Chapter Twenty-two
7th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
Try as he might, Ciras Dejote could not shake the feeling they were being watched. He saw no one in the Wastes; he found no footprints—even old ones—to indicate that anyone else was out there. But, regardless of an utter lack of evidence, he knew they were being watched—and Borosan didn’t help matters by agreeing with him.
He would have been happy to ascribe it to paranoia, or the influence of the sword he now bore, but it was rooted in something far more substantial than that. After killing whatever Dragright had become, he’d trailed out after the giant. At first the man’s panicked footprints were easy to follow. He’d run past where the looters had hobbled their horses and conveniently stepped in manure. That petered out eventually, so Ciras returned to the camp and waited for daylight to continue the pursuit.
In camp, they cleaned up the bodies and piled rocks over them to slow down whatever scavengers might lurk in Ixyll. They contented themselves with a cold meal that night, and both wrote out prayers on strips of cloth, which they left as streamers over the tomb entrance.
When they awoke, the streamers were still in place, and the hole in the tomb’s slab had been repaired fully. Ciras had run his hand over it and not only could feel no seam around where the repair had been performed, but could not even find any stray scars from where the sledge had hit off target.
To make matters worse, after they collected the looters’ horses and continued west, they found the giant’s body—or what was left of it. Something had stripped most of the meat off the bones and scattered them, but both men were able to reconstruct enough to determine this had been their quarry. More important, their work allowed them to make a rough guess at the cause of death.
Something, it appeared, roughly a foot in diameter, had punched through his chest, pulverized his spine, and powdered the rock upon which he lay. Borosan guessed he’d have to have been impaled by a wharf piling heaved by a ballista. The utter absence of so much as a splinter cast doubts on that explanation, but Ciras couldn’t come up with anything better.
But still, both events could have been dismissed as some sort of magical retribution for disturbing the grave. The problem with that explanation—aside from the fact that no one in the Nine knew how to lay such an enchantment since the Cataclysm—came from the fact that the sword had been left with Ciras. Even before they cleaned up the corpses, and even before he’d taken care of his own sword, he’d cleaned and oiled the blade. He’d slept that first night with it beside his own sword, and couldn’t imagine why it had been left to him.
As they rode around a hill, his left hand fell to the ancient sword’s hilt. In studying the blade he’d learned a lot about it. Though he did not recognize the maker’s mark stamped into the blade, the general form indicated it was of Virine manufacture.
The sigils worked along the blade defied deciphering, though both he and Borosan made attempts. They’d been written in the old Imperial script. While both men were literate, and had even been exposed to Imperial writing, in the time since the Cataclysm the Ministries of Harmony had revised and streamlined the six thousand, five hundred and sixty-one characters one needed to know to be considered educated. Clerks would be required to learn nine times that many—and ministers, it was said, could command even more.
But the true difficulty with picking out the message was that it seemed to change. Ciras had noticed that effect, but had said nothing. Borosan, without telling him, had written down the inscriptions, then found they changed. They tried to pin it to time of day, weather, and direction they were heading, but if there was a pattern, they couldn’t discern it.
Both of them reached the same conclusion about the sword: it had belonged to one of Prince Nelesquin’s vanyesh—although they each acknowledged knowing next to nothing about the vanyesh. Down through the years any truth about them had been lost. Aside from knowing they were sorcerers who traveled with an evil prince, neither man had any information.
Ciras reined his horse to a halt beside Borosan’s mount. They’d crested a hill that overlooked a vast but sunken plain, which angled off to the northwest between two lines of mountains. “We’ll be two days on that plain if we just strike out across it, don’t you think?”
Borosan nodded. “If we keep close to one set of mountains or the other, we should find water. All the green veins running into the plain indicate water, but I would just as soon avoid as many valleys as we can.”
“Agreed. And I believe you’re right. The wild magic flows like water and seeps into the low points. Every valley we’ve seen is more alive with it than elsewhere.”
Borosan nodded as if he’d only half heard. Ciras had become used to that. The inventor leaned back, pulled a journal from his saddlebags, and made a note. “Shall we camp here?”
“Back down the hill, yes, by the spring.”
They retraced their steps and made camp. Neither knew what Ixyll had been before the Cataclysm, and anticipating what it would be from day to day was impossible. The wild magic had scoured the world down to its stony bones in some places and yet, in others, grasses formed meadows and trees grew into groves. Granted, most often the trees were odd—like having gorgeous blossoms that became fist-sized fruit in a matter of hours, only to burst into flame shortly thereafter. The grasses seemed more normal. Though they were seldom a simple green, the horses ate them with no apparent ill effects.
They made camp on a bluesward and collected deadwood—first making sure it was truly dead and truly wood. Borosan made a fire and Ciras stepped well away from it before he started his exercises.
Borosan looked up after Ciras had stripped himself to the waist. “Finally decided you will use it?”
The swordsman nodded and slipped the ancient sword into the sash around his middle. “A swordsman is a union of sword and man. The blade I have carried with me has been in my family for generations. It is not enchanted—it’s not one of your gyanrigot—but it helps me focus. It is hard to explain.”
Borosan warmed his hands over the fire. “I’ve heard it explained that it is easier to walk in boots that have been broken-in rather than those that are brand-new.”
“But you scoff at this.”
Borosan shook his head. “Not at all. You think a blade that is well-used helps you to focus. If I were to use gyanri to build a blade, my purpose would still be to aid the warrior. The difference would be that the focus and guidance would be stronger because the person using it would know little of fighting.”
Ciras’ expression soured. “That would be terribly wrong.”
“So I have come to learn through my association with you, Master Dejote.” Borosan smiled. “If I venture into designing weapons, I will work on armor, to keep people alive.”
“But that’s no better than . . .”
“Isn’t it? Your objection to my thanatons is that they could kill without reason. The same would hold true for gyanrigot swords and spears. They would make anyone capable of fighting and killing without training. I agree that helping people kill without discretion is wrong. The reverse of that, however, should not be true. I would be saving people from dying.”
The swordsman folded his arms over his chest. He didn’t like Borosan’s turning his argument back on itself. There was something wrong with what he was saying, but on the surface it was hard to argue with. If I say it is wrong to stop people from dying, I am as foolish as those who would kill without discrimination. Death is death, and if one believes it should be limited, one cannot pick and choose cases and be consistent.
“If you make someone invulnerable, Borosan, then he will be as dangerous with a simple knife as he might be with a gyanrigot sword.”
“But he will likely do little harm and the armor will work only until the thaumston is exhausted. Facing someone such as you, he would do no harm. Your attacks would wear the thaumston down and you would kill him eventually.”
“What if someone else supplies him a gyanrigot sword?”
That question contorted Borosan’s face. “I’d not thought of that.”
Ciras nodded. “It should be considered.” Then he turned away from the inventor as the chubby man went digging for his journal. Ciras took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began his exercises.
He drew the sword and dropped into the third Dragon form. Closing his eyes, he imagined a foe in fourth Wolf across from him. Ciras stamped a foot and the man came in, slashing low. The swordsman easily leaped above that strike and was ready to land in sixth Dragon. Instead, his right foot flicked out and caught his enemy in the face, snapping his head around.
Ciras landed in a crouch and spun, aware of another foe coming in at his back. This enemy was a Turasynd of the Tiger clan. Strips of orange fur covered his arms and chest. The Turasynd’s heavy saber whistled down in a cut that would bisect him, but his own sword came up and around in a double-handed circular parry.
Ciras would have slashed back across the Turasynd’s body, but for awareness of another attack at his back. He stabbed back over his right shoulder and could feel the blade punching through breastbone and heart. He looked up and saw his imaginary Turasynd foe looming over him, transfixed by both the blade and surprise. The enemy had raised his sword over his head with two hands and it still descended, but Ciras caught his wrists and pulled, flipping the man forward and into the other Tiger.
Ciras came up and whirled, slashing blindly at waist height. A third Tiger folded over the blade’s edge. Ciras slid his blade free and continued the spin. He dropped his blade’s tip, then slashed up, catching the first Tiger beneath the chin as he threw off his dead comrade. Both of them fell back into a tangle of limbs, allowing Ciras to leap over them and turn to face other enemies.
The supply of Turasynd seemed endless. Endless and eager. They rushed forward, two coming for each one fallen. Ciras retreated, then lunged, slashed, then parried and riposted. He beat blades down, then cut above them, or ducked a blow and stabbed deep through an enemy’s vitals. His blade licked out, opening armpits and groins, throats and bellies. He had no time to employ the fine cuts that would all but sever a head or cleave wrist from arm.
Scenes blurred as foes came faster and faster. Some he saw as whole and normal, others appeared far larger than they ever could have been. Some even appeared in degrees of decay, as if they had clawed their way from a grave to have a second chance at the man who had killed them. Regardless of how they looked or moved, Ciras fought each back, ending their lives again and again.
Then he spun to the right, coming about in the same cut he’d used to take Dragright’s leg off. His blade bit deep into his enemy’s left side. It carved through his robe and overshirt, the blade’s forte all but reaching his spine. It would have, too, had Ciras not stopped, had he not let go of the blade.
But he did, and sank to his knees. The visions he’d been fighting melted. The sword thudded to the ground before him and sweat stung his eyes. He’d have been happy if the sweat burned them completely from his head, but he knew that even that would not steal the vision of what he’d seen.
Borosan knelt at his side and pressed a waterskin into his hands. “What’s wrong, Ciras?”
The swordsman didn’t answer. He raised the waterskin and directed the stream over his face and head. He shook his head, spraying water, but Borosan did not complain. Ciras drank a bit of water, spat it out, then drank again and swallowed. He waited a moment to see if he would keep it down, then opened his eyes but stared straight ahead, down the length of the blade.
“How long was I exercising?”
“Nine minutes, perhaps eighteen, no more than that.” The inventor shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention until you started mumbling.”
The swordsman glanced at him. “What did I say?”
“I don’t know, but I didn’t like it. Once you started speaking, strange things began to happen.” Borosan pointed to Ciras’ left.
Ciras followed the line of his finger. The bluesward showed signs of where he’d been. His feet had depressed grasses but, more significantly, his footprints had filled with blood.
“What happened, Ciras?”
“I don’t know. I began my exercises as always, then they became something more. My foes became Turasynd. They came in an endless stream.” The swordsman looked around, baffled. “I think, perhaps, they all died here. The man who owned that blade met them here and killed them. Their ghosts recognized the sword and wanted revenge.”
Borosan’s mismatched eyes widened. “I’ll start packing now.”
Ciras smiled. “That would be wise.”
He remained on his knees and looked at the blade a little longer. He would help Borosan pack, but for the moment was glad for the other man’s preoccupation. He knew the inventor would ask the logical question at some point, and wanted a chance to think about the answer before he ever gave it.
Why did I stop?
The image of the blade slicing through a robe came again. The robe had been white save where blood began to seep into it. The red line spread slowly upward, toward the crest embroidered in black on the overshirt’s back. A tiger hunting.
A crest he had seen before.
And recognition of the crest prompted recognition of the man he was attacking. The size, the shape, the length of his hair. Ciras even knew the man had a scar on his left side that matched the cut perfectly.
He looked down at the blade. “Why would I see you plunging into my master’s back?”
Neither the blade, glinting red and gold in the firelight, nor the sigils slithering through shadow, provided him an answer.
Chapter Twenty-three
7th day, Month of the Dragon, 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
Prince Pyrust sat in the very chair Keles Anturasi had used as he listened to the Mother of Shadows report. The fire blazed at his left hand, snapping and popping. He stretched his legs out, forcibly ignoring the heat.
“This report is difficult for me to hear, Delasonsa. From here, I can see the great work Anturasi has accomplished. Returning this much land to cultivation will not solve our food shortage, but it will help. He’s guaranteed Felarati can continue to grow beyond my lifetime. His value to me is considerable.”
The crone bowed her head. “This I understand, Highness. But his conduct with your wife is unacceptable.”
“To whom?”
Her head came up. “To me—for one, and it should be to you. She carries your child.”
Pyrust’s eyes half lidded. “Her child will be born as my heir. She knows this. We all do, and there is nothing she can do to make things otherwise. Even rumors of the child having been fathered by Anturasi will not matter. Besides, you tell me they have not slept together yet.”
The old woman’s grey cloak closed and shrouded her form, making her seem smaller than before. “It is not for your wife’s lack of trying, Highness.”
“Then the fault is hers.”
“But she cannot be slain. Anturasi can. Our people found him in Ixyll, very ill. They did all they could for him, but he succumbed to some illness. We can return his body, or burn him and return his ashes. We could even send Prince Cyron the heads of the fools who did not get him here quickly enough.”
“Those are plans that shall be held against the future.” Pyrust rose and turned his back to the fire. “My ambitions aside, my purpose is to make my nation stronger. Anturasi aids that. As for my wife . . . he is never leaving Deseirion. He may have her all he wants as long as she gives me another child or three. I know this is a matter of honor for you, and I appreciate your devotion to my family. But recall that the children are my blood, and to them goes your allegiance.”
Delasonsa’s head came up, her eyes hot. “Beware her frustration, Highness. You may see her as a broodmare, but she sees herself differently. She could do you harm.”
“And this is why you will continue to watch her. You will also find someone else to seduce Anturasi.”
“Done and done.” The old woman held his stare as a web holds a fly. “And if they seek to escape, do I kill them?”
“Her, certainly. Anturasi is too valuable to let go so easily.”
“As you desire, Highness.”
“Thank you.” Pyrust clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, my Grand Minister reported to me on the state of international affairs, and I have noted a curious lack of information about Erumvirine. He suggested couriers have been delayed by bandits in Helosunde. I’ve heard no other reports about bandits. You would have told me of them, wouldn’t you?”
“If they existed in more than your minister’s imagination, of course, Highness.” The Mother of Shadows shook her head slowly. “Something is happening in the south. Cyron is moving Helosundian mercenaries and Naleni Dragon Guards south to the Virine border. He’s raising troops from the inland counties to hold the north. This works well for us as our agent has been fomenting revolution among the same, and Cyron has just given them reason to draw closer to the capital while fully armed.”
Pyrust arched an eyebrow at her. “ ‘Something is happening in the south’? That is hardly your usual precision in reporting, Delasonsa.”
“True, Highness, but it is also the truth. My Virine assets are unusually quiet. There is enough limited communication that I know they still exist, but they have no credible information to offer.”
The fire roared for a moment, then a log exploded into a shower of sparks and embers that scattered well past the Prince’s vacated chair. The two of them jumped back, then stepped further back as the sparks began to spin, sweeping the embers into their tight embrace. Fire whirled into a column, then congealed into a humanoid form with the head of a wolf. The fiery creature appropriated the chair, dragging it closer to the hearth as it sat.
Pyrust stared for a heartbeat at the creature, then dropped to a knee and bowed deeply. “Greetings, Grija, Lord of Death. You honor me.”
“I do no such thing, Pyrust. I give you an opportunity. You are bound to my realm—all mortals are—and the only question is how many of your fellows you have sent to me. Your dead shall be your slaves in my realm.”
Delasonsa, who had remained standing, snorted. “The Prince is too wise to be seduced by your lies. Thousands may slave under him, but he will slave beneath the one who slays him. What is the benefit of a few or many?”
Grija laughed lightly, jaws agape. “I shall enjoy continuing this discussion in my realm, Mother of Shadows. You shall not.” A fiery hand flicked in her direction and Pyrust’s assassin collapsed.
“You do right to value her, Pyrust, for she defends you as a hawk would defend her own young. Yet she thinks she could defend you from me, which is foolishness. She would prolong a discussion that is best brief.”
The Prince nodded. “When you spoke to me before, you said I would drive many through the gates of your realm.”
“That was true then, and will be more so now. I have seen great things from you but the circumstances have shifted. Two who were meant for my realm have eluded me. They have died, yet they live in defiance of all that which is ordered in the heavens. This is an omen that heralds the arrival of a tenth god.”
Pyrust, who had never given too much thought to the gods, found that prospect surprising. “Can there be a tenth god?”
“You might as well ask if there can be ten more or ten fewer. There have been countless gods. The Viruk had their gods, and the Soth the same. Even men have different gods. We warp mortals, and they change us. It is all the stuff of endless and tedious discussions among priests—and I restrict it to the Sixth Hell.”
The flaming god leaned forward. “It is also immaterial to you, Pyrust. All that matters is this: two people meant for my realm have eluded me. They have accomplished this because the tenth god is invading heaven. And, as go the heavens, so goes the earth—for the tenth god’s terrestrial forces are invading Erumvirine.”
The Desei Prince slowly stood. “And this is why no news flows north.”
“And why the Son of the Dragon Throne throws his troops south. His intent may be good, but his means and timing are not.” A flaming tongue licked flickering fangs. “The initial invasion sent many to my realm, and perhaps was meant to distract me from those who are missing. Now a second wave has come, and Virine defenses cannot hold it.”
Pyrust’s jade eyes narrowed. “Where are they attacking? Show me.”
“Show you?”
“Yes, damn you. You’re a god. You conjured a body; conjure me a map.”
Grija lunged up, then reached an oversized hand back into the hearth. He scooped up fire as if it were sand and let it pour over the floor, where it puddled inches away from Delasonsa’s limp form. The flames became incandescent fluid, then dark lines ran through them marking the rivers and borders. Flames danced up for mountains, then, on Erumvirine’s eastern edge, the flames died completely.
Pyrust’s stomach began to knot. A quarter of the nation is gone. The invaders are driving straight for Kelewan. A momentary flash of jealousy ran through him. His dreams of marching triumphantly into Kelewan died, for he knew the city he might take now would never match the city he had lusted after for so long.
“How long since they invaded?”
“A month.”
“And they’ve come that far? I am impressed.”
“You should be afraid.”
“Fear avails me nothing. Respect for my enemy is vital.”
The death god squatted and peered down at him. “Do not be disdainful of me, Pyrust.”
He met Grija’s gaze without fear. “If I am to be your scythe, do not complain that I am sharp.”
The god sat back and chuckled. “You are not the only scythe.”
Pyrust nodded. “I shall consider well what you have told me.”
“And act on it?”
“You will know one way or the other.”
Grija stared at him for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Make your decision wisely, Pyrust. If there is a tenth god, there will be a Tenth Hell, and I shall reserve it especially for you.”
Before the Prince could reply, the fiery avatar imploded and flowed back into the hearth. Aside from Delasonsa’s body and the little flames licking at his chair, no sign existed of the god’s visit. Pyrust waited, thinking he might awaken, but he did not.
The Desei Prince frowned. When Grija had first spoken to him months ago, it seemed that his dreams of becoming Emperor would come true. Certainly, any campaign would have resulted in many deaths. Succeed or fail, his effort would swell the population of the death god’s realm.
This manifestation, however, betokened something entirely different. If the god of Death was powerful enough to intervene in the affairs of men, he could have simply slain the tenth god’s troops. But the fact that people had escaped death meant his power was waning. War was being waged on the earth as it was in heaven, and Grija clearly needed a terrestrial ally. Or allies. After all, I am not the only scythe.
Divine politics aside, the information he’d been given was useful. He’d known Cyron was moving troops, and now he knew why. The troops on Nalenyr’s northern border were unreliable, and perhaps even rebellious. Punching through Helosunde and into Nalenyr would hardly be bloodless, but it now seemed possible.
It is also necessary.
Grija had said it, but Pyrust knew it even before the death god had provided the details. Cyron might well be a genius in organizing his nation and accumulating wealth, but he was not the military leader any of the other Komyr princes had been. If he were, he would not be sending troops south to his border with Erumvirine; he would be sending them straight into Erumvirine. It would be far better to fight any wars on someone else’s territory—whether you intended to keep it or cede it back later.
Pyrust had choices. He had Helosunde between his nation and Nalenyr. Even if the invaders chose to turn north and come up the coast, their supply lines would be stretched beyond all imagining by the time they reached Deseirion, and Pyrust could guarantee they’d find not a single morsel to eat in his realm. His troops, though not as numerous as other nations’, were well trained and would fight hard. He could hold the enemy in Helosunde and keep his realm safe.
Or I can fight them further south. While part of him still dreamed of taking Moriande and Kelewan, a greater part of him now contemplated their defense. If we are divided, we shall fall.
But no one would agree to be united beneath the Hawk banner. Even if Cyron realized this was the only chance for his realm to survive, he’d not agree. Surrendering command of his troops to his Desei counterpart would spell the end of his dynasty.
“But I shall need his troops and his nation to defend us all.” Pyrust frowned. If the tenth god’s invasion had inspired fear in the death god, there was no way to see that as anything but a disaster for mankind.
Pyrust sank to a knee beside the Mother of Shadows and shook her shoulder. She jerked, then rolled away. He felt certain she’d come up with a dagger in hand, but she kept it hidden beneath her cloak.
“Highness, I have failed you.”
“No, Delasonsa, you have not. We have much work to do.”
“What, my Prince?”
Pyrust stood. “You will send word to your agents in Nalenyr. They will encourage an open break between the inland lords and Moriande. I want the former armed and ready to join me. I will also need you to slay the leaders of Helosunde’s dissident factions though you will spare my wife’s brother. In her name, a message will be sent to the Council of Ministers offering an alliance and peace between Deseirion and Helosunde.”
“They will not believe it.”
“You will tell them I will grant Helosunde full autonomy when my heir is born.”
She looked at him closely. “Are you well, Highness?”
“My next order will answer your concern, Mother of Shadows. I want every unit possible to head south. This includes the training cadres and the garrisons on the Turasynd borders. Any man or woman fifteen to thirty will report to a unit unless their occupation is vital to the war effort. Find me some cowards of whom I can make examples and crucify them at crossroads.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Within a month, Mother of Shadows, we march south.” Pyrust pointed in that direction. “It’s not empire we seek, but if we repel the invaders, it is empire we shall have.”
Chapter Twenty-four
10th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Vnielkokun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Pelut Vniel waited until his servants had poured tea and withdrawn before he bowed his head to his visitor. “You honor my house with your visit, Count Turcol. I apologize for not having been able to see you earlier, but my household has been in an uproar as we prepare to celebrate the anniversary of the Prince’s ascension to the Dragon Throne. If you are here on that blessed day, please accept my invitation to be your host.”
The westron lord returned the bow, but without grace or sincerity. “I believed, Minister, that I had communicated the urgency of my business with you to your subordinates. Perhaps they do not serve you well.”
Pelut did not immediately reply. Instead, he sipped his tea. “In Miromil they train monkeys to climb to the highest reaches of the tea trees and to pick only the most delicate leaves. This variety is called Jade Cloud, and my servants have been given specific instruction in its preparation. I believe you will like it.”
Turcol did not so much as glance at the tea on the little table beside which he knelt. “I appreciate your hospitality, but I have little time for it.”
“There is always time for being hospitable, my lord.”
Turcol might have caught a hint of warning in his voice, or had remembered he had come to ask a favor of Pelut. So, he did not reply and instead sipped the tea—far too quickly—then offered thanks.
Pelut returned his cup to the table beside him. “You were fortunate to be in Moriande when the request for troops was issued. You will, no doubt, be joining them at the Helosunde border very soon.”
“I will be joining them, yes.” Turcol’s eyes slitted. “I thought to seek your advice on a matter of protocol.”
“And what would that be?”
The inland lord squared his shoulders. “Given that our Prince will be celebrating his anniversary, I thought a parade of troops to honor him and the occasion would be appropriate.”
Pelut hesitated but let no surprise show on his face. “The Prince eschews such displays, save during the Harvest Festival. His celebrations are usually private. Often he takes a group of courtiers into the countryside for hawking and other pursuits.”
“Of this I am aware, Grand Minister. I am also aware that he has sent most of his Keru south, so he is without his customary retinue of bodyguards. I imagine this will cause him to remain in Moriande.” Turcol attempted to layer pity onto his expression but, never having felt it before, the effort was transparently false. “I had thought that, since my troops would be in the vicinity four days hence, the Prince might come with us, enjoy our hospitality, and see just how well we will guard the border. It would be a blessing for my troops to see their Prince as well.”
Pelut smiled. Ambition, Count Turcol, is always impatient. “Your concern for the Prince’s welfare is noted and appreciated. Shall I communicate your invitation to His Highness?”
“I would be in your debt. What would you have me do to repay you?”
“I have no idea what service you can perform for me, Count Turcol, beyond that of faithfully securing our border.”
His reply clearly frustrated Turcol. Pelut had seen it for what it was: an invitation to suggest killing Cyron and supplanting him. The plot would be obvious to everyone, but Turcol arrogantly believed that his celebrated rise to the throne would blind everyone to the means by which he obtained it.
Turcol nodded. “I am certain you will think of something, Grand Minister, for your wisdom is celebrated throughout Nalenyr.”
“Again you honor me.” Pelut sipped tea once more, then glanced past his visitor. He’d caught the hint of a shadow against one of the rice-paper-panel walls. He knew Turcol would never spot it. If he did, Pelut already had a stratagem in place for dealing with the situation. His eldest daughter would be found hiding there, claiming she wanted just a glimpse of the famous noble. Pelut would let the man use her as he would, and Turcol would forget any other suspicions.
His vanity would never allow him to believe I had a clerk transcribing our discussion.
Such precautions would have been unnecessary, but Turcol’s repeated demands for a meeting had forced Pelut to take them. Even a blind and deaf man who had been clapped in an iron box and sunk to the bottom of the Gold River for fifty years would be aware of the westron’s desire to speak with him. Pelut had to assume Prince Cyron knew already, and while Pelut feared no spies in his own household, he assumed the streets outside his small tower would be choked with them by the time the interview had been concluded.
“I should tell you, my lord, that I think it unlikely the Prince will accept your invitation. In fact, I should think the chances of it would be negligible . . .”
“My pleasure and generosity were he to join me would know no bounds!”
Pelut continued speaking, making no response to the outburst. “. . . unless you were perhaps first to invite Prince Eiran and suggest to him you dearly wished Prince Cyron would join you. If you were to say that you would have asked the Prince directly, save that you felt certain he would look down on an offer from such a lowly noble as yourself, I am confident Prince Eiran would use his influence on your behalf. He and Cyron are quite close.”
Turcol glanced down, then nodded. “Of course. I should do it that way, yes.”
“I would be happy to arrange an audience with Prince Eiran for you.”
“If I may ask it of you, please.” Turcol tried to make his next question sound casual, but the enthusiasm in his voice betrayed him. “I do have one question—spawned by the desire for continued stability in Nalenyr.”
“Please.”
“If the unfortunate were to happen . . .”
“ ‘The unfortunate’?”
“If the Prince were to fall victim to an assassin, a Desei assassin, what would happen next?”
Pelut smiled and shook his head. “Do not concern yourself, my lord. There are no Desei assassins who could penetrate Wentokikun.”
Turcol frowned, dark and deep. “No. What if it were assassins, a group of them, and they fell upon the Prince while he was coming out to join my troops? What would happen? If he died, I mean.”
Though Pelut knew exactly what was being asked, he chose to misunderstand a bit more. “This is all highly unlikely, my lord. Prince Pyrust is quite wise, so any assassins would not be revealed as his agents. I mean, in such an unthinkable scenario as you describe, a band of assassins would need to be at least twenty-seven in number and likely would be disguised as bandits. In fact, we would find nothing to indicate they were not bandits. About the only chance they would have, I should think, would be to attack while you, the Princes, and a few other of your most trusted and brave warriors are relaxing at Memorial Hill, as is the Prince’s wont. Then and only then might they kill the Prince. As for the rest of you, if you were able to fight your way clear, well, recall how the people love your father-in-law for having brought Prince Aralias’ body back from Helosunde.”
Turcol nodded and sipped at his tea again.
Pelut bowed his head. “I hope this does not alarm you, my lord, for I know you would give your life to protect our Prince. You might be wounded even, but his loss would cause you greater pain than any physical wound.”
“Of course it alarms me, Grand Minister, and if I thought bandits could harm the Prince, I should never offer my invitation. That is not possible, however, so I shall use the route you suggest.”
“I am pleased to be of service.”
“My original question, however, dealt with the aftermath of such a grand tragedy. The Prince has no heirs, and his brother died without any as well. In the event of the Prince’s death, who would lead our nation?”
Pelut took a long drink of his tea before answering. “You present me with a question for which there is one of many answers—but one that should not be shared outside this room. I trust I have your confidence in this?”
Turcol nodded slowly in agreement. “I understand.”
Pelut canted his head to the right. “You must understand that the Prince’s lack of an heir by blood or declaration is a situation which I, as Naleni Grand Minister, must address. I look to Helosunde, with its Council of Ministers, and see how their deliberations have been a disaster. I will not have a government of ministers, for we are not of ruling blood. Few people are, and fewer still manifest their blood’s full promise.”
The count could not conceal a smile. The fact that his family had once been on the Dragon Throne clearly proved he had the bloodlines that could lay claim to it. And he is certain his bloodline’s promise has blossomed full in him.
“It has struck me, my lord, that to maintain stability and promote the future, we might be required to take extraordinary methods. It has been my thinking that a triumvirate made up of your father-in-law, Duchess Scior, and yourself would provide the proper mixture of wisdom, charisma, experience and, in your case, vitality to lead our nation into the future. The three of you would have to cooperate, of course, sharing power.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Turcol’s curdled expression made his opinion clear. “Still, we would have to come down to one Prince if our nation was to maintain its legitimacy. While both of the others are wise and powerful, neither of their houses predates the Cataclysm. As with the Komyr, they have risen since the Time of Black Ice.”
“Their houses were not unknown before the creation of the Nine.”
“But they were not Imperial nobility.”
“Very true.” Pelut nodded solemnly. “The question for you, my lord, is how best the ministries would serve the ruling triumvirate?”
That comment gave Turcol pause, and his clenching fist did not escape Pelut’s notice. “I should think, Grand Minister, that the ministries would serve best to consolidate power in the hands of that one individual best qualified to lead the nation. The duchess, while wise—even if it is a fishwife’s cunning—and my father-in-law, are both too long in the tooth to provide the sort of continuity needed to carry Nalenyr into the future.”
“I should agree with you, my lord, save that both of them have progeny who can carry on. You could well be Count Vroan’s practical heir, but if you had heirs of your own, things would be even better.”
“True, but were my wife pregnant now, Count Vroan might designate my child his heir, and I would be reduced to a regency. I find this unacceptable, and you should as well.”
“I seek only that which is best for our nation.”
“And I believe the Grand Minister should see that I am Nalenyr’s future.”
“If the unthinkable happens.”
Turcol halted for barely a heartbeat. “Yes, of course, if the unthinkable were to happen. Bandits. It would be terrible.”
“So it would, my lord.” Pelut glanced down at his cup and the tiny bits of tea leaves gathered at the bottom. “Were that to happen, I think your guidance would be invaluable to our nation. You clearly have thought of this, and such foresight is a value that shall not be discounted.”
“And you, Grand Minister, have a clarity of vision, which will guarantee our future.”
“My lord is too kind.” Pelut bowed to him. “I should not take up more of my lord’s time, as I know he is busy. I shall speak with Prince Eiran myself. You will have his answer in a day.”
“And the Prince’s after that?”
“I believe you shall.”
Count Turcol bowed. “Your hospitality is appreciated, and your wisdom even more.”
“Be well, my lord. May the gods smile on your future.”
“My future is nothing, Minister; the future of my nation is everything.” Turcol slid a door panel open and withdrew. He did not close it after him, which Pelut found irritating; but this alone did not decide Turcol’s fate.
The Grand Minister drank until his cup was all but empty, then swirled the last of the golden liquor around. Quickly he inverted it and clapped it down on the small table. He lifted it away from the small puddle and set it down again in a dry spot.
The object of Turcol’s visit had been obvious. The Prince’s order to gather troops had been the only pretense he needed to consider open rebellion. Pelut had expected him to demand the ministers throw open the gates of Moriande and deliver the Prince to him—which would have been a grand show, to be sure. The assassination attempt was not something he’d expected, and clearly not something Turcol had spent too much time thinking out. His willingness to adopt the blind of bandits showed a flexibility that could be useful, but his comments about succession revealed the difference between flexibility and malleability.
Were he malleable, he would be far more useful. Clearly he desired to be Prince, and considered himself the obvious choice. Pelut had no doubt that Turcol entertained dreams of being welcomed openly by his adoring people—merchants opening their coffers to him, and women opening their thighs. During his reign, the fantasies about the Keru being the Prince’s harem would come true, or a Cyrsa would arise from among the Keru, with Turcol’s blood on her hands.
Which might not be a bad choice. Marry her to Eiran and we could join two realms.
Still, while that would be an interesting expedient, like as not Eiran would die at the same time as Cyron. While he doubted Turcol had approached the Helosundian ministers, they would seek him out as soon as word got out that he was leading troops on the border. Their need to have Eiran dead would lead Turcol into further plots.
While the prospect of Turcol being prince did not excite Pelut, the idea that he could be rid of Cyron did. He would have preferred a method with more refinement, but dead was dead and a bludgeon worked as well as poison. Cyron posed more of a threat to Nalenyr than Turcol did, and certainly a more immediate one. He had to be dealt with.
Pelut turned his cup back over and read the leaves. Their positions and shapes communicated omens for the future. While they were not as clear as he might have liked, they were sufficient.
The fate of Turcol’s effort had been decided.
And with it the fate of Nalenyr itself.