Jorim felt himself drifting and he struggled to surface. He did not so much feel he was drowning as buried. He felt no distress at that fact, just a desire to orient himself.
Colors flashed past and he reached out for them. He couldn’t see a hand, but he could feel something. Sometimes it was a hand, other times a claw. He tried again and again to pull in one of the lights, but they eluded him.
Then he caught one and found himself in the world again, standing atop a building he recognized as Imperial, but ancient. He stood there, looking up at the sky. He recognized Chado the tiger and Quun the bear, each of whom had sunk his claws into the spray of stars they shared as prey.
Someone spoke behind him. He turned and smiled at the armored man standing there. Though he wore the sort of armor that was common in the Empire, and his coloration and features were Imperial, the design painted on his breastplate and the way he wore his hair were purely Amentzutl.
“Yes, Urmyr, we have done well in pacifying the Three Kingdoms. From here we can take the five to the south, and northern wastes. It will be a bulwark against the return.”
The warrior bowed. “I will do all you ask, master, but I will not understand some of your pronouncements.”
Jorim felt himself laugh. “Content yourself that you will not. Some of these things are not meant for the mind of man.”
That vision shattered and flew away in a million sparks. Another flash came and he caught it. A vision of war washed over him, with eight-foot-tall reptiles raising obsidian-edged war clubs and charging at Amentzutl lines. The bipeds wore no armor over their leathery green skin, though they painted themselves with lurid colors in chaotic patterns. He knew these had to be the Ansatl, and that the patterns somehow bound magic to the creatures.
He raised his hands and concentrated. The balance shifted, and what had been cool became molten, flaring and searing. An Ansatl screamed and fell. His fellows came on, swords rising and falling . . .
Another image slammed into the first and exploded it. He found himself on another battlefield, this one in the Empire. He saw more armies and recognized the banners as current, though he did not know the place. What struck him as odd was that Virine and Desei troops were arrayed on one side, and other troops—alien troops—attacked them. Giant metal creatures, like gyanrigot but so much bigger, waded forth into the lines, casting broken soldiers about like a child scattering toy soldiers.
Image after image came to him. Memories and experiences and visions mixed and merged. At times, he heard nothing and was seared by stark visions. At others, everything seemed invisible, but he heard voices and sounds. Sometimes he was a man, and at least once he was a beast. Some things he experienced intimately, and others remained so distant that only by straining could he observe what was happening.
Everything came faster and faster. He tried to study it all, but it overwhelmed him. Colors swirled around him—a cyclone of experiences. Pain and peace, the shock of death and the comfort of release, the agony of life and the joy of having lived all pulsed through him. He felt lost and alone, and at the same time in the company of the most stalwart companions he could imagine, and they were all him.
At some point, when it all closed in, blackness overwhelmed him. He felt certain he did not pass out, but when he opened his eyes again he knew time had passed. How much he couldn’t tell, and the Witch-King was nowhere about to help him.
He lay there for a moment in the shallow hole that had once held the slab. The magic was because the slab was me, all of me, all the incarnations through all time. Tetcomchoa had divested himself of anything he did not need to be Taichun. That part of him had waited here to be reclaimed.
Jorim sat up and hugged his legs to his chest. I am a god. I’ve always been a god. He slowly shook his head. So, just what does that make the rest of my family?
Chapter Forty-six
7th 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
Moriande, Nalenyr
Grand Minister Pelut Vniel peered at Junel Aerynnor through the screened hole. The young man did not seem nervous at all, but then he never had. He projected a calmness that spoke well of his usefulness.
Vniel spoke through a thick woolen scarf to disguise his voice. “You positioned yourself well within the Vroan household. This pleases us.”
“It is only what you wished.”
“But pursued on your own initiative. Now, tell me, what have you heard of Prince Eiran?”
“Everyone knows he has gone missing. He is presumed dead—assassinated.” The slender man pointed off in the direction of the temple district. “Prince Cyron appeared at the Dragon Temple to burn incense. He clearly believes Eiran is dead. More important, there is no reason the Helosundians would just kidnap him. That serves no purpose. They slew him.”
Vniel wiped away tears with a handkerchief. The opium smoke stung his eyes, but the opium den was the most convenient place he knew of to keep the meeting completely confidential.
“You are certain Count Vroan did not order the Prince’s death?”
“He would have been happy to do so, but he saw no point to it. He was content to assume control of those troops himself, and would have been happy to have had the Prince turn them over to him. Vroan knows the value of leading armed men, and his return to prominence will remind people of past glory.”
“And positions him to take command in the event of an emergency.”
“That is his belief.”
Vniel watched the Desei carefully. “But the count is not averse to employing assassins?”
Aerynnor smiled. “Do you refer to him or me?”
“Both.”
“The answer is the same. He and I did speak of it, and he liked the idea of letting Nerot Scior assume responsibility for any assassin attacking Prince Cyron.”
“Whether he truly is involved or not?”
The man in the center of the room nodded.
Vniel closed his eyes for a moment and considered. He’d already met with the highest ministers in the Naleni bureaucracy, and all of them lamented the position the nation found itself in. He had been quite frank in describing the threat from the south, the agreement Pyrust had negotiated with the Helosundians, and his assessment of Prince Cyron’s inability to deal with either threat—much less two of them at once. To a man, the ministers agreed that if Cyron were to leave office so someone more capable could handle the crisis, it would be a blessing.
Which meant they all tacitly agreed to the use of an assassin. Prince Cyron, and even his father before him, had taken an unhealthy interest in the mechanisms of how the state functioned on a day-to-day basis. They established their exploration program outside the bureaucracy, minimized its interaction with the bureaucracy and, as a result, yielded far too little to the ministries in the way of power or wealth. The ministers resented Cyron for that, so they were more than willing to see him dead.
Especially if their hands would remain clean.
He did, however, find their lack of foresight rather shocking. Removing Cyron would not solve the problem of the threats from north and south. While Vroan might be able to keep the Desei in Helosunde, the fact was that their total control of Helosunde would not be overturned and Deseirion would become a serious power lurking on the border. Without constant vigilance, Pyrust would push south and Nalenyr would fall.
But the need for constant vigilance in the north meant that Vroan would be hard-pressed to fight against the invaders from the south. The Helosundian troops Cyron had moved down there did have a personal allegiance to Cyron. While Vroan had a Helosundian wife and child, Pyrust’s seizure of Helosunde and the call for all true Helosundians to return to their homeland would weigh heavily on the minds of those troops. Would they stay in the south and protect Nalenyr, or retreat to the Helos Mountains and protect their own homeland from invasion?
This Vniel didn’t know and couldn’t tell. But if Vroan were removed from the picture and Prince Pyrust assumed power in Nalenyr, all the resources from three nations could be directed toward fighting the invaders—even adding Erumvirine to the fold. Pyrust, while no friend of the ministries, would find himself very much dependent upon them to administer an empire.
And he is no more immortal than any princes before him.
Vniel opened his eyes again. “How difficult will it be to get Scior to purchase an assassin?”
“It would be simple.”
Vniel considered. Pyrust was likely only five days away with his army. “I would like it done soon.”
Aerynnor smiled. “A Scior agent deposited some money with a person of questionable repute here in Moriande. That money could be used to buy the services of an assassin who could strike very quickly indeed.”
“He would have to be very good. This is the Prince. Failure would be punished swiftly.”
“It will be expensive, since the chances of a successful escape are minimal. A vrilcai might accept the job to enhance his reputation.” Aerynnor raised an eyebrow. “How will that sit with you?”
“Anyone that good will be in the employ of the Desei and I prefer to distance them from the attempt.” Vniel’s eyes narrowed. “Find a disaffected Helosundian. Tell him there is proof that Cyron had both Koir Yoram and Prince Eiran killed. If you think documentary proof would be useful, it can be provided.”
“Rumors to that effect are already circulating.”
“I know. I had them started.”
The Desei exile laughed. “Then you understand that conspiracies are the favorite fodder of the gossips down here, especially in the exile community. Most believe it is the truth and finding someone to avenge the honor of Helosunde should not be too difficult. We can claim that both men wanted more support for Helosunde and desired Cyron to stop sending grain north until Jasai was returned to her people. Avenging her honor will also provide motivation. In fact, a Helosundian is a good choice, for enough of them work in Wentokikun that slipping into the palace will not be difficult.”
“Good.”
Aerynnor sat forward. “And shall Nerot Scior still be blamed?”
“Unless you have a better candidate in mind.”
“No, he will do nicely.”
And when it comes time to repudiate Vroan’s efforts, documents will surface exposing the Scior-Vroan-Turcol cabal.
“I only have one concern, Minister.” Aerynnor smiled when Vniel did not reply. “You will forgive my presumption, but you are in a ministry. If you were not, you could not—and would not—be discussing these matters with me. And you would not have the information you do to make such judgments. I have to assume, therefore, that you also have information to which I am not privy. It seems obvious to me, however, that the Vroan Dynasty may be extremely short in duration.”
“You may assume whatever you will.”
“You previously enticed me by dangling the chance of my assuming the throne after Count Vroan died. While I accept that circumstances may preclude this course of events, I do intend to be rewarded for my action. I shall assume, therefore, that what befalls the count need not befall his daughter. I could find myself very comfortable in Ixun.”
“And you would find yourself positioned to move to Moriande should the need arise?”
The Desei noble opened his arms. “Have I not acted well as your agent so far? It is obvious that you will need someone in a position to move against the sitting prince if other plans do not work. We already know the west is a breeding ground for rebellion, and the loss of Vroan will not sap its strength.”
Vniel considered for a moment, then nodded. “I believe Jarana can be insulated. Perhaps her husband was even assassinated by her father, since he opposed usurping Prince Cyron.”
“I think that highly likely, Minister.”
Vniel smiled in spite of himself. Aerynnor was proving to be a very smart and valuable agent. He knew how to reassure people that he had their best interest at heart. He’d clearly been manipulating the Scior agent, and now Count Vroan. Vniel could even feel the man’s fingers trying to bend Vniel to his will.
This means he is too smart. Vniel let his smile spread. He would use him, then discard him, but he would do so carefully. As long as it would benefit Vniel and himself, Aerynnor would continue to play the intelligent servant. Once he thought Vniel could no longer be of use, he would find a way to betray.
I should just kill him now. It would end all risk.
“My friend, please arrange for the Helosundian intervention we discussed. A day or two, three at the most. This is very important.”
“Do I let Count Vroan know this operation is in progress?”
“You’ve heard rumors and want to know if you should act to stop it.”
Aerynnor’s eyes widened for a moment. “Very good, Minister. Deniability for all.”
“It is good to know many things, including those you choose not to remember.”
“I shall remember that.” The Desei noble nodded. “And Nerot Scior?”
“Were he any sort of a man, he would have slain the Prince himself, not hired it done.”
“My thoughts exactly. He is here in the city, so I shall arrange incriminating evidence to be found, if needed.”
“Very good.” Vniel smiled. “And please know your suit for the hand of Jarana Vroan will meet with approval at very high levels.”
“Thank you.”
If Aerynnor said anything more than that, Pelut Vniel did not hear. He’d slipped through the false panel in the wall and into a tight corridor. He felt his way along, pushed on a broken brick, and another doorway opened. He wormed his way into it, then closed and barred the door behind him. He stepped away from that door, then rested against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly.
He smiled as his heart slowed and stopped pounding in his ears. Negotiating with exiles to commit treason was something to sour the stomach. He hunched over, feeling as if he wanted to vomit, but nothing came up.
He steadied himself against the corridor’s narrow walls. He would have preferred any other choice but the one he’d been given. Killing a prince and fixing the blame on others was not an easy thing, but it had to be done.
Not for the good of the nation, or even for his own good.
For the good of the ministry.
For order.
No higher cause could be served.
Chapter Forty-seven
8th 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
Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut
Erumvirine
Scouts from the Derael family had been watching us for several days, but we took no action against them. Tsatol Deraelkun had a special place in Virine history because it had held the pass in the Central Virine mountains since before the Empire had been sundered. During the Time of Black Ice and the oddities that wild magic had spawned, it had been heavily damaged by monstrous armies and all but razed several times. Regardless, the Derael family had not let the enemies get into the Virine heartland, and had made their home stronger every time they rebuilt it.
And as I had known since we left Kelewan, it would be at Tsatol Deraelkun that we would make a stand.
While many passes through the mountains existed, most could handle little more than wandering shepherds, their flocks, and smugglers. Emperor Dailon IV, who got seasick at hearing the cry of a gull, went to great expense to establish the Imperial Road running from Felarati to Kelewan. Cutting a road through the Virine range had not been easy, but it was done, and the first Deraelkun had been built astride the road as an Imperial way station.
Down through the eons it had changed a great deal, and by the time of the sundering, it had become a massive fortress with three circles of walls, and secondary fortresses linked by tunnels and redoubts
carved so artfully from the native stone that they remained undetected until one was right on top of them. Moraven had passed through the area a number of times and occasionally been a guest of the Derael family.
I recognized the colors and arms of the soldiers blocking the Imperial Road, and assumed that for every dozen I saw before me, five times that number lurked in the woods and ravines. Their armor had been tied with alternating cords of black, red, and yellow, making one mindful of poisonous snakes. The family crest featured a bear rampant and still fighting, though stuck with two spears and four arrows. Each wound indicated a time they’d rebuilt Deraelkun, and the bear seemed eager for the next assault.
Two riders left the center of their formation and approached me. I left my lines alone and rode toward them. I still wore the Morythian armor, but had set aside my mask. Having them recognize me would not hurt, nor would letting them mistake me for the Moraven of their acquaintance.
The woman held up a hand and her son reined back. She came forward another couple of feet, then stopped her horse. Both of them were tall, and she quite uncharacteristically. Strands of white worked through her long black hair. She could have hidden them as many women would, but many women her age wouldn’t have donned armor and come out to meet an armed force. She wore a sword, but I knew she’d never use it. The bow and quiver on her saddle, and the jade thumbring on her right hand, reminded me of her skill.
I bowed my head to her. “Countess Derael, it is a pleasure.”
Her hazel eyes studied me closely. “You look like someone I know, but he’s never showed an inclination toward displays of nationality.”
“Change is necessary.” I looked back toward the south. “You’ve seen enough refugees come through to know what is happening.”
She shook her head. “Those who get this far are traveling on rumor. I hope you have solid information.”
I turned back and nodded. “We do. We also have Prince Iekariwynal with us.”
Her son, Pasuram, nodded grimly. “Kelewan has fallen?”
“If not, it’s only by a miracle.” I looked at both of them openly. “Are you going to allow us to join you in Deraelkun, or shall we die here contesting the road?”
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