led him there before and found it. Reflected from it, like sunlight from a mirror, he found the mai. In his mind it was soft and resilient, like a porridge that had not hardened, but was not fluid either. When he tried to grasp it, it squirted away from him. So he stopped trying to grab it and, instead—as if it were a living thing—teased it forward.
He wove it through the shadows of his fingers and bound into it the sense of cold he felt from his wet hair against the nape of his neck. He used the mai to strengthen shadow and cold, to embolden them. He brought them forward and they lapped at the flame the way water flows and recedes on a beach. With each successive wave, the cold dark tide rose and the flame shrank.
And finally, it was smothered, instantly plunging the chamber into darkness.
Nauana’s voice filled the room with soft, steady tones. “This, then, is the first lesson. It is easier to restore a balance that has been disturbed through the mai than it is to unbalance something. Balance is the key. As you become stronger, you will be able to use more the mai, but you must beware attempting to unbalance too many things.”
“What happens if I do?”
“Mai is everywhere, even in us. It gives us life.” Her voice became colder. “If you attempt too great an invocation, a balance will be maintained. Mai will be drawn from the nearest source: you. It may kill you. It will exhaust you.”
“How do you know if what you are trying to do is too much?”
“When you fail to waken from the attempt.”
A spark sprang from her fingers and the lamp ignited again. She looked at him solemnly. “Now, my Lord Tetcomchoa, you will restore the balance again. And again. You will do this until you are satisfied you have mastered this invocation, and then you will do it again.”
He smiled. “My sense of sufficiency is not good enough?”
“It is, my lord, but such are the decrees you laid down when you gave us the gift of your knowledge.” Nauana nodded toward the flame. “Begin, please. Centenco is a time when the world is out of balance. Only you, a god, can restore it to the way it must be.”