Ciras held a hand up and Borosan sank back into the shadows of the chamber that served as a tack room. Two silhouettes lounged in the shade near the tunnel’s mouth. Men, obviously, and they both wore swords. Even though they were in silhouette, Ciras could see enough of their clothing to know they weren’t from the Nine.
They’re Turasynd.
The idea that the vanyesh were talking with the Turasynd reminded him of a tale Borosan said the Gloon had related. Prince Nelesquin had betrayed Empress Cyrsa by entering into negotiations with a Turasynd god-priest. Fury pulsed through him as he realized the vanyesh were compounding their earlier treason.
“What are we going to do, Ciras?”
The swordsman slipped into the tack room. “Gather two saddles, six bridles, and be ready to move. I’m going to deal with these two. Quickly. If we’re discovered, we will be pursued.”
Ciras moved back into the tunnel, stepping to the center. He kept his gait easy—eager yet casual. He let his hands dangle open at his sides.
He was a dozen steps away from them before they noticed him. They came instantly alert, and his stomach tightened. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords, then they relaxed. They exchanged glances and laughed. He forced himself to laugh, too, then reached inside and, for the first time, invoked jaedun.
His vision changed. Though he saw no more color or less, he somehow saw more clearly. Each man seemed to glow—and the one on the right more so than his companion. He is more dangerous. As Ciras closed, he raised his left hand in greeting, broadening his smile, and they aped his expression.
His right foot touched down and he began to pivot toward the dangerous man. Ciras drew the vanyesh blade in a smooth motion. Even before his foe’s right hand had touched the hilt of his own sword, the draw-cut opened his throat to the spine. Blood gushed and the man gurgled as he fell back.
Ciras continued his spin and brought his blade down and around in a parry. He batted the other Turasynd’s lunge wide, then snapped his sword up high. It fell in a slash that clove the Turasynd from crown to jaw, and dropped him like a bag of rocks.
Ciras completed his turn as the second swordsman’s blade clattered to the ground. He crouched and waited, listening for anything in the echo of the sword’s fall. He heard nothing. Finally, without sheathing his sword, he made his way to the second man’s side and yanked open his leather jerkin.
Black feathers covered the man’s chest. Taken from black eagles, they’d been inserted into the man’s skin, and then he’d willfully entered a place of wild magic. There he’d undergone rituals that Ciras could only imagine, which fused the feathers to his flesh and completed his initiation into the Black Eagle Society.
He quickly checked the other man and found he’d been similarly fletched. This was not the first time he’d seen a Black Eagle. His master had dueled one to entertain Prince Cyron during the last Harvest Festival in Moriande. The Turasynd had been good, and had borne a blade of similar antiquity to the vanyesh blade.
Ciras thought for a moment. He could not directly connect these two with the man in Moriande, but their presence certainly indicated the Black Eagle Society was flourishing. He couldn’t recall if the Turasynd god-priest had been a Black Eagle or not, but it really didn’t matter. He didn’t even know if the Turasynd had another god-priest to lead them, but that didn’t matter either.
I have to assume there is a new one and he is a Black Eagle or allied with them. He sighed. And he or his envoys are in the Prince’s Hall, negotiating an alliance with the vanyesh.
Borosan came up with the thanaton laden with tack. “That was quick work.”
“It had to be. The same must be true of our escape.” Ciras grabbed a bridle and headed out toward the horses. “Ancient enemies are renewing alliances. It won’t be good for us, or the Nine. Let’s hope, my friend, that the Sleeping Empress has spent her time dreaming up a way to deal with them.”
Chapter Forty-two
5th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
Keles knew he was dreaming. He looked from the window of his room and down toward the Black River. There, slowly drifting up the river in the darkness, a fleet of small ships grew to enormous proportions. They began to disgorge warriors and other creatures that slipped into the shadowed city.
Fires and screams followed in their wake.
More important than the havoc was the image on the largest ship’s mainsail. It bore his grandfather’s face. As he watched, his eyes came alive and turned to look at him. His mouth moved and in his voice the words “I’m coming for you, Keles” echoed in his head.
“Grandfather, how can you be here? It’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible for me, Keles. You must know that by now.” A look of anger passed over his face, then the sail fell as if torn loose in a gale. It hit the deck and burst into flames.
Keles sat bolt-upright in bed, bathed in sweat. He tossed back the blanket, pulled on trousers, and stepped into his boots. He reached for a robe and slipped it on, fastening the sash as he opened the door to his chambers. He ran to the library where he worked, and shivered when he found that the warriors who had stood guard throughout the palace—grizzled veterans as long on scars as they were short on hair—had all abandoned their posts.
He bolted inside and crossed to the balcony. Throwing open the doors, he stepped out and looked south toward the river. There, lit by fires rising in factories and the dwellings on the river’s north bank, lurked a fleet of black ships. The flagship appeared as it did in his dream, save that the mainsail did not bear his grandfather’s image. It had been marked with a white line-image that very few in Felarati would have recognized.
Very few outside Anturasikun would know it. The sail bore the outline of the world as his grandfather had painted it on the wall of his sanctum. Only there is a new continent off the southeast coast.
This confirmed that the fleet had come from his grandfather and he certainly didn’t view it as his salvation. His grandfather had sent him off to survey Ixyll on a mission that would most surely have killed him. That Qiro had found him in Felarati would compound his grandfather’s anger. His absence from Ixyll meant Keles had defied his grandfather, and Keles had no desire to face the old man’s wrath in person or by proxy.
The cartographer watched, transfixed, as the black ships grounded themselves on the riverbanks and troops poured forth. Each ship disgorged an improbable number. Huge and tiny creatures leaped out. The smallest swarmed over buildings, while the largest stalked through streets.
The invaders kept coming, and the defenders had no chance to oppose them. Even if crack troops had been available to defend the capital, the onslaught would have been overwhelming. Already refugees began streaming from their homes, fleeing west from the invaders.
Now is the time we can escape! He dashed back into the library, opened a chest, and dug down through carefully stacked paper and rolled maps. He uncovered the two leather satchels he’d hidden there and had slowly filled with supplies. The waterskins were flaccid, but he could fill them later. The other two bags contained dried meat and cheese, tea and uncooked rice, as well as a small pot. He’d meant to get some rope, but hadn’t managed it yet. This will have to do.
The smallest of the invaders leaped the palace walls and bounced into the library. Two of them, looking like harmless monkeys until each flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth, leaped for him and grabbed his arms. They started screeching so sharply their cries rose to silence, then bit him when he fought being dragged toward the balcony.
“Ouch!” Keles grabbed the wrists of the one on his right arm and whipped the creature around. He smashed its head against the stone wall, then flung its limp body away. The other’s screeching shifted to hooting and its fangs snapped shut, just missing his
hand. Keles cracked it over the head with a bronze candlestick, crushing its skull.
Brandishing the candlestick, he ran from the library and took the stairs up two at a time. Two levels up the corridor remained deserted, but the door to the Princess’ apartments stood open. He ran in, and then toward her balcony. He saw Jasai with her back against the railing, her hair platinum in the moonlight, and fear etched on her face.
With a dagger in hand Lady Inyr approached Jasai. She held the blade low, poised for a gutting thrust. She moved easily enough to make clear she knew her business well.
Keles hurled the candlestick. Inyr twisted far more quickly than he would have thought possible. The candlestick passed between her and the Princess, striking sparks from the balustrade before falling to the garden below. Inyr swept forward in its wake, grabbed Jasai’s hair and yanked her head back as she pressed the dagger to the Princess’ throat.
Keles held his hands up. “Don’t do it, Inyr. The Prince would not be pleased.”
The woman sneered at him contemptuously. “Idiot, I do this with the Prince’s approval. If you two were to take the chance to flee, I was to kill her. You are to remain his captive, as you are too valuable to lose.”
“But she’s carrying his child.”
“He can find another broodmare; an Anturasi is far too rare.” Inyr smiled at Jasai. “You played a good game and kept me from him. I’ll be punished for my failure, but praised for my attention to duty now.”
“Don’t, Inyr.” Keles let his shoulder bags slip to the floor as he stepped onto the balcony. He knew he couldn’t reach her fast enough to stop her from slitting Jasai’s throat, but he had to try something. “Let her live, I’ll remain here forever. You’ll just have to get us to safety—which means away from here.”
“So you can escape later?” The assassin slowly shook her head. “I’m not a fool.”
“Then you should realize that if we don’t go immediately, we’re all going to die.”
She stared at him and laughed. “I’m not going to die.”
Her defiant expression never had a chance to fade. Long dark fingers shot over her forehead and clamped down over her face. Her head twisted sharply to the right and her neck cracked audibly. The clang of her dagger hitting the balcony floor covered the soft thump of her body falling beside it.
Jasai sank to her knees and scrambled for the dagger with both hands as the Viruk grabbed the balustrade and vaulted over it. He landed in a crouch, his talons clicking against the stone. His left hand closed over Jasai’s, engulfing them and the dagger.
The Viruk smiled, his ivory teeth a ghostly presence in the moonlight. “If she is yours, Keles Anturasi, I will bring her, but we have to travel fast.”
“Rekarafi?” Keles’ mouth hung open. “How did you . . . ?”
“I followed you from Moriande to Solaeth. Tracking you here was nothing.”
Jasai, still shaken, tried to pull her hands free. “Who is this?”
“A Viruk friend of mine who’s earning a pile of white stones.” Keles gathered up his gear. “This is Princess Jasai, Pyrust’s wife. She’s coming. We’ll take the stairs inside.”
Rekarafi released Jasai’s hands, then pointed down to the garden. “Meet me. Be quick.”
“Outside the library, right.” As the Viruk slid over the railing and disappeared again, Keles grabbed Jasai’s hand and pulled her back into her chambers. “We have to go, fast. Felarati is under attack.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter. With the defenses the way they are, two beggars with three good legs and a crutch between them could have kicked the city to pieces.” Keles hurried her down the stairs and batted one of the black-furred monkey creatures out of the way. The two of them ran to the library, then out and down steps leading to the garden below.
Keles stopped short and gaped. Jasai tore her hand from his and ran forward. They both shouted, “Tyressa!” but their tones differed as much as their reactions did. The cartographer remained frozen in place while Jasai flew to the tall Keru and embraced her.
Keles watched the two of them hug. His mouth gaped in joy and disbelief. It was Tyressa, she’d survived. Survived and come all this way.
He shook his head to clear it. “You’re alive?”
Tyressa released the younger woman, hurried to Keles. She stared at him for a heartbeat or two, then grabbed him and hugged him tightly. He hugged her back, reassured by her warmth and scent that she truly was alive.
“How is it possible?”
She released him and laughed. “What, Keles? That I’m alive, or I know Jasai?”
“Alive; both.”
Rekarafi growled and sniffed the air. “They’re of the same blood, Keles. And now we have to move or we shall die.”
“Right, right.”
They ran to the garden’s west wall. The Viruk boosted Keles to the top and he leaped down easily. Tyressa came next and tossed him her spear before she leaped to the ground. Lastly, Rekarafi reached the top of the wall with Jasai in his arms.
“Careful, she’s pregnant.”
The Viruk sniffed again. “I know.” He leaped down effortlessly, then they all started running west. Quickly, they merged with a throng of terrified citizens. Mothers clasped wailing infants to their breast, while toddlers screamed for lost parents. Tired old men and women ushered along grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Keles and his group passed through them quickly, more by dint of the fact that they were in their prime than that they had the Princess or a Viruk with them—though neither fact went without notice.
The crowd’s progress slowed, then stopped, but Keles forced his way through to the front. The road had been blocked with two overturned wagons, and men with spears and swords kept the crowd at bay. Across the road lay the walled compound of the Ministry of National Unity. Guards patrolled the walls, and a couple of bleeding corpses provided stark evidence of how serious they were about not giving anyone sanctuary.
Keles pointed at one of the guards. “I’m Keles Anturasi. I want to talk to Grand Minister Rislet Peyt immediately.”
The man sneered at him. “You’re the fifth Anturasi we’ve had here tonight. Go away.”
Jasai stepped up beside Keles. She pointed to the man standing in the first guard’s shadow. “I am Princess Jasai. Slay him.”
A sword cleared scabbard, but the first man dropped to his knees and bowed low. “Forgive me, Princess, I did not see you.”
“You should have opened your eyes.” She nodded to the man with the drawn sword. “Bring me Rislet Peyt, or his head, whichever is most convenient.” She stepped forward, resting her foot on the bowing man’s head. “Hurry.”
Keles looked from her to a smiling Tyressa. “Sister?”
“Niece, but I taught her a great deal.”
“I see.”
Rislet Peyt appeared on a balcony overlooking the intersection. “I regret I cannot receive you, Princess. The omens are inauspicious.”
“I understand that, Grand Minister.” Jasai raised her voice and chin at the same time. “I just wanted to thank you for the lend of your personal troops. If you survive the invasion, I shall return them to you, and praise their efforts to my husband.”
“You can’t take them.”
“You’ll have to come down here and stop me.” She shifted her foot, hooked it beneath the bowing man’s shoulder, and toed him back onto his heels. “Right these wagons, load those who can’t walk, and get your people out here. We’re going west and getting out of the city. Now!”
“Yes, Highness.”
“No! Do not move,” Rislet countermanded.
Jasai pointed back toward the fires in the east. “I guarantee you will die here if you don’t move. By the invaders or my hand, your choice. The Grand Minister cannot save himself, and he certainly can’t harm anyone who joins me.”
“Yes, Highness.” The man stood and issued orders. Guards left their posts and could not be lured back no matter the curses or rewards Peyt
offered. They opened the gates and once the wagons were on their wheels again, they hitched teams of horses to them. A bunch of the guards drifted off into the darkness, but quickly returned with their own families.
Once the way had been cleared, most of the people continued on toward Westgate. A few did enter the ministry compound, but quickly abandoned it again when Peyt and his senior officials hustled out and joined the throng.
Tyressa grabbed Jasai by the wrist. “We have to go.”
“I know, just a minute more.” Her voice dropped. “They’re taking heart from my presence. I have to give them that, because if I don’t, they won’t make it.”
A low rumbling thunder came from the east. It took Keles a minute to identify it as the tramping of booted feet. He ran quickly to the ministry compound and mounted the wall to give himself more perspective. He stared, barely believing what he saw.
Warriors were walking nine abreast, in ranks nine deep. They came down the road, working west, always west. At any crossroads, the first squad turned north, the second south. Odd and even they split and walked to the next intersection. There they turned back west, and at the next toward the middle again. Once they returned to that original intersection, then crossed it and the process began again.
Throughout the city, squads moved that way, searching, ever searching. Behind them, moving through the city in much the same way, other squads put the city to the torch. Block by block, Felarati burned.
And they’re searching for me. He had no doubt that his grandfather had sent the fleet, both to find him and to punish Felarati. To punish anyone who ever defied him.
Across the intersection, one of the monkey-things crouched like a furred gargoyle. It pointed a slender arm in his direction, then began hooting, punctuated with a screech. And back along the street, a company stopped. The squads that had already turned away spun about and rejoined the formation marching west. As one the soldiers drew their swords.
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