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  He glanced back over his shoulder. “You are dismissed, Minister.”

  “But, Highness, there is much more to report.”

  “I am aware of that, but I am granting you time to check your figures before you waste more of my time.”

  “Yes, Highness. Strength of the Dragon be with you.”

  “And you, Minister.”

  Cyron again stared at the doors until he heard Pelut slide the room’s other door closed behind him. Convinced he was alone, Cyron raked fingers up through his hair and stifled the urge to scream. He’d had great hopes he could trust Pelut Vniel, and having them dashed was almost more than he could bear.

  He took a step forward and rested his forehead against the chill glass in the doors. The secret of Naleni prosperity had been the charts made by the Anturasi family. Qiro, their patriarch, had been a venal, cantankerous, moody man, but his genius with charts had compensated for that. Cyron had indulged the old man as much as he could. As long as Qiro produced the charts that kept Naleni ships safe on the high seas, there was no end to their prosperity.

  The difficulty was that Qiro was now missing.

  The sheer impossibility of his disappearance would have baffled Cyron, save that he’d been through Anturasikun himself and found no sign of the man. The tower had been a magnificent cage for a genius, and Qiro had only occasionally chafed at his imprisonment. It was almost as if his having supreme knowledge of the world was freedom itself.

  What disturbed Cyron most was the map on the wall in Qiro’s personal work space. The world had been drawn in with care, every detail exact. Cyron had always marveled at it and many details had been added since Keles and Jorim had been sent off on their quests. The Prince had no doubt that it represented the world as accurately as possible.

  The difficulty was that it showed a new continent to the southeast, occupying what had previously been an unexplored portion of the ocean. The continent had been labeled Anturasixan, and showed all the signs of being a land populated by diverse and ancient cultures.

  Cultures of which no one in the Nine Principalities had ever heard.

  Worst of all, it had been drawn in Qiro’s blood. And the legend beneath it simply read, “Here there be monsters.”

  A shiver skittered down Cyron’s spine. Qiro, genius that he was, arrogantly assumed that his place was rightly among the gods. If he had discovered this land—or, worse, shaped it through magic—there was no telling what sort of creatures lurked there or what their intention would be toward the Principalities.

  He would have every right to want revenge! Qiro’s granddaughter, Nirati, had been horribly butchered by a murderer who had gone unidentified and uncaptured. The Prince had ordered a full investigation, but nothing had borne fruit so far, and he was doubtful it ever would. The murder would go unsolved, and Qiro’s wrath would be limitless.

  Cyron had wanted to confide the news about Qiro to Pelut, but the man’s willingness to lie meant he could not be trusted with so delicate a bit of information. And yet, without telling him about the possible threat, there was no way the nation could be prepared to handle it. If I dole out just enough information, I will be playing the same sort of game he is.

  The Prince straightened up, then ran a hand over his face. Pressure from the north, pressure from the south; rumors of discontent among the inland Naleni lords—it was all slowly crushing him. He crossed to his chair and dropped heavily into it.

  Perhaps I should let Pelut just run everything. Better his collapse than mine.

  He smiled, then threw his head back and laughed, trying to keep a note of hysteria from it.

  A tiny tapping came at the interior door. It slid open enough to reveal a kneeling servant with his head pressed to the floor. “Does his Magnificence require something?”

  “No, Shojo, I am fine.”

  “Yes, Master.” The older man began to slide the door shut again.

  “No, wait, don’t go.” Cyron drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Send a runner to the Lady of Jet and Jade. If it would not be an inconvenience, I would enjoy the pleasure of her company this evening. I have need of relaxation.”

  “Yes, Highness, of course.” Shojo lifted his face enough for the Prince to catch the hint of a smile. Not because the Prince was summoning the nation’s legendary courtesan to attend him; Shojo found no scandal in that. He smiled because he didn’t think Cyron did it frequently enough.

  “Shojo.”

  “Yes, Highness?”

  “Don’t send a runner. Convey the message yourself. All arrangements will be in your hands.”

  “I shall see to it, Master.”

  “Thank you.” The prince bowed his head as the man slid the door shut again. “If only Pelut would serve me as well as you.” Cyron slowly shook his head. “But he does not, which is why the burden of the nation’s future rests squarely on my shoulders. But for how long?” Cyron could sense doom lurking. “And from what direction shall destruction come?”

  Chapter Five

  12th 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

  Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

  Nirati Anturasi rather liked being alive. She dwelt in a paradise that had been a childhood fantasy she’d shared only with her grandfather. Somehow he had shaped it for her and put it at the heart of a vast continent. In Kunjiqui, flowers always bloomed, clouds never cluttered the sky, and water ran cool in streams. Whatever foods or refreshments she desired would be borne to her by small fanciful creatures that, if the expressions in their large eyes could be credited, worshipped her.

  The only thing that disturbed her was that she seemed to have remembered dying. Lying naked on the grasses at the edge of a stream, with one toe dipped into the water and fat goldfish nibbling at it, she tried to recall the circumstances of her death. They would not come—though it seemed to her that she had shed her old body the way she shed clothes, and had come to Kunjiqui newborn, innocent, yet a bit wiser and more perceptive than before.

  Dying certainly was unpleasant business, and she felt no impetus to dwell upon it, save from time to time when nothing distracted her. These moments of pure peace came seldom on Anturasixan, for much was being done and, she had been assured, much also needed doing.

  As her grandfather had shaped her sanctuary, so he shaped and reshaped Anturasixan. From where she lay, she could see him silhouetted as a dark speck against the dying sun. She knew he faced north, but only because along what would have been the line of his vision, a sharp mountain range rose slowly and inexorably, its grey teeth piercing the sky. In one heartbeat snow capped the peaks, and in the next had melted and flowed down into valleys she could not see.

  She had not puzzled over how he could do this because, in a sense, he always had been able to do it. When Qiro Anturasi added features to a map, it meant they truly existed. Qiro had defined the world for countless Naleni merchants and sailors. Here he defined his own continent, revising and reshaping it as he would have in changing the details on a map.

  Nirati heard a delighted squeal and brought her head up. A tiny creature—barely the size of a two-year-old child, yet with the body and well-formed limbs of an adult human—came bounding through the grasses. Takwee would have appeared to be entirely human, save that a soft ivory down covered her body. Her head, which was slightly large for her body, held big gold eyes, a slightly protuberant muzzle, and was crowned with a glorious golden mane that ran down her spine and matched the tuft at the end of her tail.

  Takwee had been born in one of the Anturasixan provinces. Nirati did not know if she were the only one of her people in Kunjiqui, but Takwee did not seem to suffer loneliness. She seemed content to spend time herding the serving creatures or washing and braiding Nirati’s hair. She would chitter and whistle away gaily—Nirati could not understand a thing she said—but the squeal usually presaged one thing only
.

  In the tiny creature’s wake, a man crested the hill to the north. Quite tall and powerfully built, he descended toward her with a casual confidence. His long black hair danced at his shoulders. The hue matched his beard and the thick mat of hair on his broad chest. His loincloth and eyes both were a deep blue, and Nirati felt joy rising in her at his approach.

  She sat up, but made no attempt to cover herself. She and Nelesquin had become lovers. In fact, he had taken her within minutes of their meeting. The memory of it still shocked her—not so much because she had never given herself to a man so quickly before, but because it had seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was as if upon meeting him, she had discovered the lover she had always been meant to have.

  Nirati smiled. “My lord, you have been away much today.”

  “And every moment away from you has been as if a year under the lash.” He came and sat at her feet, then leaned over and kissed her. He pulled back after only a second, stared into her eyes, then smiled before kissing her again, more fully and deeply.

  Nirati broke their kiss but lingered with her forehead pressed to his. “And why was it you were away so long?”

  A little tremor ran through him, and it surprised her. He straightened up and pulled away, his eyes half-closed. “Memories come back slowly, Nirati, and not all of them are pleasant. I collected scrying stones and have consulted them—this helped, but also revealed a number of things to me. I had to sort through them to help me focus. Your grandfather and I will work well together, though his lack of focus hurts us.”

  “I am not sure I understand, my lord.”

  Nelesquin smiled and caressed her leg. “Take your dear Takwee here. A delightful creature, with many uses, but not suited to the tasks we need to accomplish.”

  Takwee, upon hearing her name, looked up from the stream bank where she crouched. She smiled, baring all her teeth, then returned her gaze to the stream. She barked harshly, then dove deep, scattering a small school of bright green fish.

  Nirati laughed at her antics and Nelesquin joined her. “I think your grandfather modeled Takwee on the Fennych. He worked from memory, and had not heard the true tales, or sought to forget them. It seems much of the truth of the world has been lost.”

  She smiled indulgently. “I have no doubt it is as you say, my lord.”

  “And I am chastened for telling you my conclusions without sharing my full thoughts.” He nodded. “Indulge me, please, Nirati.”

  “As you desire.”

  “Tell me what you know of Empress Cyrsa.”

  Nirati frowned, not at all certain what the last empress had to do with anything on Anturasixan. “I only know her from the tales told to children, my lord. At the time of the Turasynd invasion she gathered together all the greatest heroes of the Empire. She took them west, along with the Imperial treasury, so the barbarians would follow her into the far provinces. There they fought a battle that released much wild magic. It devastated the provinces and created the Time of Black Ice. Millions died as magic and years without summer ravaged the land. Some say she was killed in the battle, others say she waits in far Ixyll for a threat to the Empire to rise, whence she will return with her army to restore peace and order.”

  “I thought as much.” Nelesquin shook his head. “She is a hero.”

  “Yes. She saved the Empire.”

  “But she was the one to split it into the Nine Principalities, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but only to prevent the power-hungry from tearing everything apart while she was away.” Nirati frowned. “Is this not true, my lord?”

  “In some ways I suppose it is, Nirati, for any tale that survives the generation that lived it becomes the truth. It is not what I remember. It is a story that masks a monster, and it is against that monster your grandfather and I will strike.”

  Nelesquin turned his head from her and gazed northwest, toward the land once known as the Empire. “Cyrsa has, no doubt, been counted as one of the last emperor’s many wives. He did have quite the harem, for along with a love of peace, he loved women and spirits. He was, by all accounts, weak-willed. Still, we hoped, he would someday be able to pick an heir from among his many sons. I eventually attained that position, but that is somewhat beside the point.

  “Cyrsa was not one of his wives of long standing. She was a common whore, gifted to him by a noble who sought his favor. She infatuated him and distracted him at a time when distraction was the last thing we needed.”

  Nelesquin’s eyes narrowed and his expression darkened. “When the Turasynd invaded, we all beseeched the Emperor to act. We were ready to gather an army, but with each report of their attacks, the Emperor withdrew a bit more. He knew what fighting them would do to the Empire and could not bring himself to order such destruction. Yet his good intentions doomed the Empire.

  “Cyrsa acted. She murdered the Emperor in his bed and was found naked and blood-spattered by Soshir. He should have slain her outright, but he did not. He wanted to be her consort, clearly, so he supported her claim that she was now the Empress. She issued orders to gather an army and head west. She sundered the Empire, looted it, and fled the capital.”

  Nelesquin looked at her, his expression opening. “I tell you in truth, dear Nirati, that I was prideful in my youth, but I was not stupid or untalented. The whore’s division of the Empire made me the Prince of Erumvirine, the Crown Province. Perhaps that should have satisfied my ambitions, but it did not. I gathered my loyal retainers and went with her. I suspected treachery, and was rewarded with it. I died in Ixyll because of her. She was so afraid of the esteem in which I was held that she split my army off and offered me as a sacrifice to the Turasynd.”

  Nirati closed her eyes tight as memories of pain washed over her. She drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she slowly opened her eyes. “But if you died, how is it that you are here now?”

  Nelesquin, gaze focused distantly, shook his head. “I do not know, but the how of things does not concern me. It is the why that intrigues. And from our conversations, from what I have learned from your grandfather, I think I know the answer. If I am correct, the world may face a challenge yet greater than the Time of Black Ice.”

  “How so?”

  “Consider this. Cyrsa was never a stupid woman. She knew the sort of catastrophe her battle would unleash. She had no idea if the world would survive or not, but she was certain it would be devastated. She planned, therefore, to deal with the world after it had been healed. She planned her return then, when things would be closest to what they were when she departed.”

  “But how would she know when that time was?”

  He smiled grimly. “It is simple, Nirati. She created a sanctuary in Ixyll, where she could wait out the years of wild magic. The Turasynd have a different understanding of it than we do, and she captured and tortured enough of their shaman to learn their secrets. She creates her sanctuary and waits, like a spider tucked safely in her web. When the wild magic has receded enough, explorers will come. All she has to do is capture them, learn from them, and plot her return.”

  Nirati’s eyes grew wide. “But my brother, Keles, is bound for Ixyll.”

  “I know. Your grandfather has told me this. Still, it could have been worse. If Qiro had succeeded in finding her earlier, Anturasixan would not exist. We would have no base from which to fight her.”

  “Can we fight her?”

  “Oh yes, most assuredly.” His smile warmed. “With my help, your grandfather is preparing an army that will oppose her. His initial efforts have had modest results—he learns quickly, but has no background in warfare. But the mountains he raised today are full of iron, and I have shaped creatures that will mine and refine it, creating steel for armor and weapons. In other provinces we will raise warriors worthy of the name, whose skill at combat will be finely honed. We will be ready.”

  “But Ixyll is a long way from here.”

  “Agreed, but we have our second purpose to consider, as well as th
e first. We will need a base of operations, so our armies will first return to me my birthright. I shall be Prince of Erumvirine again. After that, we shall consolidate our position and wait for her arrival.”

  “And your second purpose?”

  Nelesquin smiled softly and drew her into his lap. “Do you not remember my telling you that you would be avenged, Nirati? I know what they did to you there. I don’t know who did it but I know there is punishment to be meted out, and unruly princes to be brought to heel. Order shall be restored to the lands of the Empire, so we may face Cyrsa with a united front. To do otherwise would be foolish.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Nirati reached up, sinking fingers into his black hair. “And once she is destroyed, we can go home again?”

  “Yes, Nirati.” Nelesquin nodded solemnly. “I shall return the world to the perfection that was the Empire, and together we will make the world into paradise.”

  Chapter Six

  12th 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

  Nemehyan, Caxyan

  For at least the third time that day, Jorim Anturasi wondered if all the gods had gotten their start this way. He sat on a circular stone platform set in the bottom of a bowl-shaped room. It had been buried in the lower reaches of the largest ceremonial pyramid in Nemehyan. A star-shaped stone had been fitted into the ceiling about twenty feet above him. The Amentzutl maicana—the ruling magician class—had shaped and set the stone with magic. They’d pierced it with tiny holes, so the stone wept. Its tears poured down on him.

  The water soaked him, pasting the golden robe with the black dragons embroidered on it to his body. He found its clinging an annoyance, but on this, the fifth day of his ritual cleansing, at least he would actually get clean. He’d endured one ritual for every day of the Amentzutl creation story, with each rite centering on that day’s symbolic element—although the sequence ran in reverse. The first day, he dwelt in a tree because the rain forests were the final bit of creation. The third day, for earth, he lived in a cave. He’d survived that and the ordeal of fire, which brought him to water.