A Secret Atlas Read online

  Moraven frowned. “Released to wander and find another master?”

  Jatan shrugged. “They may just be backward on Tirat; I do not know.”

  Eron stood, inclining his head toward those in the courtyard. “You dishonored my students this morning. You did not deign to fight them.”

  “You set children before me.”

  “Not these.” Eron clapped his hands. “Dobyl, commence.”

  One of the smallest of the students left the line, drawing his wooden sword fluidly and moving into the first Cobra form. His sword came up and around at a feint toward the eyes, then abruptly down in a blow angled to break Ciras’ left shoulder.

  Ciras twisted his shoulder from beneath the blow, then sidestepped toward Eron’s student. The interloper’s left elbow came up with blinding speed, catching Dobyl across the bridge of the nose. Blood gushed, staining the shirtsleeve, and the audible crack made Eron wince. Dobyl staggered for a heartbeat, then went down with both hands covering his face.

  Ciras appropriated his wooden sword and moved to the attack. He beat aside one thrust, then struck that student in the face with the hilt of his practice blade. Spinning, he leaped above a low cut, then effortlessly clipped his foe in the head. A girl came next, shifting from Tiger to Dragon, but Ciras’ Scorpion attack came up and smashed into her elbow. She yelped as her sword dropped from numbed fingers.

  The next student in line sprang from behind her and lunged low. The wooden blade caught Ciras on the left hip, but he pivoted quickly on his right foot, moving inside the lunge before the student could recover. Had the blades been steel, the wound he took would have slowed him down, but would still have allowed him to lay his blade against his foe’s neck. Since the swords were wooden, Ciras earned a bruise, his foe kept his head, and the Tirati was free to face Geias.

  Eron’s son took a step back and dropped into the Scorpion stance. Ciras countered with Tiger, so Geias shifted to Mantis. Ciras stamped his right foot impatiently, inviting an attack, and Geias gathered himself to answer the challenge.

  Moraven rose to his feet and grabbed Eron’s arm. “Your son knows better than to attack.”

  Eron raised a hand. “My son knows his duty. Watch.”

  Geias leaped a pace left, then slashed his way forward with cuts from high left to low right, then across and down again. He repeated the pattern three times and Moraven readied himself to watch Geias dropped as easily as the others. Though he was better, his repetition meant Ciras now had his measure. Tiger flows into Scorpion and he’ll catch Geias right across the ribs.

  As if Ciras had plucked the strategy from Moraven’s mind, he moved left and began the transition in forms. By the time Geias had completed his diagonal slash, Ciras was in position to strike. As Geias’ sword moved across in a cut, Ciras’ blade would just follow right along and exploit the opening the young Jatan had given him.

  Geias, however, had Ciras’ measure as well. Instead of the crosscut, he shifted the wooden sword from his right to his left hand and pivoted on his right foot. The wooden sword came up and back around in a low thrust meant to gut Ciras. As the interloper had already begun his own thrust, nothing shy of a miracle would allow him to parry what would be a killing blow.

  Ciras wrenched his body around, kicking up high with his right heel. His body straightened and twisted, his belly slipped beneath Geias’ thrust. Snapping his wrist at the same time, Ciras batted away his foe’s blade, then landed hard on his back. Before Geias could even begin to recover from his lunge, Ciras cracked the wooden sword hard against Geias’ ankles, spilling him to the ground. As if drawn by his blade, Ciras flowed to his feet again and arrogantly kicked Geias’ sword away.

  Eron looked at Moraven. “You saw?”

  As Moraven nodded slowly, Phoyn chuckled dryly. “He felt.”

  “Yes, I felt.” Moraven sat. It had been when Ciras had kicked his right heel back and twisted. A flash, a tingle. It dazzled his skin and sank into his flesh with the pins-and-needles pain of a sleeping limb slowly awakening. He had felt it, and felt it strongly.

  Jaedun had come off Ciras in a powerful wave.

  Moraven frowned. “What rank does he claim?”

  “Lirserrdin. His Master judged him Superior.” Phoyn exhaled slowly and seemed to deflate a bit. “I do not think his Master knew how advanced his student was, just that he was something more than most. Had he any inkling, he would not have sent him away. Having someone so skilled would have brought great honor on the school.”

  “He will then bring great honor on serrian Jatan.”

  Eron shook his head. “I am a swordmaster, Moraven, but not a Mystic. I cannot teach him.”

  Moraven turned and looked at the old man. “You can’t think of having me train him! I am not a teacher. I do not have a school.”

  “A school is not what he needs.” The old man’s brow wrinkled. “You came to me already trained and I guided you on the correct path. ‘The journey is of the chosen forks, not the untraveled roads.’ ”

  And there are roads he should not travel. Reaching the state of jaedunto did have its benefits, both in how the magic manifested and the longevity it supplied. It could, however, exact a fearful price because it tended to distill the jaecai’s personality. If one were kind, considerate, and peaceful, this would be accentuated. If, on the other hand, he is arrogant and desirous of fame, it will fill him with bitterness.

  Ciras tossed the wooden sword on the porch with a clatter. “I require a master, Eron of serrian Jatan. I have beaten your best. Will you have me?”

  Moraven looked at Phoyn. “You would have me do this in addition to the charge you have already given me?”

  The old man shrugged. “Having a companion can hardly make the first task more difficult or more dangerous.”

  “You don’t expect me to find that prospect comforting, do you?”

  “No, I hope you take no comfort in it at all.” The old man raised his cup of wyrlu. “The discomfort you feel now will be what we all feel if you fail at either task. Peace of the Festival to you, Moraven Tolo, and may the gods be merciful in shaping your future.”

  Chapter Seven

  2nd 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

  Keles ignored the growled “Go away,” and entered his brother’s chamber. Jorim shot him an angry glare but, reflected in the mirror, it lost some of its power. The younger Anturasi struggled with tying the gold silk tie, but it was more than that which fed his foul mood. Keles knew that, but also knew he had to settle some issues with his brother or the party that evening would be even more of a disaster than it already promised to be.

  “Let me help you with that.”

  “I can do it myself.”

  “Yes, but not before snow flies, which means you’ll be late for the party.”

  Jorim snarled. “I don’t want to go anyway.”

  Keles rested his hands on his brother’s shoulders and slowly turned him around. “If you don’t go, you will disappoint Nirati and our mother. Both have worked hard to fashion the compromise that has let you keep your beard and your braids. I know you don’t mind upsetting our grandfather, but their feelings must be respected.”

  “Certainly. Respect their feelings, but not mine.” Jorim let his hands fall from the golden length of cloth, but they slowly balled into fists. “Why is it always everyone else’s feelings that matter and not mine?”

  Keles took the tie in hand and snapped it against the high, starched collar of his brother’s shirt. “By that you mean to ask why I don’t respect your feelings. I’m sorry you felt betrayed.”

  “No, you’re not. You knew it would hurt.”

  “Fair enough, but I also knew I had to sting you to make you stop. I betrayed you, yes, but I stopped you from betraying yourself.”

 
; Jorim frowned. “Read that from my mind, did you?”

  “Don’t joke. I can only touch your mind when we are both concentrating, reaching out, and you know that. And, unlike Grandfather, I don’t have the will to work past what you want to share. Nor do I have the desire. I do respect your feelings that much, and respect you that much.”

  “You respect me, do you?”

  Keles sighed slowly. Once they had left their grandfather, Jorim had broken away from him. “I know I betrayed you, but this runs deeper than that. What is going on?”

  Jorim’s hands came up, batting his brother’s hands away, then he half turned toward the mirror. “You mocked me in front of the old man.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “No, of course not, from your point of view.” Jorim crossed the small chamber and flopped down in a chair that almost tipped over backward. “Keles the wise and thoughtful. Grandfather will give me the Stormwolf because you suggested it, not because I earned it—even though I did.”

  “So? You’re getting what you want.”

  “You don’t understand.” Jorim pounded a fist against the chair’s arm. “Why don’t you listen to me? Do I know I would be better on the Stormwolf? Of course I would. I speak twice the languages you do, and I pick them up very easily. I have a catalog of animals I’ve seen, and I’m very good at drawing them in case we can’t bring back specimens. I know your bhotcai and I’ve worked with some of the crew before. I’m perfect for that trip and I should have it, but I wanted Grandfather to give it to me because I made a case for it, not you.”

  Keles pressed fingertips to his temples. “That makes no sense, Jorim. You’ll get it. What matter if I ask?”

  “Haven’t you listened?”

  “Yes. Have you?” Keles nodded emphatically, then brought his hands down and open. “There is something else going on here. Are you afraid that Grandfather will keep you here and break you the way he has Uncle Ulan? Is that it?”

  Jorim shifted his shoulders uneasily. “No, I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks for sharing.”

  “Jorim, you know he couldn’t do that. You’re too strong for him to break.”

  “You think so? Really?”

  Keles nodded. “Really. He’d try, but you would defy him. It would be all Nine Hells rolled into one for the both of you.”

  “Heh.” Jorim’s expression brightened for a moment, then soured again.

  “Then if that’s not it, Jorim, what are you afraid of?”

  Jorim scowled, then hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. The silk of his overshirt and trousers rustled as he moved. “I’m afraid that if Qiro sends you, you’ll be lost like our father.”

  “What?”

  Jorim looked up, his face tightening as his eyes grew wet. “I was trying to save your life by taking that trip for myself.”

  Keles shook his head. “You can’t believe our grandfather would send me off to die. You can’t believe he did that to our father.”

  “I can and do, Keles.”

  “You weren’t old enough to remember . . .”

  “Neither were you. I was two years old; you were five. I don’t remember our father. You and Nirati do, and she says you’re his spitting image. Others have told me that you’re very like him except in one way. All right, maybe two ways. First, you don’t fight with the old man, at least you didn’t used to.”

  Keles sighed. “I’ve stood up to him before.”

  “Sure you have. You’ve told him a map you’d drawn wasn’t good enough.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Telling him you were wrong before he tells you isn’t standing up to him, Keles.” Jorim shook his head. “You’re more talented than our father was. Ryn thought he was Qiro’s equal, and maybe he was. But you’re better. You can surpass Qiro. And Grandfather can’t have that, so he’s going to try to kill you.”

  “That makes no sense.” Keles raked fingers back through his dark hair. He wanted to deny that his grandfather could be that cold-blooded, but the way he treated Ulan showed how hard-hearted the old man could be. Did he kill our father? Will it be “like father, like son”?

  “It makes sense, Keles. You’re the best able to replace him and keep the family business going. If you surpass him, he could be forgotten.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “No? Prince Araylis should have been our leader, but now his younger brother occupies the throne. How many people remember him, or their father, Prince Jogisko? In nine years of prosperity, Cyron has begun to eclipse them. It will happen to Qiro, and he fears it.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing, Jorim.” Keles lowered his voice. “What if Qiro reaches the state of jaedunto?”

  “Not possible.”

  “But might he not be there already? Look at him. Ulan is younger than he is and looks twice as old. Yes, we are all True Bloods, so we live longer than other Men, but we do age. He hasn’t.”

  Jorim shook his head adamantly. “Jaedunto is possible in many things, but cartography? It is a thing of the physical skills, not scribbling on paper. Qiro is just well preserved. Uncle Ulan looks as he does because he’s served under Grandfather. No, the old man will not know magic immortality. He’ll live for a while longer because they want him in neither the Heavens nor the Hells, but he will die and you will be greater than he.”

  “That is clearly not what he assumes, on either count. He certainly thinks he is that good at what he does.”

  “It’s another of his delusions.”

  Jorim ignored the comment. “I think he assumes he has another eighty-one years in him, perhaps longer.”

  “Let him assume what he wants. He’s still going to die. It’s not as if he’s a Viruk.”

  Jorim snorted. “By disposition he is.”

  Even Keles had to laugh at that. “I’ll not argue. But, that aside, somewhere deep down he knows he’s mortal. If you or I can be as good as he is, our ability to work expands all he can do, and he has to see that. If Nirati had talent, then . . .”

  “If Nirati had talent, he’d destroy her.”

  Keles blinked. “How can you say that? She is his favorite. You or I would have to argue to get you on the Stormwolf. If she suggested it in a whisper, you’d be on board so fast you’d not be able to catch your breath.”

  Jorim slowly stood. “I can say it, brother, because she does not threaten him. She has no talent for surveys and mapmaking, so he forgives and indulges her. Thank the stars that she has our mother’s sense, else she’d be spoiled and worthless. Rather like Majiata.”

  “Don’t try to deflect me.” Keles approached his brother and took the tie in hand again. “Tonight Grandfather will announce our missions.”

  “To his glorification . . . Hey, not so tight.”

  “Sorry.” Keles eased the knot ever so slightly. “He will announce that you are going off on the Stormwolf . . .”

  “You know this, or you’re speculating?” Jorim half closed his eyes. “You had Nirati talk to him, didn’t you?”

  Keles smiled. “She thought she owed you a favor. She’d done me one in driving Majiata off.”

  “What did she say he would have you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Keles shook his head, finished the knot and patted his brother on the chest. “When she asked for a hint, he became coy and refused to tell her.”

  “He’ll probably keep you here and find ways to make you miserable.”

  “Please tell me you have not been reading his mind.”

  “As you said, that requires cooperation, and he and I are definitely not cooperating.” Jorim turned and faced the mirror. He made a couple of minor adjustments to his brother’s handiwork, then smiled. “Thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Yes, but you know that’s not true about the Stormwolf.”

  Jorim frowned. “How do you plot that course?”

  “It’s simple. The work is important, and the dual clock is a key component. I would be a bit more diligent in t
aking measurements and doing the calculations than you, but you have one very special qualification that I do not. What would you do if the clocks stopped working?”

  The younger man closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded. “Well, I had assumed that I’d run a water clock occasionally just to see if the clocks were keeping good time. I’d maintain speed and direction logs and have the ship backtrack so I’d have data in both directions to account for current, then I’d look for any gyanridin who could help me fix them.”

  Keles smiled. “You see, you’ve already thought about what you would do. I wouldn’t have the first clue. My skills run to calculations and making maps. I’m not as flexible as you. And I’ll tell you one other thing. I know why you and Grandfather so often butt heads like those spiral-horn sheep you saw in Tejanmorek.”

  “Oh yes? Why?”

  “You suggested that Grandfather fears me because I remind him of our father.”

  “I’m not the only one who has said that.”

  Keles took his brother by the shoulders and turned him around again. “You and he fight so much because you remind him of himself.”

  “What? You’re insane.”

  “No, I’m not. You know the stories of him at your age. He traveled, he did surveys, and he brought things back to the Prince’s father much as you do.” Keles smiled slowly. “He just never went as far, saw as much, or brought back anywhere near what you have. In fact, he only made one long journey off to the northwest and it was a failure. Then his father died and Grandfather was brought into this gilded cage. The freedom he’d known was gone.”

  Jorim took a half step back. “And you’re looking at a life of being trapped here, too, aren’t you? The Stormwolf would have been your greatest adventure, your great escape.”

  “Perhaps. It could have been my greatest disaster, too. In some ways that would have been better.” Keles shook his head. “After a nightmare expedition, Anturasikun would look very inviting.”