Chapter Sixteen
34th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
Keles Anturasi rubbed his eyes, then looked out from the tower library’s balcony at the Black River’s southern shore. In less than a week, the transformation of Felarati had begun, and had begun in a way Keles would have thought impossible. The day after he’d spoken with the Prince, he rode south to the hills. It took him a full two days to do a preliminary survey—largely because he had a cadre of eighteen people following him. They hung on his every word, aped his every move, and generally got in his way.
The Desei surprised him. Living in Nalenyr, he had grown up with stories of bloody-minded savages who slaughtered innocent Helosundians for sport. Many Naleni thought the Desei were slope-headed dullards who labored happily in a nation devoid of color because they were all inbred. While it was true that the two images could not easily be reconciled, Keles acknowledged that people seldom had trouble maintaining the veracity of multiple stereotypes as long as they were all derogatory.
But the Desei he worked with were hardly homicidal or stupid. While they did not benefit from some of the formal training people obtained in Nalenyr, they were clever and quite resourceful. And as Prince Pyrust had suggested, they had long done much with nothing, so when they had something to work with, they adapted to it quickly and used it well.
Sooner than he thought possible, his students were able to work with minimal supervision. He set them to the more simple tasks of laying out roads and aligning buildings. Some of his students were water-witches—one of them approaching near Mystic status. He had them locate sites for wells and lay out the sewer lines. By the second day, a whole new district for Felarati had been laid out. It would be able to house twice the number of people as the section of the city it was replacing.
On the third day, Pyrust gave the order for the construction to begin. Keles had argued against it, pointing out that they had none of the building material they needed. But Pyrust had simply said, “It is Deseirion, Keles. We have what we need.”
Soon people began to stream through the southern city gate, bringing with them the stones and wood that had once been their home. Every man, woman, and child carried something to the new site. A third of them stayed to work, and the others headed back for more.
Even now, almost a week into the project, the lines of people stretched north to south and back again. They looked almost like ants, and they certainly worked with a similar single-mindedness. And, from off to the west, another stream of farmers arrived to make the vacated city land productive again.
It was so unlike his home that he could not feel homesick. There was not enough of Moriande there to remind him of the south. While Deseirion was hardly as colorful or fecund as his home, it all seemed new and amazing.
Very clearly, had Prince Cyron attempted what Pyrust was doing, Moriande’s streets would have been flooded with people protesting his actions. The whole of the city would have been in an uproar. The inland lords—ever resisting any directive from the capital—would be threatening open revolt. And yet, if put to the question, every citizen would say they loved Cyron as much as the Desei loved Pyrust. If called to it—with the possible exception of the inland lords—they would willingly fight to protect Cyron and his nation.
Keles clearly had misjudged the Desei, and found his reeducation rather harsh and chilling. The Desei were content to move their homes, brick by brick, a couple miles south. He had no doubt they would have moved them as far south as Moriande if so commanded. While many Naleni feared invasion from the north, he doubted any of them understood how complete an invasion that could be.
However, the Naleni were not the only ones who underestimated foreigners. Pyrust clearly underestimated Keles because the renovation designs had problems that would take years to solve.
Problems that will pay them back for Tyressa’s murder a thousand times over. The close-set side streets would let fire rage through the city. The broad main roads would allow for a lot of traffic, and the traffic on those main roads would one day be Naleni troops!
The biggest problem was not one Keles had designed on purpose. While the people were able to bring their homes with them, Pyrust could not allow them to tear down the city’s southern wall. The new city sector would be outside the walls and until Pyrust could get enough stone to build new walls or expand the old, that district would be vulnerable. Granted, the risk of invasion was low, but if Cyron decided to come north, Pyrust would have a huge problem.
And if he moves the factories outside the walls, he loses even more.
To solve such problems, Pyrust needed Keles. The Naleni cartographer had been under no illusion that Pyrust was ever going to let him go. Like his grandfather before him, Keles had too much information ever to be given his freedom. Pyrust would build him a tower and keep him in Felarati, trading privileges for plans. If Keles became uncooperative, Pyrust would have him killed.
Keles didn’t like either one of those alternatives, which meant he had to escape—though an acceptable method eluded him. It was not that slipping away was impossible, but that Pyrust would likely torture those who should have prevented his escape. Until he could find a way either to insulate people from Pyrust’s retribution or steel himself to accept it, Keles was trapped.
It did strike him that his willingness to design a city that would allow a conqueror to slaughter thousands conflicted with his reluctance to expose those Desei he knew to danger. He blamed the Desei for Tyressa’s death, but the people he knew clearly were innocent of that crime. It would make sense to try to reconcile those two points, but if he let his desire for vengeance slip, he would be losing a connection to Tyressa. No matter how much that connection hurt him, he couldn’t let it go.
So thousands of Desei were doomed.
“They are remarkable, aren’t they, Keles Anturasi?”
Surprised, Keles spun and found himself looking at a petite blonde woman with icy blue eyes. He’d have thought she was very young, but there was a wariness in her eyes that was ageless. More like ancient.
“Please, you have the advantage of me.”
“I do. Should I press it?”
“That would be your decision.” Part of him wanted to send her off, telling her he was doing the Prince’s work, but there was something hauntingly familiar about her. “And you are right, the Desei people are remarkable.”
She nodded slightly and moved to the balcony railing beside him. She wore a blue silk robe of a darker and richer hue than her eyes. On the breasts, sleeves, and back, hawks on the wing had been embroidered. Their left wings lacked two feathers—an emblem marking her as part of the Prince’s household. The hawk was less surprising than the robe’s color—most Desei wore bright colors only on very special occasions, since the dyes had to be imported from the south at great expense.
She peered out at the shifting columns of people. “We attempt to belittle and disregard them, and yet they are capable of picking a city apart. As irresistible as the tide, aren’t they?”
“They bend to the will of their master.”
“Do you as well, Master Anturasi?” She faced him, appraising him openly.
“I am his guest. Can I do otherwise?”
She smiled and turned back to look to the south. “I have no doubt you have found many ways to comply in appearance, but resist in substance.”
Keles said nothing.
“Tired of our game already, have you?”
“Is it a game we’re playing? Because I am working.” He pointed back to the library table with drawings scattered on it.
“So am I, Keles.” She turned and caught his arm. “What if I were to tell you that I am tasked with seducing you and seeing to it that you desire to remain here forever?”
Keles shrugged. “I’d say you’re too late for that, or too early. Had the Prince poisoned me to mimic illness and you nursed me back to health, I might have fallen in love with you.”
She smiled. “That’s how your parents met, wasn’t it?”
Keles jolted and she laughed. “You see, Master Anturasi, we knew you would find it suspect. And, as you suggested, I am too early, because the time to find you companionship will be in a month, during the planting festival. You do know that here in Deseirion we will all be in the fields, plowing and planting? It is backbreaking work, and you’ll find yourself in the fields working with a Desei noblewoman. You’ll talk, she will laugh and be punished for it. You’ll feel guilty and try to make amends. She will tell you that you are different, a dream come true for her. She may not even know her part—though I doubt that. Chances are she will be one of the Mother of Shadows’ special operatives. I doubt you’re a virgin, but she will be unlike any woman you’ve ever slept with.”
He frowned. “And what am I to make of you telling me all this? If you’re even halfway truthful, I have to assume the Mother of Shadows has me watched at all times. She will know we have spoken, and probably know what was said.”
“She might, but at the moment she is distracted.” The woman smiled and glanced back at the library door. “And the people tasked with watching you right now are not going to report anything about our meeting. After all, I have leave to consult you.”
“You do?”
“From the Prince himself.”
Keles leaned back on the balcony’s railing. “Now I am tired of this game. I don’t know who you are, and I really don’t care. Leave me be.”
“I can’t, Keles Anturasi.” She studied his face for a moment, then looked down. “Then again, if you are not intelligent enough to figure out who I am, perhaps I waste my time even talking to you.”
He studied her. She clearly wasn’t full-blooded Desei. She’d not referred to them as “my people.” She was in the Prince’s household, had Helosundian coloring and . . . How could I have missed it? Her voice. She spoke with a Naleni accent—which he’d not noticed because it was so familiar to him. That, combined with her intelligence and arrogance, led to one inescapable conclusion.
“You’re the Prince’s wife.”
“I am Jasai of Helosunde.”
“In Newtown, the rumor is going around that the Prince will have a son before the year is out.”
“No, Keles Anturasi, I will have a son.” Jasai stared up into his face. “It is up to you to decide if he will be born here, or you will help me see to it he is born in freedom.”
Chapter Seventeen
35th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Moriande, Nalenyr
Junel Aerynnor slipped into the opium den’s dark, dank depths all but unnoticed. His clothes, which he had taken to wearing while hunting, had long since been stained with things noxious and unknowable. The splotch over his right elbow, in fact, contained a virulent poison. Driving that elbow into a mouth with enough force would guarantee that whomever he hit would be dead within a minute.
Though the Dreaming Serpent was located in the older portion of the docks—one where Naleni nobility was seldom found—he felt no trepidation about passing through the nearby precincts. Footpads and cutthroats abounded and the sense of danger gave him a thrill. Granted it was one that was fleeting, but he sought it on those nights when he was not yet hunting. His game came to be one of avoiding trouble, and if he failed there, he played at killing the troublemakers as quickly as possible.
This night, however, he had not come to hunt or flirt with danger. A message had come to him, summoning him to a meeting. It alluded to certain facts that told him someone had been studying him. Clearly they’d sensed that he was hiding something and had concluded it was an addiction to opium. Hardly a surprise, given that he’d lost two lovers to most horrible slaughter, and had been wounded himself, but not the sort of thing that had an appeal for the families whose daughters he might want to woo.
At least they have not penetrated to the truth. While the lords of the interior knew he was willing to promote revolution to overthrow Prince Cyron, they stupidly assumed he was motivated by greed. If he succeeded in aiding them, they would clearly reward him with lucrative trading concessions. Of course, this was because their own thinking was colored by greed, and they failed to look beyond it.
He really didn’t know how they would react if they knew he was an agent for Deseirion. Some of them would not care, as long as he could help them overthrow Cyron. That a civil war would split their nation and leave it easy prey for Prince Pyrust seemed beyond their consideration.
Junel slowly picked his way through the low-ceilinged basement. Pallets had been stacked three high with barely two and a half feet of clearance between them. An addict would slide onto a filthy pad while an attendant brought them a pipe and a small pea of brown opium. Most would lie there for hours, until their money ran out and the thickly muscled guards ejected them.
Following the instructions he’d been sent, Junel passed to the back and into a curtained passageway. Here the ceiling rose a bit, though the passage narrowed. The ability to wield a weapon in such tight confines would be severely limited, giving the guards a great advantage over anyone who might cause trouble. Junel had no doubt that somewhere further along, in one of the side rooms, a trapdoor opened into the sewers and those who expired from their addiction or some other violence were unceremoniously disposed of.
The fourth door on the left stood slightly ajar. He opened it and entered, closing it behind him. The small room had been richly appointed, with a thick, colorful carpet from Ceriskoron in the center, countless tapestries shrouding the walls, and exquisite bronze lanterns burning on pedestals in three of the corners. A table and single chair sat in the center of the carpet, so Junel seated himself and turned to look at the four-paneled screen in the room’s fourth corner—the one without a visible lantern.
The image on the screen struck him as chillingly prescient. Painted on golden silk, it showed the Naleni Dragon and Desei Hawk descending on a pack of Helosundian Dogs. That would mean the screen dated from before the Komyr Dynasty, when the previous Prince had allied with the Desei to put down a Helosundian threat. Not only was the screen impressive for the power of the image and its antiquity, but for its survival beyond the Desei conquest of Helosunde.
And the person behind was clearly one who was intent on surviving a long time as well.
Though a lantern burned behind the screen, no silhouette presented itself. Not only would it hide his patron’s identity, but the padded screen and all the tapestries would help mute and disguise his voice. He is not someone who can chance discovery, and may only be an agent of some more powerful master. Junel knew immediately that it was no one associated with the westron lords, since they neither understood subtlety nor the need for it.
“You honor me by accepting my invitation.” The voice, which came in a whisper, betrayed little more than the speaker’s gender. “You have our sympathies over the tragedies you have suffered. How are you recovering?”
“My flesh heals, but my heart is slower to mend.”
“Yes, those things that wound the soul are slow to heal. But these are times that require drastic remedies.”
Junel nodded. “Your wise advice shall be remembered.”
“We hope it shall be acted upon. We hope you will be able to help us steer events in a way that precludes great suffering for all.”
Junel’s eyes narrowed. “It would be my pleasure.” Either the speaker would want him to cease his relations with the inland lords or expand them. Having another player enter the contest could make his goal much easier, or it could complicate things.
“You have the failing of youth, Count Aerynnor, for you name as a pleasure something that will be difficult and offer freely that which should be valued highly.” A mild note of disdain made it through the whisper. “Or you seek to beguile us with false innocence.”
“It had best be the latter, or I should not be the person with whom you desire an alliance.”
“Very true. We shall proceed from that assumption. There are lords of the western provinces who are not pleased with the Prince’s policies. They believe the Komyr Dynasty has outlived its usefulness. They would prefer to see it ended, with one of their number taking control. You are well aware of this.”
Junel made no reply.
“There are three among the westrons who most desire the Dragon Throne. The duchess of Gnourn would be the most capable but, sadly, the fruit of her loins show a penchant for idiocy and dissolution. While she might have the strength of character and quickness of mind to take the throne, her dynasty would die with her.
“Count Linel Vroan of Ixun is likewise older. He has two grown sons and two daughters, and his new wife, the Helosundian, has just given him another daughter. He might be seen as more sympathetic to Helosundian issues and thereby favored by the Keru—though their loyalty to Cyron is unshakable. He has standing in the nation and is known to many because he fought beside the Prince’s older brother and was a chief mourner at his funeral.”
Junel smiled. “Known is not the same as beloved.”
“True. Would that rumors of his first wife’s death were stripped of such ugly suspicion. In that case he might be a tolerable choice.”
The man behind the screen cleared his throat, then continued. “Finally, we have Count Donlit Turcol of Jomir. Young and dynamic, even charismatic, he could win the people. Alas, he has no children by his wife, a scattering of bastards by his many mistresses, and does not appear to want to rein in his sexual proclivities.”
“You see no other candidates in the west?”
“It matters not what we see, but what you see, Count Aerynnor. Have we missed someone?”
“The duchess’ fourth son, Nerot, has been underestimated.” Junel leaned back in his chair. “While in Gnourn I played him at chess. He plays the fop to amuse his mother and distract the court, but I am not so easily distracted.”
“But is he not frail?”
“A broken leg never healed properly, true, but it has not affected his mind.” Junel shrugged. “I am not saying he would be the sort of prince who could face down Pyrust, but he would not ruin Nalenyr.”
Silence came from behind the screen, then the whispering began anew. “It pleases us to have this news. Perhaps if one of Vroan’s daughters was married to Nerot, the prospect of a grandchild on the throne would strengthen the alliance.”
“I was under the impression that both of his daughters were married. Isn’t one Count Turcol’s wife?”
“True on both counts, but life is uncertain. If one were widowed, an opportunity might present itself.”
And in the civil war, the three Scior heirs between Nerot and the throne might meet with accidents.
Junel frowned. “The question for you is this. Do you mean to have me believe you did not know about Nerot, or do you merely wish to ascertain that I do?”
“Immaterial, for now we both know the possibilities he provides. And your mind is racing ahead, so we shall anticipate you. With our knowledge of the people of the interior, we could aid or end their plans. We have reached out to you because you have already gained their trust, and are already facilitating their activities. You have made yourself into the lever that will allow them to shift the Komyr Dynasty from power. This makes you critical to our plans.”
Junel nodded. “I’m pleased you believe I will be of use to you. Shall I surmise you wish to learn what my cooperation will cost?”
“Is it gold? Or were you thinking that one of the widowed daughters of Vroan would come happily to your bed, positioning you as her consort when she ascended to the throne?”
That latter idea sent a jolt through Junel because he had never considered it. He had been trained in the way of the shadow, to be a spy and assassin, with loyalty to the House of Jaeshi and Prince Pyrust that superseded loyalty to blood. Indeed, his whole family had been accused of treason and slaughtered. He’d betrayed them to his masters and their murders provided him with the perfect reason for fleeing south.
Never in his life had Junel had any ambition other than to become as good at vrilri as possible—perhaps even becoming a Mystic, as was the Mother of Shadows. He’d never even entertained the idea of supplanting her—though such an honor was one he would have willingly accepted. But here, now, he found himself wondering what it would be like to become more than the Prince’s agent—to become his equal. It could happen, and he could influence events to guarantee it.
“Gold is always welcome but, as you have noted, there are scant few candidates who could sustain a dynasty. I am not a puppet, but by no means am I a puppet master. I understand power well enough to flow with it, and to know that moving against it is ruin.”
A richer note entered the whisper. “This we hoped might be your reply. Rest assured, gold beyond dreams of avarice shall be yours. What more remains in your future shall depend on your conduct. If predictions of your intelligence prove true, a new dynasty may rise from the graves of the Aerynnor family. With the proper alliances in place, you might even find yourself on the Hawk Throne, on your way to becoming Emperor.”
“A dizzying height.”
“But one attainable, nonetheless.”
And you have gone a step too far. To tempt him with being a Naleni prince-consort was within the bounds of reason. Imagining that he could inspire a nation stepped well beyond it. It seemed more likely that once he had ascended, anti-Desei sentiment among the Naleni would be mustered to unseat him. His birth would forever be his weakness.
So when I reach the throne, I’ll simply have to cede it all to Prince Pyrust. Junel kept his face impassive, then nodded—certain his hidden patron had been watching through the screen.
“What would you have of me, my lord?”
“We would have you continue your negotiations with the westrons. Unify them. Court Nerot and, if possible, acquaint yourself with Turcol’s widow. That will be enough to start.”
“Do you want reports?”
“If necessary, another meeting like this shall be arranged. We have other sources of information that should be sufficient.” The hidden man paused for a moment. “We urge you to be very careful. Betrayal would be unfortunate and the consequences regrettable.”
So if I am found out and captured, I shall not live long enough to reveal anything. Junel smiled. “I shall bear that in mind.” He almost added “Minister” to the comment, but being too wise would not be good. Intrigues such as this could not be undertaken without the complicity of the bureaucracy. And for a minister to dabble so directly meant the bureaucrats found Cyron a risk. Their support could make even the most haphazard plan succeed.
“I bid you a farewell, Junel Aerynnor. If things go well, I shall not greet you again until I have the honor of addressing you as ‘my Prince.’ ”
“Then peace to you until then.”
The lantern behind the screen went dark, and the tapestries on that wall shifted. But Junel did not get up, for even if he located the switch that operated the secret door, his patron would be long gone. Who he was did not matter, after all. What mattered was that Junel’s plan now had backing of a strong Naleni element. Success merely awaited implementation.
He stood, stretching, and felt the urge to hunt slowly come over him. No, not yet. Delay it. The gratification shall be so much more.
Besides, I have much to think on now, and much more to plan. To plan, as a prince would plan.
Chapter Eighteen
1st 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
Kunjiqui, Anturasixan
The growing sense of dread within her surprised Nirati Anturasi, for she generally loved surprises. A lover’s surprise—making manifest the desire of another to please her—had always seemed a testament of love. This alien apprehension urged her to remain by her stream, but she defied it.
Bearing Takwee in her arms, she had begun the trek to the western reaches of Kunjiqui. She knew that the place to which she was headed was many miles distant—further, certainly, than from Moriande to Kelewan—yet her walk would take no more than minutes. Such was the nature of the paradise her grandfather had created that she never needed to be far from the heart of it and never had to tire herself while journeying away.
Not that she ever went far, or for long. Days melted one into another, to the point where their passage meant nothing. Night lasted as long as she wanted, and likewise day. If her desires shifted quickly enough, they could change with an eyeblink. She’d made time pass that way once, but she didn’t think it had been for long. Then again—as she had laughed at the time—how would she have known?
Such miracles were not uncommon in her grandfather’s world. He had raised mountains and sunk land to create an inland sea. He split the land with a wave of his hand and joined it again with a simple caress. He made places where years passed in heartbeats, and others where an hour would take nine years to be spent. All this he did with purpose, consulting with Nelesquin, who, in turn, sought counsel from his scrying stones.
And all for me.
As she walked west, it occurred to her that she had not seen Qiro Anturasi for a while. Instantly she regretted this, then composed her face in a smile. He loved it when she smiled. He had ever been tender in his care of her, and she owed him every possible kindness.
So with Nelesquin’s surprise and a chance to see her grandfather again, she had no idea why she felt such dread. This is paradise. What could go wrong? Of course, anything could go wrong—everything. As her brother Keles once told her, “Just because you have flipped a coin a dozen times and it always comes up sun, the thirteenth time it could come up moon.”
She heard his voice as if he were walking with her. Nirati turned and saw the washed-out, ghostly image of her twin matching her strides. “Keles, is that you?”
He looked at himself, then at her curiously. “Is it, or is it how you desire to remember me?”
His question caught her off guard. She let him move ahead of her and glanced at his back, but she saw no scars from Viruk claws. “It’s you, but not as you are. Where are you? Are you a dream, or are we communicating in the manner you do with Grandfather?”
“I must be a dream. Communication with Grandfather has never been this clear, nor have I ever been able to reach you, Nirati.”
She nodded, certain he was correct. Then Takwee grabbed for Keles’ nearly transparent arm. Can Takwee see my dreams? “Where shall I dream you are?”
“In Felarati, a guest of Prince Pyrust.”
Nirati laughed. “Is that possible? I’d rather dream you in Ixyll. But if you are there, don’t go to the Empress. She will only torture and deceive you.”
“The Sleeping Empress? Why would she do that? She waits for us to reach her so she can help reestablish the Empire.” Keles smiled at her and Takwee cooed delightedly. “As long as you are dreaming, will you tell me where you are?”
Nirati opened her arms—letting an alarmed Takwee dangle from her right wrist. “I am in Kunjiqui. Grandfather made it for me. He created it and he . . . he brought me here when I died.” Is that right? Did I die?
“You cannot be dead, Nirati. The dead do not dream.”
Oh, but I think they do. I think they dream of being alive again. She brought her arms in over her chest and shivered. “You’re right, Keles; I am certain of it. But dreams are never certain, are they?”
“No. What of Grandfather and Jorim and Mother?”
“I’ve no news of Jorim, but no worries for him. Were I to dream him in Felarati, he would dream himself away again. With Mother I have no contact. Grandfather is well and happily at work. Are you not in contact with him?”
“The situation here is complicated enough that I don’t need him interrogating me. I can’t risk being distracted by his ire. When I am done, he’ll have a complete map of the new Felarati. Maybe that will please him, though my failure to complete the Ixyll survey will not.”
“He loves you. He loves us all.” She reached out to caress his face, but her fingers just moved through the image. Still, his face turned to her hand, and he would have kissed her palm had his lips not passed through it.
“Nirati.” Nelesquin’s voice boomed from high atop a distant hill. “Quickly, darling!”
With the echoes of his voice, the image of her brother evaporated. Takwee mewed sadly—the first real sign of any discontent on her part. Nirati’s heart sank a bit, but she salvaged the memory of Keles’ smile. She created its twin on her face, then, in three long strides, reached Nelesquin’s side.
He rested his hands on her shoulders and turned her back around to face whence she had come. He kissed the back of her head, then settled his large hands over her eyes. “Who was that I saw you with, Nirati?”
“My twin, Keles. I dreamed him.”
“Ah, I look forward to meeting him.”
“I warned him of Cyrsa.”
“Better he should warn her of me.” He laughed easily. “Now, my love, the surprise I promised you. Let me just turn us about.”
Neither of them moved. Instead, the whole top of the hill spun slowly. With his hands over her eyes, he hooked his elbows in front of her shoulders and drew her tight against his broad chest. He held her there for a moment, then rested his chin on her head.
“Behold, beloved, what we have wrought.”
His hands fell away and she opened her eyes. She blinked, quickly, for so much sunlight glinted from thousands of pinpoints that she almost shifted day to night to protect her eyes. But they would shine just as brightly in the dark, I am certain.
Below her, the land had sunk between two mountain ranges. Vast plains isolated the foothills from the slender finger of deep blue water thrust deep into the land. On that narrow ocean bobbed dozens of ships—none as large as the Stormwolf, but each large enough to carry hundreds of soldiers. Other ships waited next to quays or in dry docks, ready to be launched.
At the hill’s base, nine formations—nine ranks deep, nine men wide—stood tall and proud in silver mail, with glowing silver helmets. The sunlight reflected from their weapons—and Nirati knew that each ship could carry just such a unit. They reminded her of the ranks of the Naleni army and the Keru, save these men had a blue cast to their flesh, jet-black hair, and—if the two nearest them were models for their race—amber eyes like those of a cat.
The two men approaching them differed from the others in that their armor and helmets had been washed with gold. At twenty feet each dropped to a knee and pounded his right fist to his left shoulder in a salute. They bowed their heads and held those bows for longer than she had ever seen before.
Beyond the time required for a Prince. Then it occurred to her that she had seen such a bow held before. In a temple, when one sought the favor of the gods.
Their heads came up and they both rose as Nelesquin beckoned them forward. They still stopped a respectful distance—just out of reach—yet they had an arrogance that she found both attractive and frightening.
Nelesquin waved a hand toward the one with a snarling ram crest on his helmet. “This is Gachin. He is Dost of the Durrani host. Keerana is his second-in-command.”
Gachin’s eyes narrowed, and the sharpened tips of his ears were visible through hair as he doffed his helmet. Still, he gave her a respectful smile. “The goddess honors us by visiting as we embark. The invasion of the Empire has already begun, but we shall consolidate it, as you desire, goddess.”
Invasion? As I desire? She vaguely recalled Nelesquin mentioning a need to position himself to defend against Cyrsa, but invasion had not been part of it. And yet while she tried to remember what exactly had been said, a part of her knew that invasion was the only way his goals could be accomplished.
Keerana watched her closely. “The goddess is not pleased?”
She shook her head quickly. “It is only the thought of your departure so quickly after our meeting that displeases me. I am certain you will be successful with your endeavor.”
“We shall, goddess, then you shall come with our Lord Nelesquin and reside in Kelewan. We shall raze Quun’s home and build you the most beautiful temple.” Gachin bowed his head confidently.
“Though no temple,” offered his subordinate, “could ever approach your beauty, goddess.”
Nelesquin laughed, then dismissed the two of them with a wave. “Go to your ships. You will take Kelewan and secure all of Erumvirine. From there we shall march north.”
Gachin bowed again, but Keerana raised an eyebrow. “My lord, I would ask your consent on a matter.”
Nelesquin folded arms over his chest. “Speak.”
Though Nelesquin’s tone had not been inviting, Keerana did not quail. “Lord Nelesquin, once we have had the glory of returning Kelewan to your possession, I ask permission to take a third of our force and range south. I have studied all you have made available, and I believe that the Five Princes, in their jealousy and envy, will rise. I wish to punish them swiftly so my lord’s further plans shall not be hampered.”
Nelesquin contemplated the request, then he nodded. “Very well, you have my leave, provided those troops are not needed to consolidate our holding.”
“As you command, lord.” Keerana bowed deeply, then withdrew with Gachin.
Nelesquin smiled down at Nirati. “They are perfect, are they not? Clever, respectful, ambitious, resourceful. They will do well.”
She frowned. “But will not an invasion unleash the same destruction as happened during the Cataclysm?”
“No, not at all. This is the brilliance of Anturasixan.” He opened his arms to take it all in. “I was schooled in the ways of magic, and as your grandfather created this place, we altered reality. We have placed magic both in the land and in those who people the land. None of the Durrani will ever be Mystics, but they do not need to be. Here, in this valley, we bred generation after generation of them, pitting them against each other. You saw it, with Keerana and Gachin. Keerana would replace him in an instant, save Gachin’s clan was ascendant in their last war. The Durrani are brilliant at war, and those who do not fight are gifted as healers, helping keep their companions alive.”
Nirati shivered. “You have re-created the vanyesh?”
He stepped to her and enfolded her in his arms. “Do not believe the tales of the vanyesh. We did not seek magic for power, but merely so we could undo that which wild magic unleashed. We were always mistrusted, but this is because such vast power can be difficult to control. Not here. You yourself control it. Look how you make the day and night pass as you will. You are not evil, nor is the power.”
“Lord Nelesquin has it correctly, granddaughter.”
Upon hearing Qiro’s voice, she turned and managed to keep a smile on her face despite the horror running through her. Her grandfather had been eternal and unchanging. Tall, slender, proud beyond arrogance, with thick white hair, a white goatee and moustaches, Qiro Anturasi had always been an image of power. He ruled Anturasikun as would an emperor, and was treated by many as something more.
But now he had become something less. Deep bags, dark and heavy, hung beneath his eyes. His hair had become matted and his beard had grown unkempt. He still held his head high, but his shoulders were slumped. As he walked toward her, his left leg moved stiffly, as if that hip refused to work. And his eyes, his icy blue eyes, which had always been keen, now somehow focused past her.
She tore herself from Nelesquin’s grasp and ran to her grandfather. She hugged him tightly and could feel him quake within her grasp. He returned the hug, weakly, and leaned heavily upon her.
“It has been far too long, Grandfather.”
“No, girl, no time at all. Much has been done.” A palsied hand stroked her hair. “My Lord Nelesquin has given me many tasks, but when I am done he has told me I am free to indulge myself. Soon I shall.”
Nirati looked at Nelesquin. “I think he needs a rest, a long rest. I will take him back to Kunjiqui and tend to him. Will you permit that, my lord?”
Nelesquin laughed. “That is an excellent idea. You have done wonderful work, Grandmaster Anturasi. I knew I was right to choose you. You have repaid my faith many times over.”
Choose him? Nirati frowned, then got under her grandfather’s right arm and looped it over her shoulder. “Come, Grandfather, I shall tell you stories. I shall tell you of Keles and his adventures.”
“Keles?” The old man’s voice softened and became almost wistful. “He was a handful, just like your father.”
“No, you’re thinking of Jorim, Grandfather.” She put her left arm around his waist and was shocked to find him so thin. She could have easily lifted him and borne him to her sanctuary like a child. “I dreamed of Keles, and he said he was in Felarati. Can you imagine?”
“A grandson of mine in the Dark City? No, this will not be permitted. I will stop it.”
Nirati tightened her grip. “Later, Grandfather, when you have rested. You always said you did your best work after rest.”
“Yes, yes, and this will take my best work.” Qiro kissed Nirati’s head. “I will always do my best for you.”
“And I for you, Grandfather.” She smiled, genuinely this time, and led him off.
And, after he admired his fleet sailing northwest, Nelesquin joined her.