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  His mind shifted to the journals he’d kept, now back in Ixyll with the rest of his companions. And Tyressa, poor Tyressa. Just thinking of her made him feel even more alone. With her gone, some of the color had flowed out of the world.

  Cort, the man riding forward to the hillcrest, had been the one who shot her. And it wasn’t just that act that made Keles hate him, but the eager leer on his face when he’d done it. And the way he chuckled about it afterward.

  I hope you die.

  The man crested the hill and started to ride down into the valley. Then he reined back hard and his horse reared, but not before something had wrapped itself around the horse’s front legs. The horse came back down, squealing, eyes wide with terror, then it and Cort disappeared.

  “Cort, damnit!” Dalen reined back on his horse. Asbor, the third man, drew his sword and started galloping forward, but Dalen called him back. “Don’t be foolish.”

  Asbor gave him a puzzled look. “But we have to help him.”

  “There’s no helping him. He never even had time to scream.” Dalen turned to Keles. “Have you seen anything like this before?”

  “Tough to answer since I don’t know what it is.” Keles dismounted and would have fallen save for a quick grab at his stirrup. He got his legs under him, then started forward.

  “You should ride.” Asbor glanced nervously at the valley. “You can escape.”

  “Cort didn’t.” Keles kept his voice even, betraying neither his satisfaction at Cort’s death nor his fear. He began the trudge up the rise.

  “Asbor, get his horse; take my reins.” Dalen dismounted behind him and quickly caught up. His eyes narrowed as he looked over at Keles. “I would not have thought you to be so adventurous.”

  “Adventurous is my brother. I’m just curious.” Keles pointed toward the plant tendrils Cort had ridden over. “I think I saw something green binding the horse’s hooves. I intend to avoid anything green.”

  Dalen nodded, then the two of them cut off the trail and up through some rocks. The Desei agent helped him negotiate the steeper parts, then they both rounded a large boulder and looked down into the valley.

  Dalen shivered. “Who could have imagined?”

  Keles shook his head and squatted. The valley had widened into a basin that he believed might once have been the home to a fair-sized pond nearly a hundred feet deep. The red rocks around it and the grey-red sediment in it contrasted sharply with the green of the plant. Tendrils—hundreds of them, perhaps even thousands—lay like webbing throughout the basin. Where they lapped over its edges they were little thicker than a finger. Deeper down, closer to the heart, they were fully as round as a man and stiff with rough bark festooned with sharp thorns.

  Centermost sat a grotesque blossom, corpse white with scarlet veining. It pulsed and quivered in time with the pain throbbing in Keles’ shoulder—a fact he found rather unsettling. At its heart lay a darker patch the color of liver, which opened and closed slowly, producing a faint sound reminiscent of snoring.

  They spotted most of Cort, but his horse had almost ceased to exist. Small tendrils reached out to pull the carcass forward. The sharp thorns sliced through flesh and sinew, taking the animal apart as it slowly slid toward the plant’s heart. Hunks of dripping tissue and steaming organs moved more quickly, dropping into the maw between snores.

  Cort soon joined his mount in a sharp slide to feed the plant.

  Keles narrowed his eyes. “No, I’ve never seen anything like this before. Not this size. My brother said there are flesh-eating plants in Ummummorar, but the samples he tried to bring back died. Even so, those were only big enough to eat insects.”

  Dalen frowned as he watched the plant. “I would have been ready for monsters. You know, the things we hear about in stories—bears with six legs and mandibles, steel serpents, giant spiders. Not this.”

  “This isn’t something bards would sing of. Its only prey is that which blunders into it.” Keles frowned. “That doesn’t make it any less horrible, though.”

  “In some ways it makes it more so.”

  Keles considered for a moment, then glanced up at his captor. “What are you going to do? I’m not sure you can kill it.”

  “Kill it? No.” The man smiled slowly. “My job is to get you to Deseirion. We’ll just go around it. I can recruit more men later, so you’ll be safe.”

  “You mean so I won’t escape.”

  Dalen snorted. “Even if you were whole, you couldn’t escape. You could kill me and Asbor in the night, or kill our horses and take off with as many supplies as you wanted, and you’d still not escape.”

  “Give me a horse and provisions and I’ll prove you wrong.”

  Dalen snorted again and started leading the way back. “You may know where you are and even where you want to go, but you know the world as a map. But a map is like the world in the same way sheet music is like a song. It merely describes it. You don’t know enough about this world to survive it.”

  Keles said nothing. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that criticism. Tyressa had leveled it against him on the expedition, and he had taken strides to correct the problem. In Dalen’s opinion, however, he had not gone far enough.

  But that didn’t really surprise him. He’d been in pain and had been traveling swiftly, neither of which gave him the time to get to know much about the places they were passing through. More important, however, he’d shut himself off to such learning because it reminded him of Tyressa; and to think of her was to have his heart feel as if it were sliding into the plant with Cort.

  Tyressa had saved his life several times over, and when he was sick in Opaslynoti, she had tended to his needs. She was always honest with him, willing to hurt his feelings if it awakened him to realities he had to deal with.

  And now she is dead.

  Tyressa had been pulling herself out of a crack in the earth when Cort had shot her. She had gasped loudly, then slipped from sight. The last glimpse he had of her was the flash of her golden hair.

  Numbly he remounted the horse and followed Dalen as the Desei sought a new path south. Tyressa had confused Keles, because most of the time she had been brusque and gruff. That had been part of her Keru discipline. Being that tough, she had lived up to the Keru legend—implacable, unapproachable, and incorruptible.

  By just being strong and beautiful, the Keru—a select cadre of Helosundian women who served the Naleni royal house as bodyguards—had long been the object of fantasy for many a Naleni youth. Everyone had heard tales of liaisons between Keru and nobles or heroes—young Keru had to come from somewhere, after all. Boys dreamed of a Keru falling for them, or even just using them; but such things were fantasy alone.

  And yet, for Keles, Tyressa had shown some tenderness. It wasn’t a melting of her resolve, but as if their association had disarmed her heart. At the last, even as they crawled through the cavern and muck to reach the place where he’d been taken captive, they’d joked companionably, as if she were his friend.

  Keles refused to consider the possibility that he loved her. He had great affection for her, but if he admitted to love, then the grief he was holding at bay would consume him. But as determined as he was to deny love, he couldn’t deny the possibility that it might have grown into love; and having lost that was just as bad.

  Keles frowned and swallowed past a lump in his throat while his horse plodded along in Dalen’s wake. The sun would be setting soon, and what little warmth it had created would be stolen away.

  It occurred to him, as Dalen signaled a stop for the night in a hollow that would shelter them from the wind, that he could have pitched himself into the plant. But, no, that would never have done. His suicide would dishonor Tyressa’s sacrifice, and he would not write that epitaph to her life. She deserved more, and he would see to it that she got it.

  And suicide would have prevented one other thing. Prince Pyrust, the half-handed tyrant, had caused her death. He’d once offered Keles a new home, and the cartographer
had refused. Pyrust, clearly, had not accepted his refusal. He wanted Keles’ service, and no price was too great to pay for it.

  He’ll find that’s not true. Keles would travel to Deseirion and give Pyrust all the help he wanted. All the help he needs . . . to put his nation into the grave.

  Chapter Four

  10th 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

  Wentokikun, Moriande

  Nalenyr

  Though Grand Minister Pelut Vniel appeared quite calm as he delivered his reports, something about his manner set Prince Cyron on edge. Pelut’s predecessor had always insisted on a formal setting for their discussions, so Cyron had taken it as a good sign that his new Grand Minister was willing to join him in his private chambers. Pelut did evidence some lingering traces of stiffness in the Prince’s presence, but that seemed to be largely affected.

  Which means he is using it to hide something. Cyron’s shoulders sagged slightly as a great weariness washed over him. He remembered well how sitting on that same throne had aged his father so quickly. And Father ruled during a time of prosperity, with no enemies actively seeking his destruction.

  Muted light glowed gold from the room’s wooden floor and Pelut’s shaved head. “Because of the relatively mild winter, my lord, we anticipate both a bountiful harvest of winter crops and an early planting season. We have no sign of drought and no reason to expect anything less than the abundant harvest with which we were favored last year.”

  Cyron nodded, an unruly lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. “This may be true of crops, but if the winter is mild, both the Helosundians and Desei will be free to campaign early. Prince Pyrust would take great delight in attacking during the month of the Hawk.”

  “Your Highness’ perception of the political climate is, as always, stunning.”

  Cyron held up a hand. “You have no need to gild gold with me, Minister. Your predecessor raised empty praise to an art form, which is why I found dealing with him rather tedious.”

  “I understand, my lord.” Pelut bowed low enough to touch his forehead to the floor. His golden silk robe, trimmed in yellow with small red dragons embroidered on it, shimmered and shifted. It allowed Cyron to imagine that his minister was not human at all, but some nightmare creature sent to torment him.

  Cyron narrowed his light blue eyes. “You have been monitoring the shipments of rice to Deseirion. For every quor we send north, how much actually reaches Deseirion?”

  Pelut straightened. “Minister Kan Hisatal is overseeing the shipments, Highness, and he has been most efficient. He reports to me that ninety-five percent of what we send to Deseirion reaches its intended destination.”

  “Really?” Cyron leaned forward, not quite menacingly. “We were going to send a million quor north, so this would mean nine hundred fifty thousand quor will make it. And yet, you told me that forty thousand quor were destroyed in a warehouse fire in Rui.”

  “That is true, Highness.”

  “You might wonder why I mention this fire. Prince Eiran had ridden to Rui, to meet with other Helosundians and urge them to forestall provoking the Desei in the spring. I had a note from him in which he said he admired our people for their industriousness. He could not believe how quickly they had rebuilt Rui, after the fire.”

  Pelut blinked, but Cyron could feel it was forced. “Highness, the destruction was confined to a warehouse.”

  “Your informant on that matter was incorrect, Minister.” Cyron rose from his chair and began to pace crisply. His heels clicked sharply with each step and his robe—black, trimmed with gold, embroidered with brightly colored dragons at breast and back—whispered ominously. “A single quor is enough rice to keep a man alive for a year. It occupies roughly six and a third cubic feet. It would take a warehouse one hundred sixty feet on a side, rising to ten stories, to hold it all. Rui may have grown in the past nine years, Minister, but it hasn’t a building over four stories. The fire that consumed that much rice would have consumed the whole of the town.”

  “I can see that, Highness.”

  “But can your man, Hisatal? Does he think we are blind and stupid? Knowing Eiran would be going to Rui, I asked him to look for fire damage. I had already done the math.”

  “Highness, you should have brought your concern to me. You did not need to send Prince Eiran as your personal spy.”

  Cyron stopped and glared at Pelut. “My personal spy?”

  Pelut’s face tightened, then he bowed to the floor again. “Forgive me, Highness.”

  “No, Minister, this bears discussing. Have I not the right to information about my nation? You are the chief of all my ministers, from the grandest to the lowliest clerk. Shouldn’t any information I want come through you?”

  “Yes, Highness.”

  “I believe that, too, Minister, but I believe you have served me poorly in this matter. What disturbs me more than Hisatal’s fraudulent reporting—and we both know he is diverting grain into markets where he can benefit—is that you saw fit to provide me with the raw reports he sent to you. You did not even correct so elementary an error. Could it be you wanted me to catch it and therefore demand his removal or punishment? Did you want him caught because you had not approved his theft, so therefore the proceeds of his crimes never benefited you? Or was it merely that you saw his actions as a way to undermine a program you never liked?”

  “Highness, if I might explain . . .”

  “Can you?”

  “I believe so, my lord.”

  Cyron folded his arms. “Please. This will be fascinating.”

  Pelut sat back up, but kept his head bowed. “I had noted the anomaly, Highness, and had begun my own investigation into the truth of the matter. I did not mention it to you because I did not want to cast aspersions on Minister Hisatal without just cause. If it were his subordinates who were stealing and he was just being sloppy in his reporting, he would have to be dealt with—but in quite a different manner than if he were actively stealing.”

  “Your explanation makes sense, but I think that is only half of it, or less.”

  “You misjudge me, Highness.”

  “I don’t believe I do. You have never approved of the idea of our sending rice north to keep the Desei from starving. You see the Desei as a threat, and if they starve, there are that many fewer to descend upon us. The diverted rice, if not being sold on the black market, could certainly be waiting as provisions for Helosundian troops this spring. Not only would it not have fed Desei, but it will strengthen those who would kill more of our enemy. That means the chances of disruption to our society is minimal—and that goal is exactly what you have been trained to promote.”

  “Highness . . .”

  The Prince shook his head. “You need to be listening right now, Minister. As your own Urmyr would put it, ‘The chittering of the dulang masks the approach of the wolf.’ ”

  Pelut nodded silently.

  “You must remember that Empress Cyrsa, lo these many years ago, divided her Empire among the princes and entrusted it to them, not the Imperial bureaucracy. Do you know why? Because a society that is perfectly ordered is a society that becomes stagnant. It becomes inflexible. You would have it such that every family is a man, a woman, and two children—preferably one of each gender—for it keeps things perfectly stable. But life is not stable. Families change for any of nine thousand different reasons. No planning can encompass them all, which means circumstance is reduced to a controllable number, everything is lumped together, and the society frays because the needs of individuals are not accounted for.”

  Pelut’s head came up and fire flashed in his azure eyes. “But, Highness, a society that caters to each individual is one that descends into chaos. It has no stability. No one knows how to act since all acts are valued equally.”

  “Nonsense, and you know it. Your society of anarc
hy is as much a dark fantasy as is mine of perfect stagnant stability. You deliberately miss both of my points. The first is this: by rising to deal with challenges, a society gets better. Look at our current prosperity. Remember how my father and I fought to get ships built for exploration. Doing something new and different has been of a great benefit to the nation. It promotes our long-term welfare and provides us with the resources to deal with new threats.”

  Cyron spread his hands. “And my second point is this: the Empress entrusted the nations to the nobility, not the bureaucrats. It is true that I could not administer the nation without you and your people. I acknowledge that and thank you for it. There may well have been princes past who were content to let the ministries do everything for them. I am not among their number. I need information. I need good information, and I will get it from you, or I will get it some other way. It is not because I resent or dislike the ministry; it is because Nalenyr’s welfare is my responsibility. And nothing will prevent me from acquitting it.”

  Pelut bowed sharply. “Yes, Highness, I understand.”

  “Good.” Cyron returned to his chair. “From now on, I want only accurate information. If you have suspicions, I want them brought to me immediately. How much do you think Hisatal has stolen?”

  Pelut’s momentary hesitation told Cyron his answer was a lie. “I suspect him of diverting roughly six percent of the grain into other destinations. As you suggest, some is going to the Helosundians; he has ties to that community. Some has been sold—price fluctuations in some of the northern provinces could be the result of his selling stock off. There are, over all, indications of eight percent shortages. The difference is pilferage by workers, grain consumed by pests, spoilage, and circumstance.”

  “I see.” Cyron turned away from the minister and crossed to a pair of doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking his gardens and animal sanctuary. They’d been shuttered for the winter, but still the winds howled faintly through them. He very much wanted to push the doors open, vault from the balcony, and wander through the snowy enclosure, but doing so would be an escape from the very responsibility he’d used to chide the Grand Minister.