Chapter Fifty-eight

3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut

Erumvirine

The door to my chamber slid open. I barely heard the gasp, more because Pasuram Derael kept his voice politely hushed than a problem with the ear that had been sewn back on. I turned slowly toward the door and gave him and his father an abbreviated bow.

The count, whose pale and painfully slender body could have benefited from shadows to cloak it, regarded me carefully. “The physician said you would not be out of bed for days.”

Urardsa finished rewrapping a loop of bandage around my chest. “His thread is slender, but still strong.”

I glanced at the Gloon. “And still a tangle?”

“In places.”

I shook my head, then turned to my host. “You know what I am. Mystics are blessed or cursed with life beyond our years. We tend to heal more quickly than others.” I coughed and winced, but they were polite enough to let that escape notice.

Pasuram guided his father’s wheeled chair into my chamber. This task was not easy since the young man had taken an arrow through his thigh and his father had a long, thick, leather-wrapped package lying across his lap. I did not offer to help the son, as I would not have dishonored him in front of his father. All three of us men were locked in mutual denial of our weakness and, truth be told, Pasuram was the strongest of us.

The Gloon just crouched in a corner and watched.

The count waited in the center of the chamber while his son fetched both of us chairs. Pasuram sat beside his father, with his left leg stretched out, and I sat facing the older man. Pasuram had placed the chair close enough that I could hear, and I nodded thanks, since it would be my severed ear and not his father’s soft whisper which would make listening difficult.

Jaecaiserr Moraven Tolo, I have known you since I was very young. I anticipated having this talk with you many times, for once I heard the story I will tell you, I knew it was for you that this package was meant. There could be no other, but my instructions were very specific, and until yesterday I could not be faithful to the duty charged me.”

I considered his words carefully, nodding slowly, and allowed him to catch his breath.

“What I will tell you now has been handed down through the Derael family for two hundred seventy years, parent to child, husband to wife, in a duty considered as sacred as warding this pass. What I have here in my lap has lain in the museum for that time, save twice when danger threatened and we could not chance it being taken as plunder.”

The count’s grey eyes flicked toward his son. “I recently told Pasuram what you will hear and he, too, thought immediately of you.”

I bowed my head toward the both of them. “What you are telling me is an honor. To be held in such high regard is more than most xidantzu can imagine.”

“But you are more than most xidantzu, Master Tolo.” The count smiled and the effort taxed him mightily. “Long ago a man came to Deraelkun. He appeared here, just appeared, without having been admitted, and he bore this package. He called himself Ryn Anturasi and begged of my ancestor a favor which, he promised, would be returned. ‘Grant this, and Tsatol Deraelkun will not fall.’ I believe the favor has been repaid through your action yesterday.”

I shook my head. “You know the kwajiin will be back, this time with far more warriors and a far smarter general. Deraelkun may yet fall.”

Jarys Derael coughed. “We have ever known it would, jaecaiserr. We merely sought to prolong the time until then.”

“For your enemies, the time to take it shall seem an eternity.”

The count hazarded a nod and I almost thought he would not be able to raise his head again. He did, but needed to rest. We waited and doubtless all benefited from the sweet scent of the healing unguents with which our various wounds had been slathered.

“I wish I had the strength to hand this package to you. We will tell many it is a gift from Deraelkun, from our history, for it has been here in the museum. It has been kept with an ancient suit of armor, one from before the Cataclysm. That armor was left here by an Imperial bastard who humiliated a Crown Prince in a military exercise, much as you did the kwajiin yesterday.”

Pasuram slid the package from beneath his father’s hands and brought it to me. I let it rest on my thighs. I could still feel the warmth of the count’s hands, but far too little of it to believe the man would live much longer.

I looked Jarys in the eye. “What was said?”

“We were told that someday a man would come to Deraelkun. He would be young, but very old—the old formulation for designating someone a Mystic. He would be a wise man who could be daringly foolish.”

I laughed at that latter bit of description.

The count did not. “And we were told he would laugh when he heard himself described thus.”

A chill puckered my flesh. “What else?”

“We were told he would not be of Derael blood and that anyone who claimed this package as being meant for him would not be the man for whom it truly was meant.” The count lifted a trembling finger. “Open it.”

I untied the braided purple cord that secured the package. Even before I began to remove the leather sheet, I knew what the package contained. Of course, being jaecaiserr, feeling the presence of swords even within thick leather presented little challenge.

And fine blades these were. From hilt to point they were five feet long. The wooden scabbards were scarlet washed in black, with gold decorations and covered in a clear lacquer. The pattern on them matched the interwoven cords wrapping the hilts—the hilts and scabbards were boldly tiger-striped. Beneath the cords on each hilt, a stalking tiger charm of bronze had been bound, linking the warrior using them to Chado, and marking him a Morythian.

The disk-shaped handguards revealed more about the swords even before I drew one. The Zodiac rimmed each disk, but Chado did not occupy the spot of honor atop the blade. That had been given to a dragon, the Imperial dragon. The blades dated from well before the Cataclysm. The handguards and the weaving on the hilt also indicated the swords belonged to a member of the Imperial bodyguard.

I stood slowly and bared a blade with my left hand. The silvered steel came free easily, not just the way a fine weapon would be expected to do, but as something meant for my hand alone. Perfectly balanced, the sword felt like an extension of my arm. With that blade in my left hand and its mate filling my right, I would not know defeat.

Save through treachery.

Thoughts and memories exploded in my head. I remembered the day before, but a day in a different time when I faced a man, tall and dark, wearing a crowned-bear crest. We fought on that same island before Tsatol Deraelkun for hours, trading blows, never drawing blood—but refraining because we had no desire to hurt each other. Even so, we came so close and closer, daring each other to trim a lock here, bare a patch on an arm or leg there. It was a dangerous game we played, but one we had to play.

And then, another time, darkness and the slice of a blade into my chest. It should have felt cold, that steel, but instead it felt molten. It shattered ribs and opened a lung. I could hear my breath hissing from my chest as I fell. I tried to look back over my shoulder to see who had struck me down, but I could not. The only clue to his identity was a softly whispered “I’m sorry,” and the hushed rustle of his feet as he made his escape.

I sat down hard in the chair and looked at the blade. I saw my reflection in it, distorted and twisted, but no less recognizable. I had seen it so often before, in that sword, that I could not help but know who it was.

“Count Derael, tell me, to whom did the swords belong?”

“The chief of the last Emperor’s bodyguard. He rode past here with Empress Cyrsa and died in Ixyll.”

I nodded. “Virisken Soshir.”

“The very same.”

I looked at the dying man. “You know you have returned to me the swords I bore to Ixyll.”

His pale eyes narrowed. “If this is true, there is a message for you.”

“What?”

“Your duty to the crown has not been fulfilled.”

A jolt ran through me and the last bit of fog cleared from my mind. I knew two things—two things as certain as the sun’s rising in the morning and setting at night. “Prince Nelesquin has returned. He covets what he always coveted. She always feared he would come back to claim the Empire.” I raised the bare blade. “I am Virisken Soshir. He’ll ascend to the throne over my dead body.”

“A poor choice of words, Master Soshir.” The Gloon stared at me with all seven eyes. “Now you know who you are. Now you are free to die.”

 

Chapter Fifty-nine

4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion

It seemed to Keles Anturasi that he could have had a blanket for every survivor in the fortress draped over him and he’d still not stop shivering. He sat on the parapet of the north wall, looking down into the courtyard. The people, still in armor, still in the prime of their lives, moved about, lining up the dead, straightening their limbs, saluting comrades in arms who had fallen.

And it all made no sense to him.

Though he did not know what he had done, he knew he had done it. He hoped that as the sun made it over the horizon the fortress would fade. He hoped it had been an illusion. It just couldn’t exist, but he could see the dancing reflections of sunlight from the moat, still hear the pennants snapping in the breeze and could hear the crisp, strong footsteps of people who, hours before, could have barely managed an exhausted shuffle.

The way they dealt with each other baffled him. They gathered in groups—family groups, he assumed, based on the crests on the armor—but it was no longer a grandparent gathering children or elderly maiden aunts comforting each other. These people had become warriors. Some had regressed to a life they knew, others had become things they had long ago abandoned dreaming they could be. And children . . . the children had grown into the sort of soldiers who inhabited heroic stories of the Imperial period.

Some people had escaped transformation, but it had touched even Rislet Peyt. The diminutive minister had swelled into a warrior with a double-handed great sword. He’d chopped one of the four-armed things in half with it. He’d gotten an arm broken in the process, but he sat there with his arm in a sling, joking with the men who had previously been his bodyguards.

Keles clutched the black blanket around his shoulders more tightly, but his broken hands had swollen to the point where they were all but useless. This had all been his doing, but he couldn’t undo it, nor could he do it again. All he could remember was that he knew he had to do something, and he rebelled against the situation that doomed so many people.

Somehow I must have touched magic.

But even that explanation defied logic. He was a cartographer. It was true that he had been working more as an engineer in making the changes in Felarati, but everything he had done had been something he’d learned as a by-product of his main pursuit: cartography. They were all things he could not have helped but learn, and many of them he’d learned without even realizing it.

That could have explained, maybe, what happened with the fortress itself, but not what happened with the people. As much as he tried to figure things out, he couldn’t. Even a convoluted scheme by which their desires to avoid death had combined with his desire to save them—letting all of them touch magic and thereby be changed—fell short. That might have worked for the adults, but not the children.

What made what happened to the people even worse was that while the children had become adults, they had no memories or experiences of the years that should have passed. To make things even more confusing, most of the survivors were drunk with victory and, save those who volunteered to stand sentry, were wandering off in pairs to enjoy carnal experiences they’d never known, or had long since forgotten.

A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Rekarafi. “Do you know what happened?”

“I did not know the first time.”

“First time?”

The Viruk pointed to the west. “In Ixyll, we escaped a chaos storm by entering a cavern. It proved to be a mausoleum.”

“I remember.”

“You were certain that there was a chamber beyond an arch. Borosan and I said we had moved. You did not believe that and drew a map to show us what waited on the other side of the arch.” The Viruk crouched and scraped the rough map on the stone. “When you did that, Moraven and Ciras reacted. I felt it, too. We moved again. The first time the storm moved us. You moved us back.”

Keles felt the blood drain from his face. “By drawing the map, I moved us?”

Rekarafi nodded.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have drawn my way out of Felarati if I had known that.”

The Viruk laughed. “No, you could not have. You did not know then what you did. You do not know now what you did last night. You have touched magic, Keles, very powerful magic, but you do not know how to control it.”

“Can I learn? Can you teach me?”

Rekarafi closed his eyes and raised his head, letting the breeze blow through his black mane. “There was a time, Keles Anturasi, when magic was so plentiful in the world that doing what you have done would have been simple. The Viruk mastered this magic, but in our mastering there was a flaw. It destroyed our Empire. What little I know would not serve you well. You’ve discovered this power on your own. You will have to learn how to control it yourself as well.”

“What if I get it wrong?”

The Viruk shrugged. “It will kill you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“It is an urge to caution.”

“Caution, yes.” Keles nodded. “That’s the other thing about everyone. They look at me and they are wary. Respectful but cautious. Who is more afraid of what happened here last night, them or me?”

Rekarafi growled out a low laugh. “The Eyeless Ones are the most afraid.”

“You have a point there.”

The Viruk rested a hand on his shoulder. “And you won our contest. You shifted more stones than I. It has been many years since a human so humbled a Viruk.”

“It’ll probably be a few more before that happens again, Rekarafi.”

“Pity.” The Viruk smiled. “Being humbled is an interesting experience if one lives through it.”

The Viruk withdrew as Tyressa came up the stone steps toward Keles. She carried a bowl and a pitcher. Bandages had been looped over her shoulder. She knelt beside him and set her burdens on the stone.

“Your hands must be cared for.”

“They’ll be fine.”

“You forget my duty to Prince Cyron. You are my responsibility.”

“Are you sure you want to take responsibility for me?”

Tyressa’s expression sharpened. “I don’t have that choice. Your hands.”

Keles frowned, then let the blanket slip. He presented his hands to her, all bloody, torn, swollen, and purple. He stiffened as she took them in her hands, but refused to cry out. She brought them down into the bowl, then poured water into it, which sent another throb of pain through his hands.

Tyressa wetted a cloth, then took his right hand out of the water. She began to gently scrub at it, holding his right wrist. He pulled back at the first touch of the cloth, but she tightened her grip. “Don’t struggle; it will only make it worse.”

“Sorry. It hurts.”

“It should. You’ve hurt your hands badly.”

Keles tried to laugh, but a wave of exhaustion killed it prematurely. “Funny that I can change people the way I did and not heal my own hands.”

“Why is it funny that you cannot do things for which you have no gift or training?” She washed his hand, removing dirt and crusted blood, which gave Keles a better look at how much damage he’d done than he’d wanted. “We all are what we are, Keles. Change is not easy.”

“But I’ve changed, and I don’t even know how or why.”

The Keru glanced back down into the courtyard. “You’re looking at why, Keles. You changed so they could live.”

“So everyone could live. Them. You. Jasai. Rekarafi.”

“I am corrected.” She lowered his right hand into the water and began to work on his left. “There are things for which I have no training, no gift.”

“You seem pretty gifted to me, Tyressa.”

She stopped and looked in his eyes. “What you said to me the other day . . .”

Keles shook his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m all grown-up, but sometimes the dreams of youth remain.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“Ouch.” Keles winced. “Maybe that’s what I should have said. That’s what you heard.”

“That’s not what I heard. What I heard was something for which I have no gift or training. I’ve been Keru for years, and dreamed of being one for longer. And you know I’ve dreamed of my people finding a way to escape the trap of being a captive nation. These are all things that are outside myself. They are things for which I am willing to fight and willing to die.”

“I understand that.”

“Then understand this: these things have precluded me considering other things. I set other things aside. Desires. Feelings.” She glanced down at his hand. “When you spoke to me, I couldn’t . . .”

She sighed heavily and her shoulders slumped a bit. “When you have so long been a warrior, anything you are not prepared to deal with is seen as an attack. I parry. I riposte. I elude and disengage.”

“You thought I was attacking you?”

“Not attack, no, but I felt ambushed.”

Keles nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense. So what you said about Jasai having feelings for me, that’s not true?”

Tyressa lowered his left hand into the water again. “It is true, Keles. She loves you and will do everything she can to hide it, because she believes I love you.”

“Do you?”

“It’s not something I have a gift or training for.”

Keles pulled his hands from the water and gingerly crossed his arms against his chest. “You still see it as an attack, don’t you?”

“There are nine hundred ninety-nine reasons you should love her, Keles. She would make you a good wife.”

“She’s got a husband.” Keles laughed. “Right now, he has better hands than I do.”

“Loving you is not part of my mission.”

His eyes narrowed. “But will it stop you from doing that mission?”

“It already has.”

“What?”

Tyressa’s chin came up. “If I had done what Prince Cyron ordered me to do, you’d already be dead.”

 

Chapter Sixty

4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

Anger gathered on Nelesquin’s forehead the way thunderclouds hovered on the northwestern horizon. Nirati knew he didn’t see her, for his face would brighten when he did. It always did, and that made her happy. She didn’t like seeing him angry; it frightened her.

Nelesquin studied his scrying stones. The black and white stones had fallen into a pattern she did not recognize. The black ones had clumped together. A smaller bunch of white stones had also come together, but the significance of these things eluded her.

“What troubles you, beloved?”

The dark man’s head came up, and his smile blossomed almost too quickly. “Not so much troubled as confused, my dear. I fear there have been some setbacks, and I am frustrated that I had no real chance to prevent them.”

“But you would have if you could?”

“Of course.” He pointed to the gathered black stones. “We suffered a reversal in Erumvirine. I believe Gachin Dost exceeded his orders and suffered as a result. He may even be dead.”

Nirati remembered the blue-skinned Durrani leader. “I am sorry to hear that.”

“It is a pity, though it will give Nimchin an opportunity. Gachin was a good leader, but Nimchin is more adaptable. Supplied with the tokens of appreciation I have aboard ship to thank them, he will find a way to excel in my service.”

Nelesquin gathered the stones up and slipped them into the leather pouch. He stood, then extended his right hand to her. She took it and they began to hike over the hill to the harbor where the Crown Bear waited. It sat in the harbor like a mother goose, surrounded by countless goslings all ready to sail northwest to Erumvirine.

Nirati hesitated, her breath frozen in her lungs. So many ships. Each one brimmed with soldiers and machines of war; nothing could stand before his forces. She realized that it was petty of her that she had not been overly concerned with what he was doing when his focus was Erumvirine, but now that his forces would range north and attack Nalenyr, her stomach began to knot. She could see Moriande crushed.

Mother is there in Anturasikun, and perhaps Keles and Jorim, too. And Uncle Ulan and my cousins. Just as there would be no defeating Nelesquin’s Durrani, there would be no stopping this invasion. Even if she were able to deflect him into the Five Princes first, he would reestablish the Empire and any who would stand in his way would be destroyed.

It suddenly occurred to her that she would be included in that number.

Nelesquin smiled grandly, posting fists on his hips. “Never has their been such a fleet. Not even the fleet that brought the first True Bloods, nor Taichun’s fleet, can rival mine. They knew success with less, and were lesser men. How can we not succeed?”

Nirati smiled. “The question is not worthy of asking, beloved, for there is no answer.”

He leaned down and kissed her softly. “You will be my empress, Nirati, my only wife. We will make this empire greater than any that has gone before. Certainly greater than Taichun’s. It shall rival the Viruk Empire and even exceed it. Your face shall be on coins coveted from here to Aefret and beyond. Countless throngs will bow to you and worship you.”

“Will I be an empress or a goddess?”

“Either or both, and deserving of worship regardless.” He laughed aloud and the sound echoed from the hills. “Come, it is time we board the ship.”

They walked hand in hand to the shoreline, then out along a wharf next to which the Crown Bear was moored. The ship, with its nine tall masts, hid the far headland and seemed to be a world all by itself.

He turned and smiled, grasping her left hand in both of his. “Come, Nirati, we will sail to our new empire and the adoration to which we are due.”

She smiled and stepped after him, then stopped abruptly as if she’d slammed into a wall. Her hand slipped from his grasp and she rebounded from the collision. She fell back hard.

She raised her left hand to her face and touched her upper lip. Her hand came away wet and red, but she didn’t feel like she’d bumped her nose.

Nelesquin stared for a moment, then knelt by her side. “What’s the matter, beloved?”

“I don’t know.”

He scooped her into his arms and started toward the ship. Her left shoulder hit an invisible barrier and they both bounced back. Nelesquin turned, walking sideways, but her toes jammed into the unseen wall.

He stepped back and set her down again, then passed through the barrier without difficulty. “I don’t understand.”

Nirati rubbed at her shoulder. “Neither do I.”

“Ah, wait.” Nelesquin looked beyond her toward the hill they’d descended. “He doesn’t want you to go.”

Nirati turned. Her grandfather stood at the crest of the hill, holding Takwee’s hand. Nirati waved and both of them waved back. “Can he stop me from leaving?”

Nelesquin laughed. “He created Anturasixan, so it operates by rules only he can imagine. He created Kunjiqui as a sanctuary for you, to protect you from the world that hurt you. He may not know it, but he will not let you leave if he believes you can be hurt.”

Everything Nelesquin said made sense to Nirati, but she wasn’t certain he’d gotten to the core of things. Something else was happening to keep her in Kunjiqui. She didn’t want to dwell on it, but just knowing sent fear through her.

Nelesquin’s eyes hardened. “I understand his reasoning, for I would not have you hurt either. I will make the world a place that will never harm you.”

Nirati turned and looked at him. “You are still going?”

He nodded solemnly. “The events I read in the stones are a bit more dire than I told you. In them, I saw a glimmer of an old enemy returning to oppose me. He was the source of Gachin’s problem and, if he is not eliminated, he could be worrisome.”

“But you are in no danger?”

His booming laugh reassured her. “No, beloved. I long ago took steps to assure neither he nor anyone else could harm me.” He reached a hand through the barrier. “Because I love you, I am called away. I will come back for you, Nirati Anturasi. You are my empress, and I shall go become the emperor who is worthy of your love.”

She smiled bravely, took his hand, and drew him to her. “I know you will, beloved. I will be with you in spirit.”

“That shall not make me miss you less.” His arms enfolded her and pulled her tightly to him. He peered down into her eyes, then kissed her deeply.

Nirati clung to him, not because she wanted to prevent him from leaving, but because she knew she would never hold him again.

Nelesquin broke the kiss and slipped from her embrace.

She stepped forward and rested her hands against the barrier.

Nelesquin smiled, then bowed to her grandfather and her. “I go a prince; I return an emperor.”

“Go bravely, then.” Nirati smiled softly. The barrier is death, beloved. Go bravely, but remember, becoming an emperor does not make one immortal.

She hugged her arms around herself and waited there, watching until the ships had vanished over the horizon, and Takwee came to guide her home.

 

Chapter Sixty-one

4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Even low grey clouds and rain could not diminish the magnificence of Moriande. Rain pattered against Prince Pyrust’s cloak, and his horse splashed through puddles as he rode toward the Dragon Tower. Count Vroan’s Ixunite troops had manned Northgate, and the Shadow Hawks had cleared the streets. It had nominally been agreed that Pyrust was entering the capital to pay his respects to Prince Cyron, and the Keru busied themselves with a hunt for Duke Scior.

The appearance of a Desei host on the hills north of the city had rendered the idea of resistance ridiculous, and there were those nobles who allowed that Nalenyr’s fall had been the product of Cyron’s pride. While he looked overseas for trade to strengthen his nation, he had not paid attention to more dire threats closer to home. Pyrust had no doubt that the perceived wisdom would become Cyron’s historical epitaph, and that few would ever look at the true facts surrounding his fall to see how shortsighted a judgment that truly was.

It did not surprise Pyrust to hear that Cyron had survived the assassination attempt, though stories differed about how he had fared. The Mother of Shadows had scoffed at the ineptitude of Helosundian assassins, but Pyrust felt something more was at play. Grija had promised him great glory, and very great would be the glory of ending the Komyr Dynasty. He had wanted to kill Cyron himself. The gods and circumstances had conspired to let him do so.

Pyrust looked up and around at the buildings lining the street and took heart in the flashes of eyes peeking out at him from doorways and behind shutters. Had a conqueror been riding through Felarati and the order had been given that no one was to look upon him, the Desei would have remained hidden within their homes until told they could emerge again. Learning to obey orders had been what preserved life in Deseirion, but here, in the south, spirit and initiative had created a more vibrant society.

He admired their spirit and, for the first time truly realized how difficult administering an empire would be. He did not let that problem overwhelm him because he still needed to fight the invaders. If they defeated him, all problems of empire would be nothing. Moreover, the bureaucracy would continue to function, keeping the Naleni state working as it should. He felt fairly certain that once he made the nature of the southern threat known to the bureaucracy, they would do all they could to facilitate his destroying the invaders.

It did concern him, however, that they had clearly condoned the assassination and usurpation that would have occurred under Duke Scior or Count Vroan. While bureaucrats often embraced their duty first, they could not be divorced from nationalistic sentiments. The ministers of Helosunde had directed their nation for years, and he had no doubts that Grand Minister Pelut Vniel would gladly seize power if Pyrust were to fall in battle.

The bureaucracy here has willingly played politics. He began to draw up a short list of individuals the Mother of Shadows would have to make disappear. Timed correctly, their deaths would not seem overly suspicious, yet would encourage obedience among other ministers. Similarly the deaths of certain Naleni nobles would disorganize any movement against him.

A tiny piece of him wondered if Cyron would have stooped to preemptive murder had he known the extent of the plotting against him. In general, he would not have put any man above it, but Cyron had been odd in that way. Pyrust never would have sent grain to Nalenyr. While he understood Cyron’s motivation, he still viewed it as weakness. He’d not shoved the knife in when he had the chance, and that was what allowed him to lose.

Not a mistake I shall make.

The gates to Wentokikun stood open. Pyrust rode through alone, then up the broad steps to the tower’s doors. There he dismounted and threw off his cloak. He entered through the open doors in rain-dappled armor of black, with the Desei hawk painted in gold. He wore a single sword and marveled how his footsteps echoed within the vast entryway.

When he had been in the Dragon Tower before, he had come as a visitor, swathed in formal robes that restricted his strides. He’d shuffled his way down the long corridor to the throne room, having to study the murals depicting Naleni dominance over its neighbors, including Deseirion. Now the Desei murals had been covered by tapestries that showed older scenes, when Desei and Naleni heroes had united against the Turasynd or an ambitious Helosundian prince.

The presence of those tapestries told him that though Cyron might be gravely injured, he was far from dead. Pyrust quickened his pace, stalking down the hallway to the Naleni throne room. He passed around the wooden screening wall, then paused in the doorway. His gaze followed the line of the red carpet to the Dragon Throne.

He struggled to control his reaction to the man seated there.

Cyron had been dressed in armor, but wore neither helmet nor face mask. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump, which was still leaking. He sat as straight as he could, his face grey and wet with perspiration. A sheathed sword sat across the arms of his throne and his right hand rested on the hilt.

Pyrust removed his own helmet and face mask, setting them down by the door. He bowed, then approached slowly. He checked himself, for his gait had gone from that of a conqueror to that of someone entering a sickroom. He considered for a moment, then continued forward sedately, stopping nine feet from the foot of the throne.

Cyron swallowed hard, then licked at dry lips. “I was urged to meet you in robes of state. I would have, but as much as I hate wearing them, I do like the colors. Blood would spoil them.”

“Your robes are magnificent, much like your city and your nation.”

“Hardly mine anymore.” Cyron’s expression tightened. “I wanted to meet you in armor. You’ll kill me, and we needn’t have it said I cowered or you murdered me.”

“Armor or robes, those things will be said regardless.” Pyrust rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “How bad are things to the south?”

Cyron smiled weakly. “I tried to keep that from you.”

“You were right to. I have stripped my nation of those capable of fighting. I have united the Helosundians. We are heading south to fight the invaders.”

“Vroan is with you?”

“For as long as he is useful.”

The Naleni Prince nodded. “Destroy the westrons.”

“I’ll let the invaders do that.” Pyrust paused and looked around the room, at the golden wood and simple artistry of the Dragon Throne. “I can understand how you became complacent.”

“If that is what you understand, brother, then you understand nothing.” Cyron winced, then struggled to sit forward. “You see the Nine as an empire that needs reuniting.”

“As you did.”

“But I saw it as more. United as a people, in contact with the rest of the world, we could learn and teach. We could make life better.” Cyron slowly sagged back into the throne. “War can only destroy, not build.”

Pyrust pointed to the south. “We did not choose the war.”

“No, but you will use it. Only do not destroy so much that you cannot build again.”

Pyrust paused for a moment, allowing Cyron’s words to sink in. He would not have expected Cyron to beg for his own life, and was pleased that the Prince did not. It surprised him, on the other hand, that Cyron would offer advice. He has accepted his own death, but wishes his dream to live on.

Cyron’s dream surprised Pyrust. He’d seen bits and pieces of it and, as recently as the ride to the tower, had dismissed it as weakness. The fact was that Cyron’s looking beyond empire mocked Pyrust’s shortsightedness. He had always looked to empire for the sake of empire.

But what use is it for me to have my name on monuments that will be crushed if the Empire is not sustained? Growth is all that can sustain it. Soldiers may be able to guard and preserve, but war cannot advance a culture into a peaceful future.

The Desei Prince slowly nodded. “I will treat your request with the sincerity and thought it merits.”

Cyron nodded slowly. “Thank you.” He shifted his right arm, so the sword tipped forward and down. The scabbard half slid off, then he shook it the rest of the way clear. It clattered down the dais steps and lay halfway between them.

Pyrust drew his own sword. “I would keep you alive for the value of your ideas, brother, but you will become a rallying point for opposition. Even after I kill you and mount your head on a spear at the gate, there will be those who say I only killed an impostor. You’ll be reported in the east or west, the Helos Mountains; you’ll be in the company of Keru who are bearing your children. I’ll never be rid of the Komyr curse.”

“Shall I lift my chin so you can make the cut clean?” Cyron laughed. “I trust your blade will be sharper than the assassin’s. I’d not want to live through the first stroke.”

“It will be quick.” Pyrust took a step forward, bringing his blade back, but a rustling at the doorway caused him to turn.

A slender, dark-haired woman in a robe of jade, trimmed with jet, stood on the carpet. “Do not kill him.”

Pyrust lowered his sword and glanced at Cyron. “Are these the liberties you allow courtesans? She treads where only nobles may walk, and gives orders to princes?”

“Do not kill him.”

Pyrust stared at her. “You order me? Who do you think you are?”

The Lady of Jet and Jade looked at him with ageless eyes. “This is my Empire, Prince Pyrust. I am Cyrsa, and when I give you an order, you will obey.”