A Secret Atlas

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The Gloon leaped from one bier to another and crouched on the broad chest of a warrior’s effigy. “Nelesquin entered into negotiations with the Turasynd. They were led by a god-priest of considerable power. Nelesquin trailed them into Ixyll, hoping to let both sides weaken themselves so he could destroy them and return to take the Imperial throne. The Empress, worried about a lack of communication from him, sent those entombed around you to see if he needed help. Under the leadership of Virisken Soshir, we discovered him in negotiations with the enemy. We struck at him and the Turasynd leader.

  “We were greatly outnumbered, but fought valiantly. I do not imagine our bodies were recovered by Nelesquin and buried thusly. So I assume the Empress proved victorious, and that both the Turasyndi and Nelesquin were destroyed.” He opened his arms. “This tomb is of Imperial style, so she must have had survivors who did this for us. It is her progeny that yet rule the Empire, is it not?”

  Keles shook his head. “The Nine Principalities still exist. We are from Nalenyr and were sent to survey the old Spice Route. At least, I was. You said there were skirmishes. The dead were buried with their weapons. Would you know where those burial places are?”

  “They might be possible to find. Why?”

  Keles shifted around and slid his feet to the floor. His knees did not buckle, but he leaned back against the bier as Tyressa came around to steady him. “Their weapons have value back in the Nine. And we think there might be those who would use their bodies for corpse dust.”

  “I can show you what I know, but this would be as nothing compared to the place where the dead from the final battle were buried. You would have to venture further west to find that site.”

  Keles levered himself away from the bier and stood. “Then we need to get out of here. You said you have never been outside, but you have survived. What do you do for water and food?”

  The Soth Gloon pointed toward the darker recesses of the cavern. “In there you will find seeps that suffice for water. There is also a colony of bats. I do not eat much, and they are filling when I do.”

  “If there are bats, then there is a way out.”

  Urardsa nodded. “There is a crack in the ceiling of a chamber through which they exit each night. I do not like heights, so I have not ventured forth.”

  “I’m going to go take a look.”

  Tyressa’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Not alone.”

  Keles nodded, then looked over at Borosan. “Tyressa and I are going to take a look at a way out of here. We will be back soon.”

  Borosan looked up from his tinkering and nodded, but said nothing.

  Keles took one of his lanterns and they headed off. The finished part of the complex narrowed deeper in, but the passage remained large enough that they could move without much more than stooping. Keles had come unarmed, but Tyressa had looped her sword belt around her waist. The scabbard kept slapping at rocks and caught a couple of times, but did not slow them much.

  After a steep climb that leveled out into a narrow passage, Keles sat. “Just need to rest for a moment.”

  Tyressa knelt beside him and brought the lantern up to examine his face. “It’s bleeding a little, but not too badly.”

  “It’s not getting in my eyes.” He glanced up at her. “What did you think of Urardsa’s story?”

  She shrugged. “It sounds true, and I have no reason to doubt it.”

  “But there are implications that I wonder about. The tomb complex, for example, was not easily built. Assuming the Empress survived, she must have had a considerable number of men to work on it.”

  “I agree.”

  “So why didn’t she come back with them?”

  Tyressa’s breath caught. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think she’s waiting out there somewhere as the legends say?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. I guess, as we go further west, we’ll find out.” He stood again. “C’mon, let’s see if we can get out.”

  “And hope we find another entrance, because neither the horses nor Rekarafi are going to fit this way.”

  They scraped their way along a tight passage that then opened out into a relatively steep climb about thirty yards up. At first Keles welcomed it, but then a stench hit him. Halfway up, bat guano covered rocks and deepened as they climbed. Where the passage widened, the dung dragged at their feet. Insect larvae and dying bats wallowed in it and when Tyressa raised the lantern, the cavern roof seemed to heave and ripple with bodies.

  Both of them moved through as quickly as they could, but that was not nearly fast enough. They found a narrow ledge that angled up and finally caught sight of a red streak they took to be the evening sky. This heartened them, and they moved more quickly. Being smaller, Keles was able to crawl up the crack swiftly and emerged into a cold evening. But the fresh air was bracing.

  The landscape stretched out, painted in bloody tones by the dying sun, and would have riveted his attention, save something more close demanded it. As he emerged, a trio of men stood up. Two held crossbows leveled at his middle. They’d been sheltered in a small hollow beyond a rock, and had a small fire burning there.

  Keles raised his hands. “Easy, I’m no threat to you. I’m Keles Anturasi and this is Tyressa.” He half turned back as her right hand reached out to grab a rock. “We got trapped out here by a storm.”

  The man without the crossbow nodded. “They’ve been pretty fierce. Anturasi, you say? Of Nalenyr?”

  Keles nodded. “Do I know you?”

  “No, not at all.” He pointed at Tyressa, half-emerged from the crevasse. “Shoot her. We’ve got what we want.”

  A crossbow twanged and Tyressa grunted. Keles spun and saw her disappear back into the cavern.

  The leader snarled. “Make sure.”

  The two crossbowmen advanced, but before they could reach the opening, a cloud of bats exploded into the sky. Leathery wings snapped and tiny voices shrieked. The cloud became a blurred brown sheet pouring out, circling, rising into the sky. The crossbowmen yelped and dove for cover.

  Keles turned and started to run, but a fist caught him behind the left ear and he went down hard. He twisted onto his right shoulder, hoping to prevent his head from hitting the rocks. He succeeded, but only at the cost of his collarbone, which snapped easily. He rolled onto his back and cried out, his left hand clutching at the break.

  The trio’s leader placed a booted foot on his chest. “Be quiet. You’ll be taken care of.” The man smiled. “Prince Pyrust would be upset if we let anything happen to you, Master Anturasi. You’re safe now, under his protection. And before you know it, you’ll be able to thank him yourself.”

  Chapter Sixty-three

  9th 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

  Anturasikun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Prince Cyron felt the weight of the heavy white mourning cloak; it caught at his legs as he marched through Anturasikun. Similar cloaks shrouded the forms of the Keru before and behind him. White cloth covered painting and murals on the walls, hid furnishings, and otherwise obscured almost anything of color or interest.

  Not only did mourning colors predominate, but grief pervaded the tower. Siatsi remained indisposed, and had not yet responded to the note of condolence the Prince had sent immediately upon learning of Nirati’s murder. She had, however, had the messenger return her thanks.

  Qiro Anturasi had not even done that much.

  Cyron himself had been told of the murder and had gone to the scene of the crime. Even if he had been as battle-hardened as Prince Pyrust, he was certain he would still have vomited. To just look into the room and see the beautiful young woman’s head perched on a mound of meat was an incongruity that offended even before one realized that the mound was the rest of her. She had been taken to pieces with incredible skill. Cyron’s Lo
rd of Shadows had estimated it would have taken five hours to accomplish that task, though how anyone could have remained sane that long was beyond any of them.

  To compound matters, Count Junel Aerynnor had been found in a nearby alley with a dagger thrust into his back. An inch or two to the left and it would have severed an artery. He would have bled to death had rescuers not come across him. He had regained consciousness on the eighth, and told a tale of being kidnapped and brought to the murder site. He had been forced to look at what they had done to the Anturasi woman. He’d broken away from his captors—Desei agents according to him—and had been hit with a thrown dagger. Why they had not killed him he did not know, but—as far as he was concerned—in killing Nirati they had ended his life.

  Cyron had immediately communicated his regrets to the Anturasi clan, offering to do all he could for them. He promised his people would find Nirati’s killer, but with the murder of Majiata Phoesel yet unsolved, that promise sounded hollow even to him. Cyron had even gone so far as to promise Qiro he could leave Anturasikun to attend Nirati’s funeral, and had opened his own family’s crypt to allow her to be interred in the outer chamber.

  The Prince had expected some response from Qiro, but got nothing. No doubt the man was grief-stricken. He likely was also trying to communicate with his grandsons to let them know of their sister’s death. He had hoped the offer of freedom would bring some response—likewise the honor of having Nirati buried in the Komyr crypt—but still there was no word. Even sending stonemasons to ask after what sort of stone they would like for Nirati did not break Qiro’s silence.

  Cyron had been understanding, and was willing to allow the man his time to mourn, but almost immediately complaints had come from merchants who were waiting for Anturasi charts. They were slow in coming, or never arrived at all. On top of that, the captains complained that they contained no new information. If they were not getting the latest in navigational aids, they wanted to lower the percentage paid to the Anturasi family; but even their demands for renegotiation were going unanswered.

  The Keru parted before the gated entrance to the tower’s interior. Beyond it, the huddled form of Ulan Anturasi waited, his shoulders slumped and his hood fully obscuring his face. He dropped to one knee behind the bars, but remained far enough back that Cyron could not have reached through and grabbed him.

  “Good day, Highness.”

  “Open this gate this instant, Ulan Anturasi! I must see Qiro at once.”

  “Opening the gate will do no good, Highness.”

  Cyron slipped the clasp on his cloak and let the snowy garment hit the floor. Beneath he wore a purple overshirt with a gold dragon coiled on it. “Look at me, Ulan Anturasi. You know who I am and what I represent. Do not play games with me. Do as I say. Open this gate.”

  The old man on the other side slowly rose from his knees. Palsied hands appeared from within the cloak and fumbled with keys. “It will do no good, Highness. Qiro is not here. I did not open the gate for him. He did not take my keys. He is gone. I don’t know where, but gone.”

  The panic in Ulan’s voice shocked Cyron much more than the news that Qiro Anturasi was missing. The information about Qiro’s disappearance had been delivered almost matter-of-factly, as if this was not the first time Ulan had lost track of him.

  Cyron played a hunch. “How long has he been gone this time?”

  The man’s head came up and red-rimmed eyes studied the Prince’s face. “You know?”

  “Nalenyr is my domain. There is nothing I do not know. How long this time, Ulan?”

  “Since the other night. Since the night she—”

  “Since the night Nirati was murdered.” Cyron slapped the old man’s hands away from the keys, fitted the right one into the lock, and turned it. The lock clicked open. Cyron stepped through the door, relocked it, then tossed the keys to one of his Keru. “No one goes in here. Get a company of Keru and surround the grounds. Another will search it for any sign of Qiro’s passage.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  Cyron started up the circular ramp. “No one heard anything, saw anything?”

  Ulan wheezed as he struggled to keep up. “No, Highness, nothing. Last we knew he was working. Sometimes he would sleep in his workshop. We called to him, but got no response.”

  The Prince frowned. “What did you find when you searched it?”

  “Searched it? Highness?” Ulan looked agog at him. “N-no one . . . We don’t go in there unless he summons us.”

  “What if he died in there, Ulan?”

  The man’s lower jaw hung open and quivered. “He’s not dead, Highness. I would know if Qiro was dead. He’s not. He’s just gone.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you send for me?”

  The man’s voice became a tight squeak. “You are Prince Cyron, but he is Qiro. He has been gone before, but he has always come back. I didn’t want to make him angry. You don’t know what he is like when he is angry.”

  Cyron emerged at the heart of the workshop. The Anturasi paused in their work, looking at him. All seemed terrified, but Cyron thought it was less because of his possible ire than Qiro’s wrath if a visitor were found among them in his absence.

  That’s it, mostly, but there is more. Some among them also feared Qiro’s absence, for it left them without leadership. They might have hated him or feared him, but at least he gave them direction.

  Cyron nodded slowly, knowing what he had to do. “I am Prince Cyron. You all know this. Until Qiro comes to overrule me in this matter, you will take orders from Ulan Anturasi. Understand something very important. Qiro would not have left if he did not trust that you could and would carry on the Anturasi mission. Do not let him down.”

  The Prince grabbed Ulan by the shoulder and pulled him toward Qiro’s sanctum. They passed through the blue layer of curtains, then Ulan brought his hands up and beat Cyron’s hand aside. The older man sank to his knees and bowed so low he seemed nothing but a discarded cloak wadded on the floor.

  “Forgive me, Highness, striking you. Kill me if you must, but I cannot go in there.”

  Cyron resisted the urge to kick him. His hands tightened into fists, then loosened again. He squatted and kept his voice even. “Ulan Anturasi, you heard me tell the others you are in charge here now. So it is. I will not kill you. I need you. Nalenyr needs you.”

  The man stirred a little, but shivers still ran though him. “You mean that, Highness?”

  “Yes, of course.” The waver in Ulan’s voice made Cyron doubt he would be up to the challenge. “Qiro could communicate directly with Keles and Jorim. Can you?”

  “I have, in the past, but it has been so long. Qiro forbade it.”

  “Can you communicate with Qiro?”

  Ulan’s head came up and the Prince tugged the hood back so he could see the man’s face. Worry made it an ashen mask. “I have not for a long time, Highness. I know he still lives, but he is faint and far.”

  “How far? Deseirion?”

  The old man blinked, then looked down. “I don’t know direction, Highness, but I would say further. Much further.”

  “Work at it. Work at reaching any of them. Now.” Cyron stood and nodded toward the interior curtain. “I am going to see if there are any clues to his disappearance in there.”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  Cyron steeled himself for he knew not what and slipped past the last curtain. The room remained much as it had been when last he visited, save in one very important respect. The map on the wall had been modified extensively. A chain of islands curved down to the south to the Mountains of Ice. In the northwest an incredible amount of detail had been filled in along the Spice Route. As nearly as he could see, the old road remained useful well into Dolosan, and new routes had formed through the changed landscape. Both Keles and Jorim had been successful in their quests.

  “And I had no idea how much they had learned. You are a bastard, Qiro.”

  These changes in the world should ha
ve warmed his heart, for these discoveries would guarantee the economic preeminence of Nalenyr through his lifetime and that of his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—unto nine generations. He would be able to reunite the Empire and build it into a greater power than it had ever been before. He would make Pyrust his warlord and his domain would expand to include all of the known world and beyond.

  One other detail on the map, however, sent icy dread coursing through his veins. There, in the empty quarter of the Eastern Sea, to the north of the Mountains of Ice, sat an island continent. Teardrop in shape, as if it had been wept from the mouth of the Gold River, it floated there to the southeast. Its landmass could have easily encompassed the Five Princes and Erumvirine as well.

  Cyron stared at it, and the image took on definition as if some invisible cartographer were adding details. Mountains grew up and rivers flowed. Cities appeared, flourished, collapsed, and started the cycle again. Odd creatures decorated geographical features, and the name Anturasixan scrawled itself over the face of the continent in Qiro’s strong hand.

  And all of it was drawn in blood—blood that dripped slowly down the wall. Cyron thought it might just run in red streaks to the floor, but the fluid shifted and flowed differently, as if it had a life of its own.

  It does, just like the place it has drawn. Cyron watched as letters formed into words. His mouth went dry.

  Below the new continent a simple legend appeared, as it did on so many Anturasi maps. A warning, scrawled clearly and boldly, in Qiro Anturasi’s hand. A warning to be ignored at the peril of the world.

  “Here there be monsters.”

  About the Author

  Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning author and game designer whose first novel was published in 1988. He grew up in Vermont, and graduated from the University of Vermont in 1979 with a degree in history. He now lives in Arizona (though he is writing this on a day when it’s 109 degrees in the shade, so he wonders why he’s living in Arizona).