Chapter Nineteen

3rd 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

Nemehyan, Caxyan

Jorim Anturasi had progressed so quickly in his studies that the maicana took it as a sure sign he was Tetcomchoa-reborn—and even he began to wonder if it was not true. He kept telling himself it wasn’t, but the sheer joy he felt in learning magic made him question many of the convictions he’d held his entire life. He still accepted that magic was a bad thing, but perhaps only out-of-control magic was bad—the same way anything done without respect for tradition, and without discipline, was bad.

He knelt in his private chamber’s anteroom across a round wooden table from Nauana. She had proven an apt teacher and he’d quickly moved from simple to more complex invocations. The key to it all, as she had insisted the first day, was to find the mai that defined things.

The truth was the link to magic, and could be used to call it forth and shift the balance of things. And shifting the balance of more than just the elements was also possible; one could use magic to alter objects physically. Best of all, while there were traditional methods for doing anything, there usually were multiple ways an effect could be created. As he learned more complex magics, he came more quickly to the desired ends. And, often, the more refined methods, while requiring more concentration, exhausted him less than the crude methods.

Nauana’s dark eyes sharpened as Jorim took a small wooden bucket from Shimik and poured golden sand in the center of the table. He tossed the empty bucket back to the Fenn, then scratched him behind an ear. Shimik fell over backward into a somersault and rolled away toward Jorim’s bedchamber.

“Tetcomchoa, I do not understand why you have this sand here. The lesson for today does not require sand.”

“I know, Nauana, but I had an idea and wish to try something.” Jorim touched a fingertip to the sand, then brushed away all but a single grain. “If this works, I think you will see something completely miraculous.”

She smiled, but slid back from the edge of the table. “As my lord wishes.”

“Thanks for the display of confidence.” He forced himself to relax, then concentrated on the grain of sand. Because it was so small, he found it difficult to identify at first. Solidity was the easiest aspect to grasp, with a hint of light. As he located it within mai, he found a strong connection between it and the rest of the sand, which did not surprise him too much. He had already learned that like was connected to like, and part of one thing was always connected to the other parts.

Slowly, he began to play with the balances of reality. First he used magic to make it light enough to float. That was not difficult given how little it weighed. The hard part was in retaining enough weight so it didn’t shoot up to the ceiling. After a few ups and downs, he centered it a finger length above his fingertip.

Then he began to play with heat. He channeled the mai into it and felt it begin to warm. Knowing his goal was within reach, he pumped more in. The grain of sand warmed, then became incandescent.

Then it exploded into a puff of vapor.

Nauana blinked, then leaned forward. “Are you all right, my lord?”

The barest hint of fatigue washed over him, but he nodded. “I’m fine, Nauana.”

“Was that the miracle, Lord?”

“No, not quite. Watch.” He picked up a handful of sand, raised it to face height between them, then slowly let it drift down. Using the mai, he caught the falling sand and held it suspended as a small sphere in the air. “Nor is this, yet.”

She said nothing, but watched the sand intently.

Again Jorim located the sand through the mai, and this time used the connectedness of it all. He slowly began to rebalance it so it would become warmer and warmer. As it began to heat up, he recalled his previous error and used the mai to alter another balance. Very carefully, while allowing the heat to continue to rise, he shifted the balance of the sand from solid to fluid.

When he’d first arrived on the Stormwolf in the land of the Amentzutl, he’d noticed a number of things which were common in the Nine, but nonexistent among the Amentzutl. One was horses, and the other was the wheel—at least as something to be used for more than a toy. While some on the expedition wanted to brand the Amentzutl as hopelessly primitive, wheeled transport was highly impractical in their rugged, mountainous land. When the expedition’s military had used war chariots against the Mozoyan, the Amentzutl had been impressed and even credited him with a miracle in their production.

One other thing the Amentzutl lacked was knowledge of glass. Jorim’s knowledge of it was not much more than basic, but he did know that sand, if heated enough, would become a thick, viscous fluid that could be shaped. While he had none of the skills of a glass artisan, mai and his ability to control it did give him some tools to manipulate the glass.

The sand sphere began to glow and give off light, easily illuminating the joy on Nauana’s face. Even Shimik keened with delight from the doorway. As the glow built, Jorim kept careful control of the sand, slowing the flow of mai into heat and pushing more into making it fluid. Curiously enough, it continued to get warm, which made sense. It is melting, which requires heat no matter what. By shifting that balance, I force it to become hotter.

The sand melted into glass and hung there, a miniature sun, blazing away. Using mai he constricted it around its equator and split the glowing yellow mass into two teardrops. He rounded both of them off and saw a look of pure wonder and joy on Nauana’s face.

And now to see if I can do the last of it.

Ever since he had noticed that things had a truth to them, he had been drawn to studying it. Though he was restricted from using magic outside the training sessions, he did spend a lot of time sensing the truth of things and defining them in mai. As he learned to see them, he began to understand the Amentzutl cosmology and could identify things by their sense in mai. He’d even had Iesol hide common items in a sealed wooden box and he’d been able to pick out what they were sight unseen.

Concentrating, he drew the truth of the table into his mind, then projected that into the glass. The twin orbs merged, then flattened out into a low disk. Three small legs dripped down and froze in place.

Nauana gasped and covered her mouth with a hand.

Jorim smiled and reached out to touch her essence with mai. As he did so he realized he’d not tried that with any living creature before, and he didn’t know what to expect. From the surface he felt her physically. Much as he had done with the table, he projected that sense of her into the glass.

The glass flattened itself into a thin disk that rotated between them. Though it still glowed, it remained thin enough that he could see her through it. The glass molded itself over the image of her features, sculpting itself to her face. The high cheekbones, the straight nose, the full lips. The glass flowed back to define her jaws and her ears. It even followed the shape of her head and flowed down over her neck and shoulders to become a perfect bust, save for her eyes.

The glass could not capture her eyes, so it thinned and holes opened, allowing him to look through it and to her.

And in doing that, he pushed past the surface and found her truth.

Heat pounded back through him, part blush, part fear, his and hers, and joy and delight and . . . so many emotions he could not catalogue them all. They flowed in a vast river of rainbow colors, with eddies and shoals, swift currents and places where the water remained almost still. While the river and its flow remained strong, the composition of it shifted.

Barely aware of what he was doing, he lowered the glass to the table. Setting it atop the remaining pile of sand, he reached past it with a hand. He gestured and she rose, as did he. Jorim came around the table and took her in his arms. He brought his mouth to hers and they kissed.

The instant their lips touched, all he had felt through mai intensified. Physical sensation flowed along the same routes as the magical, confirming what he knew. Then it grew as he caught her sensing him through mai and he opened himself to her, showing her who he was, what he was.

Unaware of moving, but realizing they had moved, Jorim found himself lying down with her on his bed. Neither of them wore much, and slipping a couple of knots relieved them of their loincloths. He stretched out beside her, his right hand drifting about an inch above her skin. From shoulder, over her breast, past a tight nipple and down the swell, over her flat stomach to hip and upraised thigh, he could feel her in the mai. He lowered his hand to her flesh, on top of her thigh, and slowly slid it back up, inch by inch. The smooth warmth of her skin, the pulse of blood beneath it, the twitch of muscles, the silky caress of hair, all of it combined with what he could sense. He caught the thrill running through her both in the mai and the way she lifted her chin as he stroked her breast. He let a finger circle her nipple and could feel the sensations ripple through her body.

He wanted her intensely and furiously. He had always found her beautiful beyond imagining. Her gentle teaching, her faith in him, had always represented a greater sense of who she was. But now, linked to her through the mai, he could see so much more.

She looked him in the eyes, but said nothing. Then new sensations pulsed through the mai. He closed his eyes and watched as she opened herself to him. He had been able to read her physically before, then emotionally, but he never could have seen who she was in her mind. He could not have found her secrets without destroying her.

But what he would never take, she freely offered. He saw her as a child, born into the caste of the maicana. She had gone through the lessons she had shared with him. He saw her teachers in the way she had taught him and learned she had been terribly gifted. As much as I have learned, she learned faster, and before she was even nine years old.

He watched her in other studies as she learned about the end of the calendar cycle. Her teachers warned her of the horrors of centenco. From them he heard of the promise which was Tetcomchoa’s return. He caught her firm conviction that only Tetcomchoa could save them from whatever was coming, and her resolve to be the best she could to help him.

She spent hours praying to Tetcomchoa. She offered sacrifices. She created prayers and songs. She rebuffed suitors, not because she did not like them, but because courting, marriage, and family would all be distractions from what she knew would be her life. She was prepared for Tetcomchoa’s return.

The day of his arrival floated through her mind. Jorim entered the chamber at the Temple of Tetcomchoa’s apex. The sun backlit him, so all she saw was a silhouette at first. She had expected him to be taller. The braids in his hair confused her for a moment, then she stepped from the shadows and took a closer look at him. His robe was decorated with the coiled serpent, the god’s sign.

Then, for the first time, she saw his face. Handsome, in a way no Amentzutl man had ever seemed to her. But it was the expression on his face—one of wonder and humility, tinged with anxiety and fear—that told her everything. He was Tetcomchoa, come to save them, ready to undertake all that was necessary, provided the Amentzutl would return to him the powers he had shared with them.

She had trained her entire life to do just that. And now, on the eve of her task’s beginning, she learned one more thing about herself and Tetcomchoa. She learned she had loved the god since before remembering. She had never pictured him in her mind and yet, he stood before her and could have been nothing else. The others might take convincing, but for her there was only knowing.

She knew this was Tetcomchoa.

Nauana caressed his face. “If it pleases my lord.”

He turned his head and kissed her palm. “You please me, Nauana.”

She blushed, then rose on her side and pressed her body to his. She rolled him onto his back, then rose above him. She straddled him, accommodating him. “I have loved you . . .”

Jorim nodded. “I know, Nauana.” He slipped his hand into her hair, grasping the back of her neck, and drew her mouth down to his. They kissed again—a kiss tasting of sweet fruits and the sea. They lost themselves in that kiss, and in each other.

And thus lost, created another magic altogether.

 

Chapter Twenty

5th 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

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron found the two men kneeling before him a study in contrasts, though more for their demeanor than their physical appearances. Count Donlit Turcol did have the advantage of size and muscle over both Cyron and Prince Eiran of Helosunde. Cyron and Eiran shared light brown hair and blue eyes, though Cyron’s were icier by far; whereas Turcol had dark brown hair worn in a thick braid and flat grey eyes. Turcol had always struck Cyron as being predatory, and he meant that on a level far above the legends of the count’s womanizing.

Both of his visitors also shared relative youth with the Prince—Eiran was the youngest, and most new-come to his responsibilities. Cyron had trained all his life for the throne and Turcol had schemed for the same, eclipsing an older brother to become his father’s heir. That naked ambition, which he made no effort to clothe with even the most flimsy of artifice, made for the biggest difference between him and Eiran. Eiran had not yet learned ambition; he had barely learned to aspire.

Cyron frowned. “I believe I am having a difficult time understanding you, Count Turcol. You were delivered a copy of the orders sent to your father in Jomir and your father-in-law in Ixun. You have told me you will be placed in command of the soldiers my provinces will supply, in compliance with the order. Is this not all true?”

Turcol nodded stiffly. “It is, Highness.”

“You protest your troops’ assignment to our northern border.” Cyron opened his right hand to indicate Eiran kneeling on the other side of the red carpet strip running from throne to audience chamber doors. “You will be there to help protect Prince Eiran’s people. I do not understand your difficulty with this.”

Turcol stirred, his agitation betrayed by the way his hands slowly curled into fists. He had chosen to wear robes of forest green edged with gold, displaying his family’s crest of a small dragon coiled for sleep. He clearly meant it to remind Cyron that the Turcol family had once occupied the Dragon Throne.

His hands opened again. “It is a matter of honor, Highness. You summon us for your service, then exile us to the northern hinterlands. At the same time, in Moriande, you are surrounded by Helosundian mercenaries. You ward yourself against your people as a conqueror would against those he oppresses.”

Eiran bowed his head for a moment, and Cyron nodded to him. “If you please my lord Turcol, Highness, perhaps I could explain that when I heard of the unit being raised from Jomir and Ixun, I requested they be stationed among my people.”

Turcol’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

He senses the trap, but cannot avoid it.

The Helosundian Prince continued. “My people have learned much of the Naleni way in our time as your guests. The Keru who serve as the Prince’s bodyguard do so out of personal devotion to him only. They acquit a debt to the Naleni nation by warding their beloved leader, much as the nation guards us. And Count Vroan has likewise taken a Helosundian bride, honoring us, and we are grateful to him for his part in fighting for us. He even recovered Prince Aralias’ body from Helosunde.”

Eiran kept his voice soft and his delivery slow. Turcol’s impatience etched itself on his face in deepening lines. Had not six feet of carpet separated them, Cyron was certain the westron lordling would have slapped Eiran. I would have him slain for his insolence.

Turcol’s nostrils flared. “If my lord would come to his point?”

Eiran, feigning surprise, ducked his head obsequiously. “Please, forgive me. Owing so much to Count Vroan, and having heard so much of your valor, wisdom, and courage, I knew having your people among mine would be exactly what was needed. Our younger generations only hear bitter stories of what we have lost. You, my lord, and your men, would remind us of what we can win again.”

The westron frowned. “But the troops on the border now are drawn from your ranks, Prince Eiran.”

Cyron smiled. “I would not have my brother Prince be forced to utter what must be said. You know, Count Turcol, that his Highness led an assault on Meleswin. His troops took the city, only to be overwhelmed by the Desei. His sister was taken and forced to marry the Desei tyrant. We have made much of this.”

Turcol nodded. “We have heard even in the interior.”

“Good. What you have not heard is that the Helosundian troops were broken. Their best generals were slain, their armies scattered. The simple fact is that while the most elite of the Helosundians become my Keru, the state of the other troops is deplorable. If the Desei knew the quality of troops on that border, you would be meeting with Prince Pyrust, not me.”

And he would have your guts for a sash and throw your smirk to street curs to fight over.

Even if he had made an attempt to hide his feelings, Cyron doubted the visiting nobleman would have accomplished much. A light enlivened those grey eyes. Cyron could almost hear thoughts clicking in the man’s mind, as if his brain were a gyanrigot construct of gears, springs, and levers. Turcol was measuring the Dragon Throne for himself, realizing that if the Helosundian troops were so weak that they could not stop the Desei, he might easily lead a force to the capital that could begin a new Turcol dynasty.

“Highness, if the situation is as dire as you suggest, then this is even more reason for my troops to be brought here to the capital. We are no match for the Keru, this is well-known, but we could keep you safe while the Keru warded their homeland.”

Cyron nodded slowly. “This was the plan I considered at first, but then I realized that such a move would alert the Desei to the sorry state of affairs among the Helosundians. No, I will move the Helosundians south, to the Virine border, where they will face no threat and may be trained. I will put your troops in their place and raise other companies from the western marches to help. Pyrust will imagine I am shifting troops around just to annoy him, and shall not look further than that—even if he were to dream the path south was open.”

Cyron waited a moment or two, then smiled. “Which, with your troops in place, my dear Count, will not be true.”

“We would make it a nightmare for him.”

“Indeed, you would.” Cyron’s smiled broadened. “Thank you for accepting this mission so prettily. ‘Nightmare.’ I shall remember you said that.”

Turcol stiffened. “But, my lord . . .”

“Fear not, Pyrust shall never hear of your brave boast. If he opposes you, I want him surprised at how facile you are.”

The westron lord shifted on his knees, but Cyron snapped open a silk fan, hiding his face. Though he could see through it, all his two visitors could behold was the snarling visage of a dragon. The audience had ended, and with it the discussion.

Eiran bowed. “My lord Turcol, I have the maps and provision lists you will desire. Please, come with me.”

“As the Dragon wills it.”

The two men bowed toward the throne, then withdrew, remaining crouched until they reached the door, and never turning their backs on him. Once they opened the doors and passed through, two tall, blonde Keru shut them again, and Cyron closed the fan once more. He tucked it down into the little hidey-hole on the chair’s right arm, then stood and slipped through a side passage.

He thought he might remain in a foul mood, but the faint hint of jasmine made him smile involuntarily. He hurried along the passage, loosening the ties of his formal purple robe. He mounted the circular stairs, and the scent grew stronger. He imagined he was within steps of catching his quarry, and even thought he could hear the whisper of slipper on stone step ahead of him. Then he reached the panel leading into his personal chambers, slid it open, and stepped into a room redolent of jasmine.

Across the blond wooden floor, she knelt at a low table, pouring him a cup of golden tea.

Scented with jasmine.

Cyron would have been happy to cast his robe into a violet puddle, scoop her up, and carry her to his bed, but doing so would desecrate the aura of peace she’d fostered. In his absence, she had even rearranged the furnishings. His antechamber had always been spare, so she would not have needed much help, and he knew her to be stronger than she appeared. Ultimately it was less what she moved than how and where she moved it.

He, by preference, had kept table and chair edges parallel to walls and the line of the floorboards. She twisted them. The sword stand had been moved from beside the bedchamber door back toward the corner where a chair half hid it. The low table at which she knelt preparing tea had moved closer to the room’s center, but not quite there. The furnishings, which before had been positioned with an eye for maximum utility, now had become islands in an ocean teased by a jasmine breeze.

And on the table, in a slender vase, was a single branch from a jasmine shrub with three blossoms remaining on it. The white petals from the other blossoms had been scattered haphazardly from window to table, as if the branch had floated in all by itself. And while the scattering appeared random, Cyron had no doubt the Lady of Jet and Jade had placed each petal deliberately. They were glyphs in a language he would never understand and yet, even like ballads sung in dialects he did not know, he found it beautiful.

Her silver eyes flicked in his direction, then she set the teapot down and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Highness, I did not hear you arrive.”

“You are kind, for my tread on those stairs was as loud as a chariot’s wheels on cobblestones.” He approached the table and slid to his knees opposite her. As he did so, the jasmine branch lost a single petal, which fluttered to the tabletop. He did not know how she had managed that, but he knew she had. “I apologize for surprising you.”

“To their regret, there are many who find you surprising, no, my lord?”

Cyron smiled, then lifted the small ceramic cup. He let the tea’s steam caress his face and fill his nostrils. He drank and, for the time it took for the tea to warm his insides, he pushed the world away. A sense of peace washed over him and soothed his heart. He exhaled slowly, then drank again before setting his cup down.

“You were prescient in suggesting how Count Turcol would approach negotiations. He did rely on his honor, and Prince Eiran did all I asked of him. He flattered, then fell silent, so I was able to take over. I offered Turcol the dream gambit, and he replied with the nightmare comment. I thanked him for accepting the mission, then ended things. He was trapped.” Cyron studied her soft, seamless face. “Your reading of him was flawless.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade shook her head. “It was not my reading of him, for I have never spoken to him. I only know of him through others.”

“You have never watched him when he has been at the House of Jade Pleasure?”

She did not reply, but instead raised her own cup and drank. Her silver eyes flashed at him over the cup’s edge, and her fingertips caressed the gold dragon crest facing him. She lowered the cup slowly, then smiled. “The House of Jade Pleasure is discriminating in whom it allows within its precincts. Count Turcol has not been admitted.”

“No?” Cyron raised an eyebrow. “I imagine that has pinked his vanity.”

“Your Highness is most assuredly correct.” She fell silent, then poured more tea.

Cyron smiled. While the Lady of Jet and Jade presided over the House of Jade Pleasures, her apprentices were present in all strata of Naleni society. Some of her students became concubines as she was—and some had even left to form their own schools. Other of her students had come to her covertly, were trained, and returned to their lives feeling indebted to her. Cyron had no way of knowing how far her web of influence extended, but given that she had been in Moriande far longer than the Komyr had been on the throne, it could easily be vast. While he doubted it rivaled the bureaucratic tangles of the ministries, he had no doubt it might be more effective in gathering certain types of information.

“If I might ask . . .”

“Anything, lord.”

“Have you heard much from the Virine?”

Her eyes half closed. “Very little comes from the south these days. Warriors are heading east quietly so no alarm will spread, but the army is being mobilized. They seem to be moving so quickly that families and camp followers cannot keep up. Many have been warned to move west.”

He nodded slowly. “And of the east?”

She plucked the fallen petal from the table and brushed it against her cheek, then set it back down again. A single tear glistened there.

Worse than I could have imagined. He felt a sudden urge to tell her what little he knew of the invasion and his precautions against its spread. Given how she had suggested he deal with Count Turcol, she might well have guessed at some of what was going on. While everything had been kept very quiet, soldiers ordered to move south would have bid farewell to their loved ones, and doubtless that news had made its way back to her.

He looked at her and his fingertips tingled with the memory of how soft her flesh was beneath his touch. He nodded slowly, then smiled.

She returned the smile. “My lord?”

“I choose to trust you.”

“Is this wise, Highness?”

“Wise and necessary. You have eyes and ears where I do not, and you have a mind capable of understanding and communicating subtlety. I need you. Nalenyr needs you.”

“You do me great honor with this trust, Highness.”

“And I give to you a great burden.” In low tones, Cyron explained all he knew about the invasion. She, in her subtle way, provided him with more information. When he noted that the invaders had reached at least as far as Muronek, she gently corrected him. “I believe, your Highness, you meant to say ‘Talanite.’ ”

She took his recital of facts well and seemed no more alarmed than she would have been if he suggested it would rain that evening. When he finished, he looked at her and fell silent. He drained his cup and returned it to the table.

She refilled it. Setting the pot down again, she rested her hands on her thighs and faced south, as if she could see all the way to Kelewan.

“The Virine, Highness, have ever been secure in their history as the Empire’s capital province. They have more people, more crops, more of everything save the spirit which the Naleni possess. For a long while I resided there, in the Illustrated City, but I moved north seeking the future. Their complacency will be their undoing. They may already have been undone.”

Cyron’s stomach began to tighten. “Then the invasion will take us, too?”

“I am not a fortune-teller. Your precautions are wise. They must be taken in stealth, lest panic reign.” She slowly rotated her cup a handful of degrees. “There will come a point where the news will spread, and you must be positioned to respond. This is reminiscent of the Turasynd invasion: all must be called to service, and you must guarantee that no Cataclysm will follow.”

He blinked. “Is that a claim I can make?”

She shook her head. “No, but does it matter? The Cataclysm may kill, but the invaders will kill. The dead will not hold you to account, and the survivors will praise your name that things were not worse.”

“For someone who says she is not a fortune-teller, this is a dire prognostication.”

She fixed him with a stare that made him shiver. “A fortune can be ignored. My warning cannot. Accept that and act accordingly, or the Komyr Dynasty will not live out the year.”

 

Chapter Twenty-one

6th 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

Princes’ Road East, Erumvirine

When the Soth Gloon and the one-armed boy first sought to join the caravan of refugees my warriors were shadowing, voices had been raised against them. Their addition did bring the group’s number to twenty-seven, which should have been seen as auspicious. But those who feared the Gloon said that he should not be counted and that the boy wasn’t even half a man. Urardsa made hopeful pronouncements, and he even sounded sincere—though I was not certain if he believed what he was saying or if he was trying to command me to make it come true.

Moraven had known Pavynti Syolsar before, but her new name, Ranai Ameryne, suited her much better. Her time at Serrian Istor had given her a direction and purpose, and Dunos’ presence had reinforced it. He had remembered her, and she distantly recalled him. She had set about training him to be a swordsman, though a long knife was all he could wield at the moment. Despite that, he’d done much damage in the skirmishes we’d fought, and was able to creep about silently enough to be vrilridin.

Swordsmanship’s loss would be a gain to the art of assassins.

The other person I’d rescued from the hill had immediately prostrated himself before me when he learned who I was. He’d called himself Deshiel Tolo and told others he was a cousin of mine. He begged forgiveness and I granted it—he was a very skilled swordsman and welcome to the name. When not on his belly, he stood as tall as I did, though he was lighter. His long black hair and grey eyes contributed to our similarity, and it was easy enough to believe we could be mistaken as cousins or brothers. The crest he wore, the leopard hunting, and his penchant for the southern dialect, marked him as someone from the Five Princes.

Given his skill with a sword and our needs, I forgave him.

The knot of refugees did find themselves very lucky. Though they made as much haste as they could, the Princes’ Road was not meant for speed. Most commercial traffic passed up the river because the road twisted a scenic path between the capital and the coast. The Virine Princes traveled to the coast on it each year before the monsoon season, so they had beautified it. In places they had hills created, streambeds shifted, and even forests planted for shade. It had been an ambitious project, which had killed many of the peasantry in its making, and now was killing more.

As fast as the refugees tried to travel, they could not outpace the enemy. This suited us well, for we used them as bait. The enemy would send out scouts to locate stragglers—though they attacked them more out of hunger than any apparent desire to halt word of their advance.

Along the Princes’ Road, their scouts disappeared.

The three of us were not alone, and before the fight at the Singing Creek, we actually outnumbered the refugees. My scouts gathered the hale and hearty regardless of their combat experience. I did not bother to learn their names, which saved me the bother of forgetting them when they died, but a couple of our number were worth the effort.

As dusk fell on the sixth day I knew the balance of things had begun to shift. Four people fleeing east joined the group, numbering them at thirty-one. Try as I might, I could not manipulate numbers to discover any sign of good fortune. Then came the first reports from my scouts that a group of the vhangxi approached. They appeared more numerous than the other scouting cadres and in better order, leading me to believe they had become more intelligent or cautious. I wanted to believe the latter, but any commander who bases plans on his enemy’s stupidity is himself a fool.

We watched and waited in a grove of flame-leafed trees as our party made camp. The refugees who had joined them had reported no sign of the enemy to the west, and our bait took that as a good sign. So instead of taking up defensive positions, they all gathered to gossip and exchange news.

If we could not hold back the vhangxi, they would all be slaughtered. And as much as I detested their foolishness, I still needed them. I briefed Deshiel and Ranai, then took command of a dozen men who, prior to our meeting, had only threshed grain and gigged toads. The two of them took their squads out into the darkness, and we waited as we had so many nights before.

This night, though, we did do one thing that we had not done before. In the past, I would block the road as a highwayman might by felling a tree across it. The vhangxi would stop to move it. While they were thus engaged, we would fall upon them from the front and both sides of the road, slaughtering them mercilessly.

This time we set up a bit differently. My group hid on the north side of the road just past a thicket of thorned-berry bushes. Ranai positioned her people, including the handful of archers we had, twenty yards down on the south side. Deshiel set up further to the east and back, ready to circle around north to cut the road behind the scouts. Since Ranai’s people would launch the attack and thus be most vulnerable, we had sharpened stakes and driven them into the ground before her position, in the hopes that rampaging vhangxi would impale themselves as they attacked.

The enemy crept up the road, taking great care as they went. In the past, they had jostled each other like boys at play, but now they came with flat eyes wide, watching the forest. With such huge eyes I assumed they could see well at night, but how well I could not guess. In the past it had not mattered much and, as we would engage them closely, I didn’t think it would matter to us, either.

Ranai let a half dozen get past her position, then black arrows sped from darkness and scythed through the vhangxi. Four went down, stuck through their chests. A half dozen sprang off the road toward Ranai’s position, but an equal number leaped the other way. Attacking an ambushing force head-on was the only way to defeat it, but the vhangxi had never done that before. Moreover, their action suggested they had analyzed our tactics and, anticipating a trap, planned a counter.

More arrows flew, dropping another pair of vhangxi. Those who had been following loped forward. Some cut into the woods almost immediately, but others came past the point of ambush, then drove in, looking to encircle Ranai’s force. This revealed tactical thinking on a level unseen before. They knew what we did and had figured out how to counter it.

Which meant it was time to do something else.

Without even bothering to draw my swords, I broke from cover and sprinted down the road. A heartbeat later—or a half-dozen, given how their hearts were pounding—my troopers followed me. They came as quiet as death and when I pointed south, they poured into the woods and hit the vhangxi in the flank.

Further east, from the darkness, someone shouted a command, and more of the hulking beasts came running.

I had no time to consider what I had heard. The enemy who had gone north now emerged from the woods to attack south—only to find me in their way. My first draw-cut opened a vhangxi from hip to shoulder. His guts gushed out in a wet rush, and he collapsed atop the steaming heap. Drawing my second sword, I bisected a skull before spinning away from slashing claws which, with one circular cut, I amputated at the wrist.

A quick thrust finished that one, then crosscut slashes beheaded the next. Dropping to a knee, I allowed a leaper to pass above me. His claws raked through air while my right blade raked through his stomach. He landed hard, bounced and rolled, entangling himself in his entrails.

Coming up, I stepped back. Claws passed within an inch of my face, but concerned me no more than the touch of a spring breeze. The missed blow twisted the creature, exposing his back to me. I whipped the sword in my left hand up and snapped it flat against his body. The tip bent, spending its energy against a vertebra just below the juncture of neck and shoulders. Without breaking the skin or even loosening a single scale, the blade shattered that bone, severing his spinal cord.

The vhangxi collapsed, only able to open and close his mouth as he struggled for breath that would not come.

From the south came the sounds of battle. Vhangxi grunted as they struck or were struck, and only the abrupt cessation of the sound differentiated between circumstances. Men screamed, all of them differently. From the quality of those screams, I could tell who would live or die. My mind tallied the sounds and I knew we were giving better than we got, but that this ambush was the last we’d be doing for a long while.

Then a man rode up the road. At least he looked like a man, and wore a man’s armor. He reined back as he saw me standing amidst the slaughter. I read no fear on his face and this I welcomed.

The vhangxi, having no discernible facial expressions, had been unsatisfactory foes.

The armored rider looked at me and spoke. He addressed me in a dialect I’d not heard in a long time. Moraven had never heard it. By the time he had come to be in Phoyn Jatan’s care, such formal and precise language, as well as the special dialect in which it was delivered, had long since passed from vogue. Those who had used it the most had died, and it had died with them.

I stood there, my swords dripping, then bowed my head. Though my mouth had difficulty with the words, I answered him in kind and stepped back down the road to a clear spot. With the tip of my right blade I scribed a circle. Its diameter was the road’s width. When I reached the point where I had started it, I spun on my heel, presenting him my back. Then I marched to the opposite side, resheathed my blades, and turned to face him.

He’d removed his helmet, then doffed his breastplate and gauntlets. He did not bother to remove the armored skirts or mail and greaves on his legs—the rules of the formal duel he offered precluded slashing legs. His robe and overshirt bore the crest of a bear’s paw, which would have marked him as a simple citizen of Erumvirine.

A blind man could have seen he was neither. Sharpened ears poked up through his black hair. His flesh had a blue tint to it, which made him very dark in the night. His amber eyes, however, glowed like those of a cat. I assumed he could see as well as one in the darkness, and likely had reflexes to match. Though he did not seem hurried in anything he did, he was ready to strike.

He bowed in my direction, holding it for a respectful time, but hardly as long as I was due. I returned the bow and held it for as long as befitted a peasant new-come to the sword. Though he covered his reaction well, his eyes tightened enough to tell me I’d drawn first blood.

Sounds of fighting in the woods tapered off. More important, I still caught tingles of jaedun. The strongest came from Ranai, and some came from Deshiel. The weakest came from Grieka—but mastering the wasp-flail had ever been difficult. I even caught a hint of Luric Dosh and the havoc he wrought with a spear, scribing his own circle with the blood of vhangxi.

My foe drew his sword and struck the first Crane guard. With his forward leg lifted and that foot planted against his right knee, his left arm drawn up and his sword high but back, it looked dramatic, but was seldom practical in actual combat. While it countered the Tiger and Wolf forms well, he’d not paid attention. I might wear the black tiger hunting, but I’d killed his troops as an Eagle. He should have adopted a Snake form to face me, but my slight had stung him and he wished to show he understood some of the more complex forms.

I understood them as well, so I stood there and waited. I did admire how he maintained his balance. His arms did not tremble or otherwise betray fatigue. He didn’t sway at all. He waited, knowing he had chosen a form that invited an attack. Given my arrogance, he clearly expected one and, had I had any way to measure his skill, I might have obliged him. With him being an unknown quantity, the only invitation I would accept was the one to join him in the circle.

I don’t know how long we waited, but my people slew the last of the vhangxi in the interim. A storyteller would have measured the duration in days. Some of my companions, and all of his, measured it in lifetimes. All sounds of battle ceased and my companions—half the number they had been earlier—stopped well outside the circle. Some watched and others—those wiser—drew their own circles for protection and peered through the lenses of amulets meant to ward off magic.

My foe, still without exhibiting any fatigue, slowly extended his left leg and lowered himself into a crouch on the right. His sword remained high, but came down to point toward me. His left arm curled down, forearm parallel to his waist as he finally adopted Cobra third position—though those watching likely identified the form as Scorpion.

I drew my right leg up, touching my foot to my left knee. My sword I held high in my left hand, higher than he had. My right arm mirrored his left. I allowed myself a smirk and curled my ring and little fingers in—hardly the perfect Crane form he had displayed. I mocked him and he knew it; and I did it while daring to invite an attack.

He did nothing to conceal his consternation. If he waited as I had, he was just aping me. If he attacked, he would be less patient, more impetuous, less mature. Less worthy. Then again, if he killed me, none of that would matter.

He attacked.

As he came in, I read how he expected the exchange to go. He would lunge at my throat, and my sword would come down in a parry. I would bat his blade aside, but he would flip his wrist and use the momentum I imparted to slash me from nipple to hip on the right.

He came in, extending his blade, lunging. His right leg pushed off, his left bent. His blade’s point, without a quiver to it, flew at my throat. His eyes watched the target and also watched my blade, waiting for it to fall, waiting for the first contact. At that vibration, he would flip his wrist and open me. His slash would also hit my right arm, slashing tendon and muscle, perhaps even breaking bone. I would be sorely wounded and the duel’s outcome would be decided.

But in his planning and anticipation, he had not found the path to victory. He did not really thrust at my throat, he thrust toward it, knowing his blade would never find it. He had planned for my counter, and when it did not come—though he struck with the swiftness of a Cobra—he had no true target.

As he attacked, I lunged forward. My right leg slid down and planted itself just past his left heel. I leaned to the right and his blade shot over my left shoulder. My sword, held high, never even began to fall.

As we came face-to-face, I read his fear.

And he read my triumph.

My right hand closed on the hilt of my other sword and I drew it in an instant. The razored edge slashed up beneath his skirts and sank deep into the junction of thigh and groin. I drew it up in a long cut and it came free with a hot splash of femoral blood.

He began to fall backward slowly.

A heartbeat for me, forever for him.

He did try to flip his wrist and cut my throat as he toppled, but my robe’s collar blunted his feeble strike. I watched shock and betrayal blossom on his face as he fell, and knew it would melt into a mask of disdain.

My other sword whipped down and his head rolled away to spare me his opinion.

Ranai, standing closest to me, dropped to a knee. Her expression and the tone of her voice betrayed confusion and mild offense. “What have we just witnessed, Master?”

“An enemy who believes that by mirroring our forms, using our blades and ancient formulae, they are worthy of respect and honor.” I pointed a sword to the east. “Has anything they have done so far been honorable?”

She shook her head. “No, Master.”

“No matter how they appear, that is their nature. Do not forget it. Do not be lured in.” I kicked the sword from my foe’s lifeless hand. “They are not what they pretend to be, and we cannot be what they assume us to be. As Taichun once taught, one must know his foe to defeat him. This is true. We have one path to victory.”

She looked up. “Learn as much about them as possible?”

“No, Ranai.” I wiped my blades on the dead man’s robe, then slid them home again. “We will make ourselves unknowable, then they can never win.”