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  The relentless dripping was enough to drive him mad, so he did his best to shut his mind to it and concentrate on his predicament. By agreement with Anaeda Gryst, the Stormwolf’s captain, Jorim had communicated nothing of his discovery to his grandfather. No one in Nalenyr knew where the expedition was or what it had discovered. Besides, in his most recent attempts to reach his grandfather, he’d been unable to make mind-to-mind contact. He knew that his grandfather was out there—and his brother as well—but both of them were distracted enough that he couldn’t even be certain they noticed his attempts to reach them.

  It would not have mattered much if they had, because he still could not have gotten across the whole of his experience. As part of the Stormwolf expedition, he’d sailed on Nalenyr’s largest ship into the vast Eastern Sea. At its far edge they’d discovered a continent no one in the Nine knew existed. The people who lived there called themselves the Amentzutl, and believed Jorim was the incarnation of their god Tetcomchoa, who had returned to save them in a time of dire peril.

  To complicate matters, the Amentzutl identified the threat as the rising of a demon-god, Mozoloa, in the west. Iesol Pelmir, the Stormwolf’s ship’s clerk, had noticed a curious linkage between one of Mozoloa’s secondary names and that of an old Imperial prince, Nelesquin. Iesol said there were stories that Nelesquin, like Empress Cyrsa, would rise again from his grave and return to the Nine—but only to wreak havoc.

  A howling shriek broke his concentration. He turned his head and saw a small, stout creature spinning and sliding down the inside of the wet bowl. For a moment, he reminded Jorim of a small bear he’d once seen playing in Prince Cyron’s sanctuary, especially when he abruptly sat down with a splash and glided right into the puddle at the room’s base. The creature looked up, his tufted ears rising. He leaped up, fur dripping, and tackled Jorim.

  “Jrima, Jrima, glad, heart-glad.”

  “Me, too, Shimik.” Jorim grabbed the Fennych and held him up much as a father might a child. “How much have you changed since I last saw you?”

  The Fenn wriggled free of his grasp, then stepped away and slowly twirled. The fur that covered his sturdy body had once been all shades of brown, but had changed significantly during his time with the Amentzutl. The fur on his head had become mostly gold, but striped with jade. Likewise, gold and jade twisted into a pattern reminiscent of the dragon crest decorating Jorim’s robe. Finally, two tufts of hair rose from his forehead; tiny twins of the sorts of feathers the Amentzutl used to decorate their masks of gold.

  “A bit more gold. Not unexpected.”

  “Actually, Jorim, it’s surprising he remains that much the same.” A tall, slender woman with dark hair and hazel eyes walked along the bowl’s edge. She wore the robes allowed her as the captain of the Stormwolf, this one of deep blue with white wolf’s heads embroidered on them. “He was fairly frantic when they took you away and went hunting in the jungles to find you.”

  The Fenn nodded slowly, his dark eyes growing wide. “Lost, Jrima lost.”

  “Not lost, just away.”

  “Jrima found!”

  The Fenn’s elated shout made Captain Gryst smile, and the small man who trailed in her wake laughed. Iesol Pelmir looked every inch a clerk, from his bald head to his ink-stained fingers. Though he wore a ship’s robe—this one of white with black wolf’s heads much smaller than those on Anaeda Gryst’s—no one could have mistaken him for a sailor.

  Jorim looked up at his visitors. “You wouldn’t be here if the maicana had not allowed it.”

  “No, they agreed. They’re an interesting lot.” Anaeda sat on the bowl’s lip and let her feet dangle. “While they all profess agreement with our plans to leave inside a week, they are doing little to see my ships provisioned. Day after day they agree that things will be finished in a week, but that week shows no sign of ending.”

  “Really?” Jorim frowned. “We were very clear on our intention to leave. I wouldn’t think they would deceive us this way.”

  The clerk raised a hand. “I don’t believe, Master Anturasi, they are being deceptive. As the Master says, ‘A tree is tall save when the eagle passes over it.’ ”

  “You’re quoting from Urmyr, not the Amentzutl Book of Wisdom?”

  “No, but there are parallel sayings.”

  Anaeda raised an eyebrow. “And, Minister Pelmir, your thoughts about deception are?”

  The clerk stiffened. “Forgive me, Captain. It is just that a week for us and a week for them may be different.”

  Anaeda shook her head. “I’ve seen their calendar. Their weeks are nine days long, just like ours.”

  “But, Captain, we are in centenco. We are outside their calendar.”

  Anaeda frowned. “In what way?”

  Jorim sighed as Shimik wandered around the platform, head back, tongue out, trying to catch droplets. “The Amentzutl figure time on a cycle running seven hundred thirty-seven years. After that they enter a time called centenco. It’s like our festivals.”

  “But our festivals last a week, then we are back to another trimester.”

  “Right. For the Amentzutl, centenco lasts only a week, but may have many more days than nine. It lasts however long it takes for the new cycle to begin. I gather there have been times when it has lasted years.”

  Anaeda scowled darkly. “So when they agreed they would train you and give you back your divine powers ‘in a week,’ they meant by the end of centenco.”

  “Right.”

  “That is not acceptable.” She shook her head. “We are on an expedition for Nalenyr. Just having discovered the Amentzutl and their continent is of very great importance. I cannot allow my fleet to be bound up here for an undetermined length of time. The considerations of our mission are paramount, over and above concerns about the threat they report from the west. If the threat exists, Nalenyr may have no idea it is being threatened, and we have a duty to inform the Prince of his peril.”

  Jorim stood slowly. “I don’t disagree, but we have two other considerations to keep in mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “The original reason we agreed I would not inform my grandfather about what we had found is because knowledge of it could create chaos back in Nalenyr. Countless ships could be launched toward Caxyan without reliable charts, and those who made it might well cause harm to the Amentzutl.” Jorim hooked his hands behind his neck. “Other nations might see this as something that will make Nalenyr so rich it cannot be opposed, so they will strike. To bring back knowledge of the Amentzutl before learning as much as we can about them would be foolish.”

  “But, Captain, if I may, we have a greater difficulty.”

  Anaeda and Jorim both looked at Iesol, so he continued. “If this threat is real, then the Amentzutl believe that Tetcomchoa-reborn is the only way it can be dealt with. Jorim must be trained to accept his powers, else all the warning in the world will be to no avail.”

  “But they could be wrong.”

  “True, Captain, but you are picking and choosing which parts of their beliefs you will validate with no information to help you make that decision.” Iesol shrugged. “The understanding I have of their history, meager as it is, suggests they are not wrong.”

  She snorted. “I know.”

  Jorim smiled. “Anaeda, you just don’t want to be stuck here doing nothing. I can feel the restlessness in you.”

  “It’s not just me, it’s the whole expedition. While we were exploring, we had a purpose. Without purpose, the crew will fragment. It has already begun.”

  “Really?” Jorim frowned. “What’s been going on while I’ve been going through these rituals?”

  She raised her chin, her face an impassive mask. “Ships’ crews are superstitious. Rumors have flown that you are to be made maicana. You’ll be learning to use magic, and many tales are being told of the vanyesh.”

  Vanyesh. The word sent a trickle of fear down Jorim’s spine. The Cataclysm that brought the Time of Black Ice had been the fault of Nelesq
uin and his vanyesh. While anyone who trained hard enough in any endeavor could hope to become a Mystic, the vanyesh worked to harness magic by working with magic. Tales of the vanyesh were vile and used mostly to frighten children—but men can easily rekindle that fear in themselves.

  “So, they think I’ll become a new Nelesquin?”

  “Not all of them. Some know of the last vanyesh trapped in Moriande. They know Kaerinus heals people during the Festival, and they say the Amentzutl maicana don’t seem to hurt anyone. Still, they’ve seen strange things on this journey. They’re a long way from home, and unusual things make them uneasy.”

  “I know.” Jorim looked down and watched water drip from his braided side locks. “They’re not the only ones afraid of my training. But it really doesn’t matter if they are afraid that I’ll become like Nelesquin or not. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  Surprise widened Anaeda’s eyes. “You, afraid of something?”

  “Only myself.” He looked up at Iesol. “What does the Master say that is relevant?”

  “Many things, Master Anturasi, but Book Nine, Chapter Five, Verse Nine speaks most to your point.” The clerk knelt and his voice became very solemn. “And the Master said, ‘Wisdom often begets power, but the child often destroys the work of the father.’ ”

  A jolt ran through Jorim. “Yeah, that pretty much covers it.”

  “You are afraid of power?” Anaeda grinned. “That’s not possible. You have been raised in one of the most powerful families in Nalenyr. Your grandfather’s merest whim is something the Prince treats like a command. You can’t fear power.”

  “I don’t fear power, I fear what I might do with it.” He looked up at her. “You know of my grandfather, but you don’t know of my uncle, and my cousins and their children. You’ve not seen how my grandfather’s use of power has left them. Uncle Ulan was once his equal, but years of Qiro’s belittling have worn him down. I can barely remember a time when Ulan did not quake in my grandfather’s presence. Yes, I grew up around power, and I know how it can twist someone.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, Jorim.”

  “No? Urmyr’s opinion seems to be that there is no other result.”

  Anaeda glanced at the clerk. “No disrespect to Urmyr, but this is not always true. Power distills and concentrates what is already there. I sail for the Prince of Nalenyr, and I have sailed under captains both good and bad. Aboard ship their word is law, to be obeyed without question. Some captains are cruel and live in fear, and it consumes them. Others are smart and brave, and their crew thrive with them.

  “If what Urmyr said was an absolute, we would have no navy. We would have no leaders because the moment anyone rose to power, it would consume him. This isn’t true; we’ve all seen that.”

  Jorim bowed his head toward her. “You’re a fine example, Anaeda. You are firm and fair, quick to discipline, but quick to praise. You’ll punish, but you’ll forgive and you listen to reason. I can accept you as proof of what you say. The question then is, how do you know how you will handle power?”

  She laughed quickly. “It distills, remember? Look at how you handle everything, Jorim. Look at your life, at times when you have had to lead, or chafe under the leadership of another. How you act and have acted will tell you.”

  He smiled, but she raised a hand. “One thing, however, will be very important. You need to think about the consequences when you’re wrong.”

  “With the powers of a god at my command, they could be catastrophic.”

  “Of that there is no doubt.” She stood and beckoned to Shimik. “We will leave you now, so you can reflect. Imagine the worst you can possibly imagine, then double and triple it. Then you might begin to see the first glimmers of how bad things could be.”

  Jorim’s shoulders slumped. “You’re making this very hard.”

  “No, I’m just helping you define the challenge.” Anaeda Gryst regarded him with sharpened eyes. “If you think that challenge is something you couldn’t handle as a man, you don’t want it as a god.”

  “I don’t think I have much choice.”

  “Perhaps not.” She took Shimik’s paw in her hand. “But then you better find it in yourself to answer that challenge, for failure to do so may be the greatest catastrophe of all.”

  Chapter Seven

  15th 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

  Moriande, Nalenyr

  Count Junel Aerynnor shifted stiffly on the daybed in his modest suite. He even forced a grimace for the benefit of his guest. While the knife wound he’d taken a week previous had not yet fully healed, it did not hurt him nearly as badly as he would have his guest believe. There was an advantage to appearing weak. He’d been trained in such deception as an agent of Deseirion, so Junel easily adapted his role to suit his mission.

  Lord Xin Melcirvon had cast his sword onto the rumpled bed and pulled up a rough-hewn wooden chair. The chair did give him a slight height advantage, which he would have surrendered were they both standing. Junel wore his black hair shorter than his visitor, and his body was of longer, leaner proportions than that of the inland lord. They both had light eyes—blue for Junel and hazel for Melcirvon—but the visitor’s were set a bit too close to suggest intelligence or inspire confidence.

  Melcirvon smiled almost sincerely. “I was dispatched here as soon as word reached us about your injury. I was told to assure you that any aid you require will be rendered. I will be making arrangements—discreetly of course.”

  “This is most welcome news, my friend, but quite unnecessary.” Junel passed a hand over his face as if fatigued. “Prince Cyron has seen to it that I am being cared for. He was most solicitous and, had I desired it, I would now be ensconced in Wentokikun as the Prince’s guest.”

  Melcirvon failed to hide his reaction. Blood drained from his face. “His outrages become more . . . outrageous!”

  “What do you mean?”

  The man from the western duchy of Gnourn waved a hand at Junel. “The instant we heard of what had happened to you, we suspected—we knew—the Prince had laid you low.”

  Junel suppressed a laugh, but then decided to abandon pretense. “My lord, please do not lie to me. I doubt your mistress sent you here with that intent.”

  “I never . . .”

  Junel raised a hand. “Your mistress does not believe I am stupid. Please do not measure my intelligence by yours. The reason you were sent here was to determine if I have betrayed your mistress and her confederates to the Prince. She wants to know if, as I lay ill, I spoke of the things we discussed earlier this month, when I visited Gnourn. And were you apprehended by the Prince’s Shadows either upon your arrival in Moriande, or after you leave me today, she would know if I had. She would then be prepared to disavow any knowledge of you and your treason.”

  Melcirvon blinked. “But if you had betrayed us to the Prince, he would have already sent troops out to destroy us.”

  “Indeed, he would have. And he has not, so you are safe.”

  “Then it was not the Prince who had you stabbed?”

  “Not Cyron, to be sure. Prince Pyrust might well have done it. He has agents in Moriande and he slaughtered the rest of my family. It may have been my turn.”

  The Gnournist nodded slowly. When he had visited Gnourn, Junel had represented himself as a conduit through which a number of disgruntled Desei nobles could liaise with the Naleni inland lords. Neither loved the regime in the capital and would have been happy to see it overthrown. The Desei would be willing to funnel money, weapons, and some troops into Nalenyr. When the time was right, the western portions of each province would revolt and close on the western half of Helosunde. It would be a bold stroke and both Princes Cyron and Pyrust would be powerless to stop it—because the first man to turn his military might to the war for the interior would leave himself open to inva
sion by the other.

  The Naleni inland lords welcomed him because the wealth being made by the merchants and traders in the capital was not heading up the Gold River in any significant proportion. Cyron, citing the Desei threat, still taxed the inland provinces for defense, then spent the newfound wealth on provisions for exploration, the benefits of which the inland lords would never see. Once they declared their independence, they could sell their harvests to Nalenyr at greatly inflated prices, enriching themselves and addressing a host of grievances that ranged from petty to significant.

  What the westron lords did not know, and would never know until far too late, was that Junel represented only one Desei noble: Prince Pyrust himself. His mission was to stir up rebellion among the inland lords, forcing Cyron either to divide his strength or lose half his nation. Either decision would cripple Nalenyr, and Prince Pyrust would be able to sweep in.

  Melcirvon’s eyes narrowed. “Then Prince Pyrust had the Anturasi woman killed, too?”

  “Of course—and he had another woman here slaughtered after she and I became betrothed.” Junel looked down, letting sadness veil his face, and his visitor accepted his grief in silence. It took all Junel could do to keep from curling his lip in a sneer, so he contented himself by imagining what it would be like to take Melcirvon to pieces as he had both of the women.

  “No wonder, then, that your masters want to be independent of him.” The Gnournist shuddered. “As bad as Cyron is . . .”

  Junel laughed. “A moment ago you felt certain Cyron had his agents stab me. Do you think he would pause for thought before he ordered someone slaughtered? His spies are everywhere—I was told this often in my visit.”