A Secret Atlas

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Dunos smiled hugely. “Why are you here, Master?”

  “We all bear our wounds, Dunos.”

  The boy nodded. “This is Nirati. She’s here for woman stuff.”

  The man smiled. “I am Moraven. Peace of the Festival to you.”

  “And you.” Nirati smiled, but kept her voice low. At the mention of her name Majiata’s head had half turned. Just ignore me, Majiata, or I’ll go down there and give you some bruises that will really need healing.

  From somewhere deep in the building’s bowels, drums began to pound. Nirati actually felt the vibration before she heard it, but as the crowd quieted, the echoes filled the dome. As each sound rippled through the throng, waves of fear rose in its wake. In a few places, people started to run toward the exits. Their fear became contagious and still others fled.

  Nirati expected Majiata to run, but she didn’t. She did glance back again and Nirati realized her game. As long as I am here, she won’t run. That reason alone would not have stopped Nirati, but if she’d left, the boy would have gone, too. And he needs this more than I.

  Yet her resolve to remain faced stiff opposition, for remaining there—inviting the attention of a magician—had, since the Cataclysm and even before, been considered foolhardy. Kaerinus was the last of the vanyesh and, having existed for so long, clearly had reached a mastery of magic that allowed him to work miracles. It was said the gods remained in the Heavens for fear he would find them and send them back.

  The sort of power he could wield had destroyed the world. It had triggered the Time of Black Ice, killing millions—flattening mountains, erasing cities and towns, and threatening humanity with extinction. Stories of wandering xingnaridin frightened children into good behavior, and rumors of them banded men into mobs. The dome had been created to contain Kaerinus’ power against the fear that he could initiate another Cataclysm.

  A light grey mist began to pour from a circular entrance across the arena. Little tendrils of intense blue color played through it—part flame, part lightning—that cracked when they winked out. Nirati’s flesh tingled. The fog deepened, filling the opening, then a blue light built inside it. Fire flickered faster, and little spiderwebs of lightning flashed.

  All around her people exposed their injuries. Dunos clumsily tore at the buttons on his robe. She bent to help him slip it off and noticed the blue lightning playing up and down beneath his flesh, outlining veins and arteries. In front of them, Moraven took off his robe, revealing a hideous scar on the left side of his chest. Nirati and Dunos both stared at it for a moment and she wondered how someone strong enough to survive that could ever imagine himself needing healing.

  Beyond him, Majiata let her robe slip down to beneath her shoulder blades. She clutched it modestly closed at her breasts and Nirati shook her head. That makes a circle, silly girl. Had it been anyone else, Nirati would have said something, but looking at the red worm of a scar on Majiata’s shoulder blade disgusted Nirati. Majiata’s stupidity had earned her that scar, and her stupidity would see to it that it remained.

  A gasp rose as Kaerinus emerged from the tunnel. He wore a purple cloak with a high collar that hid the lower half of his head. A hood covered it and shadowed his face, but could not hide the blue fire burning in his eyes. No decoration adorned his cloak, though azure lightning cascaded down from his shoulders.

  Two things became immediately apparent to Nirati and knotted her stomach. The first was that Kaerinus’ head had not been bowed when he left the tunnel, nor had his shoulders been stooped, but now he stood at least ten feet tall. His shoulders, she felt certain, would have brushed either edge of the tunnel. Even as she made that judgment about his size, he grew larger—until he could have dwarfed a Viruk warrior with ease.

  The second thing she found even more frightening. He moved forward at something slower than a gentle walking pace, but gave no sign of moving. She could not see foot or knee press against the cloak. Instead, he drifted forward on the grey fog. He could have been the figurehead on a ship sailing serenely down the Gold River.

  Then, suddenly, in the center of the earthen circle, he stopped. The cloud around him did not continue to roll forward; it stopped, too. He remained unmoving for a heartbeat, then slowly spun. Some people shrank from his gaze—a few broke, others fainted. Dunos slipped his hand into hers and squeezed and even Moraven shifted his shoulders uneasily. As her gaze met the mage’s, she felt a hint of recognition, but only a cursory one. As if he is a trader inspecting livestock, nothing more.

  The drums faded and the lightning no longer pulsed through the fog or his cloak. The light in his eyes shifted from blue to purple. The fiery tongues twisting through the fog likewise changed, matching his eyes. From somewhere within his hood—or in him—words rose. Nirati didn’t think she was even hearing him speak, and the idea of words seemed wrong as well.

  Is this what my brothers share with our grandfather?

  Images boiled through her mind quickly. She caught sight of a boy’s hand reaching for a glowing crystal. She felt the weight of a lash against her back. The searing-hot pain of a sword slicing flesh drew a line over her ribs. Those things she guessed came from Dunos, Majiata, and Moraven; so she assumed the other things came from the rest of the crowd. Beneath them all, however, came a chorus of screams—Men, animals—all in pain, horrible pain.

  Nirati found herself screaming as well. Everyone did, filling the dome with a horrible sound that doubled back on itself, increasing and pulsing, drilling through her more powerfully than the drums. They had shaken her physically, but this reached inside and touched her pain, her fear. Before, she had been unlike anyone, for she had no talent, but here she now was like everyone—she was broken and was afraid she could not be fixed.

  The fog around Kaerinus thickened into tentacles that lashed out full of sizzling electricity. One thick rope hit a crippled crone, lifting her off her feet. Purple lightning wreathed her limbs, shocking them straight. Her head flew back, her dowager’s hump vanished as her spine untwisted. She shrieked and the fog left her a crumpled heap, vapor rising.

  Again and again the tentacles flicked out, swirling to the left. A lower disk of fog spread out to fill the arena. Kaerinus rose with it and the tentacles spun faster, stirring the fog so it would slop over the arena’s edges. One wave crashed into Majiata and her scar burned so intensely Nirati could not look at it. Majiata screamed and dropped her robe, her back bowing, then her whole torso snapped forward. For a moment it looked as if she would pitch headlong into the opaque vapor roiling below, but she clutched at the edge and sagged down, half-naked. Purple fire filled vacant eyes as she sprawled sloppily—looking as if she were drunk and had been ravished by a Turasynd horde.

  Nirati had but a heartbeat to relish Majiata’s dishevelment before a larger wave surged up and engulfed her. In an instant it felt as if she were naked in a stinging steel rain. She looked down, expecting to see her flesh freckled with blood, but her eyes no longer registered reality. She saw herself as a child again, viewing herself from both a distance and within her skin. She was walking hand in hand with her grandfather through the gardens of Anturasikun. The sun shone on them both, and the sting melted into warmth.

  She half remembered the incident, but it crawled from her memory with the reluctance of a Soth ripping free of its cocoon. Qiro let her hand drop and turned to face Ulan. Only her uncle was much younger than now; her grandfather was still his powerful, white-maned self. Ulan unscrolled a chart for Qiro to inspect. Before she had enough time to even begin to recognize shapes, Qiro savagely berated Ulan.

  Nirati did not hear the words, but rather saw them as arrows flying straight into her uncle. They ripped into his chest and blood gushed. One transfixed his skull and another sank in through his left eye. A small bolt pinned his tongue to his lower jaw, and yet another emasculated him. Ulan crumpled the same way the chart crumpled in Qiro’s hands.

  She looked up at her grandfather, tears forming in her eyes. She bent to pick up the map
and smooth it, but Qiro took it from her hands and threw it away. He smiled at her, turning her from Ulan, and led her deeper into the gardens. Flowers poured from his mouth, though they were ghosts of those blooming around her.

  And around her heart slid an armored sleeve. She did not say it then—she had not known the words to say it then—but now she knew. I determined then I would never let him hurt me as he did Uncle Ulan. I am not without talent. I hid from my talent.

  That knowledge exploded in her. Everything she had tried to do had been a failure. She had worked diligently at it, but never had connected with anything. I’d not let myself connect. I did not want a talent. I did not want to be judged, to be skewered and crumpled. Perhaps I never needed healing.

  Her vision returned to her and there, in a grey sea, she saw the purple light burning in the arena’s heart. Kaerinus had risen high enough that the fog could fill the dome and touch everyone. Is that it? Did I never need the healing, or was this the healing I needed?

  She felt his awareness sweep past her, but she got no reply. Instead, she felt herself beginning to drift upward. She glanced down and saw her body. Around her, as if phantoms, she saw Dunos and Moraven, even Majiata. Of others she became only dimly aware. When she looked up again, Kaerinus had become a black pearl with purple fire swirling around its middle. It rotated down as if an eye, with a fiery purple pupil mirroring what had become the corona. It saw her. It saw her and she saw herself reflected and distorted in the orb’s dark surface.

  She reached a hand out and traced a finger over the sphere. She felt something ancient in there, and knew she should fear it, but she did not. She caressed it again, and the illusion of a smooth surface vanished. Tiny glass teeth tore at her flesh. Violet lightning lashed her. She yanked her hand away, screaming as she severed contact.

  Her eyes snapped open as Moraven and Dunos both crouched beside her. She started trembling, then bit her lower lip. “W-what happened?”

  Moraven smiled uneasily. “I suspect it was different for each of us. One moment we were locked in the magic. In the next, it and Kaerinus were gone.”

  Nirati let them help her into a sitting position. She looked toward where Majiata had fallen. “What of that woman?”

  “She wandered out, dazed.”

  Dunos nodded and lifted her robe in his right hand. “She forgot this.”

  Nirati half smiled, but stopped quickly. Dunos’ arm remained withered. She glanced at Moraven and saw the end of his scar. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what, Mistress?”

  “You still have your scar, and Dunos . . .”

  The boy frowned and tears glistened in his eyes, but none rolled down his cheeks. “It’s okay.”

  Moraven leaned across Nirati and caressed Dunos’ left arm. “Have you forgotten what I said on the road, Dunos?”

  “You said I would be healed.” His lower lip trembled. “You can’t always be right, Master.”

  “I was not wrong, Dunos.” The man’s voice, though soft, carried confidence. “The magic promised only to heal us, not give us what we want. It gave us what we need.”

  “But I wanted to be a swordsman.”

  “And you may yet be.” Moraven smiled, then tapped the boy on the head. “First, though, you have to find out what was healed. That will tell you your true destiny.”

  “Yes, Master. Thank you.”

  Nirati looked at Moraven. “Have you been given what you need?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “That doesn’t sound very definite.”

  Moraven smiled, stood, and helped her to her feet. “Healing is always a process, magical or not. It will take time for me to figure out what has changed. The same for Dunos. Do you know, Mistress, or will you need time as well?”

  “I think I will need time.” Nirati paused for a moment, then nodded. “Time to heal, then time to discover what it is my healing will allow me to do.”

  “Best fortune in your search.” The swordsman shrugged his robe back on. “You’re embarked on a journey most never realize they need to take. If that realization were the only thing you got today, you would have been the most fortunate of us all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

  9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  736th year since the Cataclysm

  Anturasikun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  When Keles awoke again he found himself in a larger bed within a dim room. The sheets were fresh—likewise the straw in the mattress. He could smell the poultice and other herbs. Their scents did not make him want to gag. He felt stronger somehow, and though he noticed the pain in his back, the tightness of the flesh across the wounds superseded it.

  He turned his head and found his mother sitting in a chair beside the bed, concentrating on embroidering an emblem on cloth. She looked up as the rustle of bedclothes betrayed his movement. “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.”

  She poured him a small cup of water, then held his head, raising the cup to his lips and only allowing him tiny sips. He wanted to suck it down greedily, but knew it would come right back up, so he settled for allowing a cool trickle down his throat. He drank as much as he could, then nodded, and she withdrew the nearly empty cup.

  “How long have I slept?”

  “A long time, which is good. It’s the Festival’s sixth day.”

  Keles concentrated. “The Prince’s ball is tonight.”

  Siatsi laughed lightly and brushed hair back from his forehead. “Your brother and sister will represent us well.”

  “You should have gone, Mother.”

  She shook her head. “And have every crone in the nation asking me how you were, what I thought of what happened? No, that would not do. You are the talk of Festival, Keles, but I need not be the one doing that talking.”

  Keles nodded, or thought he had. He did hear the rustle of pillowcase against his cheek. “I remember the ambassador. What happened?”

  Siatsi sighed. “I’m certain your brother has told you of frogs and toads in Ummummorar that exude a poison. Wildmen use it to hunt with, but it protects the creatures from predators.”

  Keles nodded.

  “The Viruk apparently have a similar thing. Just as our sweat becomes acrid when we are nervous, so their personal humors change. When the warrior cut you, his claws poisoned you. Mildly, of course, but you were poisoned nonetheless. The ambassador’s magic was able to deal with the more virulent aspects of the venom, but some things will take time to work out. It could be a year or more. Until then even the scent of a Viruk could make you sick.”

  “Luckily there will be no Viruk on the Stormwolf.”

  “Lucky for some, Keles, but not for you.” In quiet tones Siatsi told him what had happened that night and of his grandfather’s pronouncement. Keles’ skin puckered as she spoke. He did not so much fear the trip as he did his grandfather’s wrath. The Stormwolf’s voyage might have been meant to kill him, but a trip into the depths of Ixyll surely would.

  Even in the dim light he could see how his mother had paled, and her fingers quivered as she stroked his hair. “I have spoken with Qiro, but he is adamant. I cannot shift him, no matter how I try.”

  “Give it time, Mother.”

  “Dear boy, there is not that much time in the world.” She frowned. “I could tell you all the ways in which he felt compelled to act, but the simple fact was that he made that pronouncement at his birthday celebration. Princes heard him. For him to relent now would be a dishonor. It would suggest one or both of you are weak, and he will tolerate neither.”

  “Do you think he wants me dead?”

  “He is capable of it.”

  “Did he want my father dead?”

  Siatsi frowned for a moment, then sighed. “The years and rumors have made it easy to accept the simple answer, but Qiro and Ryn were more complex. Your father pushed his father hard.
Your father had a gift, one greater than Qiro’s, if you can believe it, and Qiro realized that Ryn would be able to cement the Anturasi place in history if he would focus that gift. But your father was not patient. Like your brother, he had other interests. Qiro tried to focus your father on cartography. That led to the last voyage.

  “Part of him probably did want your father dead, for they fought furiously. And part of him mourned piteously when your father died. He grieves still.”

  “Does he want me dead?”

  “No. He wants you to return after doing your work.” She smiled. “Your grandfather is not entirely heartless.”

  Keles frowned. “He has condemned me to a journey of over two thousand miles as the hawks fly. I will be traveling through lands where wild magic has held sway and heroes refuse to go. The only people who venture into the realm of Ixyll are the insane, or the gyanridin, who act insane. I will have to cross the Dark Sea, risking storms and pirates, and I’ll be passing close enough to Irusviruk to see many more warriors. Some will be kin to those Jorim killed, and all of them will make me ill. Grandfather may not be coldhearted, as you say, but he is showing me little of his warmth.”

  She laughed.

  “I did not think I was being funny.”

  “No, Keles, I know that.”

  “Well?”

  Siatsi smiled. “Rumor had it that Majiata had described your journey similarly, but without regret.”

  “She did?” His heart ached slightly. “You didn’t tell me if the Prince had her lashed.”

  “He did. She fainted and bears naught but a tiny scar on her back. Your sister saw it when she went to the healing ceremony.”

  Keles blinked. “Nirati went? You let her go?”

  “It was important to her to go.” His mother sighed. “Nirati’s been here by your side a lot, Keles. She does all she can to help, and she has been a great help, but she feels her lack of talent. She watches me mix herbs and roots for your poultices and would give anything to be able to do that. She went hoping she would find her talent. “