“Their houses were not unknown before the creation of the Nine.”
“But they were not Imperial nobility.”
“Very true.” Pelut nodded solemnly. “The question for you, my lord, is how best the ministries would serve the ruling triumvirate?”
That comment gave Turcol pause, and his clenching fist did not escape Pelut’s notice. “I should think, Grand Minister, that the ministries would serve best to consolidate power in the hands of that one individual best qualified to lead the nation. The duchess, while wise—even if it is a fishwife’s cunning—and my father-in-law, are both too long in the tooth to provide the sort of continuity needed to carry Nalenyr into the future.”
“I should agree with you, my lord, save that both of them have progeny who can carry on. You could well be Count Vroan’s practical heir, but if you had heirs of your own, things would be even better.”
“True, but were my wife pregnant now, Count Vroan might designate my child his heir, and I would be reduced to a regency. I find this unacceptable, and you should as well.”
“I seek only that which is best for our nation.”
“And I believe the Grand Minister should see that I am Nalenyr’s future.”
“If the unthinkable happens.”
Turcol halted for barely a heartbeat. “Yes, of course, if the unthinkable were to happen. Bandits. It would be terrible.”
“So it would, my lord.” Pelut glanced down at his cup and the tiny bits of tea leaves gathered at the bottom. “Were that to happen, I think your guidance would be invaluable to our nation. You clearly have thought of this, and such foresight is a value that shall not be discounted.”
“And you, Grand Minister, have a clarity of vision, which will guarantee our future.”
“My lord is too kind.” Pelut bowed to him. “I should not take up more of my lord’s time, as I know he is busy. I shall speak with Prince Eiran myself. You will have his answer in a day.”
“And the Prince’s after that?”
“I believe you shall.”
Count Turcol bowed. “Your hospitality is appreciated, and your wisdom even more.”
“Be well, my lord. May the gods smile on your future.”
“My future is nothing, Minister; the future of my nation is everything.” Turcol slid a door panel open and withdrew. He did not close it after him, which Pelut found irritating; but this alone did not decide Turcol’s fate.
The Grand Minister drank until his cup was all but empty, then swirled the last of the golden liquor around. Quickly he inverted it and clapped it down on the small table. He lifted it away from the small puddle and set it down again in a dry spot.
The object of Turcol’s visit had been obvious. The Prince’s order to gather troops had been the only pretense he needed to consider open rebellion. Pelut had expected him to demand the ministers throw open the gates of Moriande and deliver the Prince to him—which would have been a grand show, to be sure. The assassination attempt was not something he’d expected, and clearly not something Turcol had spent too much time thinking out. His willingness to adopt the blind of bandits showed a flexibility that could be useful, but his comments about succession revealed the difference between flexibility and malleability.
Were he malleable, he would be far more useful. Clearly he desired to be Prince, and considered himself the obvious choice. Pelut had no doubt that Turcol entertained dreams of being welcomed openly by his adoring people—merchants opening their coffers to him, and women opening their thighs. During his reign, the fantasies about the Keru being the Prince’s harem would come true, or a Cyrsa would arise from among the Keru, with Turcol’s blood on her hands.
Which might not be a bad choice. Marry her to Eiran and we could join two realms.
Still, while that would be an interesting expedient, like as not Eiran would die at the same time as Cyron. While he doubted Turcol had approached the Helosundian ministers, they would seek him out as soon as word got out that he was leading troops on the border. Their need to have Eiran dead would lead Turcol into further plots.
While the prospect of Turcol being prince did not excite Pelut, the idea that he could be rid of Cyron did. He would have preferred a method with more refinement, but dead was dead and a bludgeon worked as well as poison. Cyron posed more of a threat to Nalenyr than Turcol did, and certainly a more immediate one. He had to be dealt with.
Pelut turned his cup back over and read the leaves. Their positions and shapes communicated omens for the future. While they were not as clear as he might have liked, they were sufficient.
The fate of Turcol’s effort had been decided.
And with it the fate of Nalenyr itself.
Chapter Twenty-five
12th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Blackshark, Caxyan
Any hopes Jorim had harbored of keeping the changed nature of his relationship with Nauana secret died very quickly. Shimik had always been happy to spend time with Nauana, but now he doted on her and defended her. He growled at anyone who got too close to her—save Jorim—and sailors bored with life onshore had no trouble figuring out the reason behind the Fennych’s behavior.
The Amentzutl accepted this change readily, and Tzihua, the gigantic warrior who had been raised to the maicana caste because of his skills in combat, confessed that they’d all expected it to happen. While the interaction of the gods with mortals was not common in their mythology—or history, as Jorim reminded himself—it wasn’t unknown. For the most part, everyone had just hoped Tetcomchoa would find his time with the Amentzutl pleasurable.
And Jorim did find it pleasurable. Nauana had been beautiful and exotic, and he’d felt attracted to her when he first saw her. His interaction with her had strengthened that attraction, but he had not thought she had any interest in him. The care with which he undertook his training amplified his feelings for her, and yet he did not read into her actions any emotion.
But reaching out to touch her essence and her willingness to open herself in return revealed all. It was as if he had known her all his life, and the reverse. Curiously, their likes and dislikes, their experiences—though all shaped through cultures that knew nothing of each other—meshed effortlessly. It felt as if they were each half of a coin that had been divided and now had come together again.
Jorim had been in love before—at least a dozen times and sometimes even longer than a month. He had allowed himself to believe that many of his relationships foundered because his familial obligations demanded he travel for long periods of time. But the simple fact was that the relationships had already foundered, and the trips were just a convenient excuse to let things die.
He didn’t bear any animosity for the women he’d known. Initial attraction led to discovery, and the dissatisfaction became mutual over time. Everyone is on best behavior when they first meet, then they learn what the other person is truly like. By four months, one knew whether or not a relationship could last.
In six seconds he’d learned that about Nauana, and he knew he could spend the rest of his life with her. He would have hesitated to make that statement, save that he’d opened himself to her, too. She was no longer under the illusion that he was a god-made-man—though she had allowed as how his divinity might be manifesting in the same way a fledgling’s molting reveals its true plumage.
He would have rejected that idea, but every Naleni youth had been raised on the tale of Wentiko, the Dragon god, who believed himself an ugly worm until he blossomed into a dragon. Intellectually, Jorim recognized the story as one that taught people to value the person within over the external appearances, but the physical manifestation of the internal also resonated. Everywhere one looked, people grew and changed. In some, the growth was for the better. And, in others, it was a surrender to the outside world because they did not believe enough i
n what was inside.
Am I a god within? In the past he would have laughed outright at such a notion, but now he’d been given cause to wonder. Growing up, he and his siblings would joke about how Qiro thought he was a god—and indeed many people treated him with more reverence than they showed the gods. If being skilled at something allowed one to reach the state of jaedunto, wasn’t it possible that one could manifest as something greater? He would have once rejected that idea because everyone knew there were only nine gods and could be no more, but the whole idea of another god forcing his way into heaven opened up a plethora of possibilities.
Discussions like these occupied the time he spent with Nauana outside training, while his magical education continued unabated—and even accelerated. He could not communicate with her telepathically even as well as he could with his blood kin, but he understood her better. That, coupled with his understanding of essence and how to use it, allowed him to progress quickly. While he still was not as proficient as Nauana, there were indications he had the capacity to handle far more power than she did.
Still, plans had been for him to continue his studies, but then a runner came in from Micyan, a coastal village two days distant. He collapsed from exhaustion, having run all the way with no food, no sleep, and insufficient water. He reported that the Mozoyan had attacked his village.
The prospect of the Mozoyan’s return goaded the Amentzutl into action. The city of Nemehyan sat atop a mountain, which was reached by a long, switchback causeway that came up from the plains. Those plains had seen a savage battle against the Mozoyan just over a month before—or “earlier in the week,” if one was using the centenco calendar. In fact, a tall, pyramidal mountain of Mozoyan skulls marked the Amentzutl victory over their enemy. In that attack the Mozoyan had come in from the northeast, and the prospect of their arrival from the coast meant defenses would have to be shifted.
Captain Anaeda Gryst sent the Blackshark north along the coast to look for any signs of the advancing Mozoyan horde. Because the Amentzutl had no maritime tradition to speak of, Micyan had not been built on a harbor. But the ship would be able to land troops at the closest natural harbor for a scouting run and, toward that end, a company each of Sea Dragons and Amentzutl warriors boarded her.
Jorim opted to travel north on the Blackshark and Shimik came with him. Nauana stayed behind to work on the defenses with the other maicana, and Tzihua came aboard to lead the Amentzutl contingent. Anaeda Gryst remained at Nemehyan and organized the remaining Naleni troops to help defend the city.
Being back on a ship and on the ocean delighted Jorim as Nauana had clearly known it would, which was why she’d not asked him to stay behind. Jorim stood near the prow, laughing as spray wet his face. The wind cooled him, and though he could have worked an invocation that would have warmed him again, he did not. He simply relished the scent of the sea, the vision of the sky, the taste of brine, and the sounds of the ship and the people working it.
This is the essence of life itself. Traveling, exploring, going into danger, all of these were things that he loved. They made him feel alive. If I have to spend the rest of my life imprisoned in Anturasikun, I will die.
He glanced down at Shimik, who stood beside him, legs spread, paws on hips. Shimik looked up at him and grinned with a mouthful of peg teeth.
“I know, Shimik, this is wonderful.”
The journey up the coast took most of the afternoon, but with a steady wind they made good time and put into the harbor with no difficulty. But though they had traveled close to the shore on the way up, and the sharpest-eyed watchmen had been on duty, they’d seen no sign of the Mozoyan.
The ship’s commander, Lieutenant Myrasi Wueltan, lowered the ship’s boats and landed the troops quickly. Two trips for each boat got all the troops ashore, and despite the disparate array of weapons and armor between the two contingents, they all moved quickly to secure the white sandy beach.
Shimik clung to Jorim’s back as the cartographer joined Tzihua near the head of the column moving inland. The scouts had seen nothing so far, but they had only penetrated the thick rain forest a hundred yards or so. The undergrowth made it hard to see and even harder to travel. Soldiers using steel swords or obsidian-edged war clubs hacked a path through the jungle.
Despite the noise of their passage, the animals did not seem the least bit concerned. A troop of tiger-striped monkeys happily derided their efforts and even pelted some of them with the green rinds from ichoitz fruit. Shimik mimicked their calls accurately enough that one bull dropped through the canopy to a branch twenty feet up, started shaking it and hooting loudly.
The Fenn leaped from Jorim’s back, scrambled along another branch and headed straight for the bull. They hollered at each other, shaking branches and posturing. Jorim feared there would be a fight, but then Shimik flashed his claws at the monkey and the monkey fled in terror.
Shimik dropped to the ground and accepted the exaggerated bows offered by all of the warriors.
The column carved a track for another hundred yards before the scouts reported back again. They’d reached the road the boy had used to make his run south. They saw no sign of his passing, nor any of the Mozoyan. As nearly as they could tell, nothing was out of the ordinary.
Jorim frowned. “Twelve hours ago, the Mozoyan raided Micyan, and have not headed south. I can’t imagine they expected we would be warned.”
Tzihua shook his head. “You have seen them in combat. They do not think.”
“Then why the raid?”
“The most simple reason of all. They were hungry.”
“You think these were stragglers? Would there have been enough to overwhelm a village?”
The Amentzutl giant shrugged. “We tracked the survivors as far north as possible. Most died; a few disappeared. They were not made for life on land. Those that lived returned to the sea.”
Jorim nodded. While they’d located the place where the Mozoyan had gathered for their attack on Nemehyan, they’d found no ships, boats, or any other indication of how the Mozoyan had reached land. They concluded the enemy had swum to shore, and the idea of a sea filled with man-sized demon-frogs with mouths full of shark’s teeth was enough to fuel Jorim’s nightmares.
“Sending troops along the road to Micyan is the best plan.” Jorim thought for a moment. “We probably should have the Blackshark head up the coast and see if there is any sign of the Mozoyan. I don’t think they could have cut a path as we did, but they might have come ashore anywhere, and it would be useful to know where.”
“I agree.”
“Good. I’ll run back and let Lieutenant Wueltan know what we want, then I’ll come and join you for the march.”
Tzihua smiled. “It will be good to have Tetcomchoa leading us.”
“I’ll tell him you said that if I see him.” Jorim cut back through the troops and Shimik raced above him through the trees. The Naleni troops were bringing up the column’s rear, so Jorim briefed their leader on the plan. He refused the offer of bodyguards for his trip to the shore and sent them on their way.
As he reached the beach, he realized something was wrong. Neither birds nor monkeys had harassed him. He’d just assumed Shimik had scared them off, and kept assuming that until he reached the beach and Shimik cowered behind him, peeking out between his legs.
More than the Blackshark inhabited the cove. At first he couldn’t tell what it was, because it was as long as the ship, and somehow that didn’t seem possible. The front part of it stood open—again something not possible for a ship—and all sorts of creatures were crawling out of the opening. They’d already swarmed over the Blackshark—and sailors who dove overboard and began swimming to shore, were dragged under by unseen assailants.
Though he was not terribly close to the ship, Jorim knew these Mozoyan were different. The first he’d seen had been fishlike. Those which attacked Nemehyan were truly demon-frogs, but still slender. These Mozoyan had a thicker silhouette, more apelike than simple toad. The way the
y swung from the ship’s ratlines and dropped from crosspieces emphasized this impression.
Beyond that, two things became immediately apparent. The first was that the ship was likely lost. Second, the Mozoyan were coming ashore and that as valiant as the warriors were, sheer numbers alone would overwhelm them. They had no chance to prepare defenses, as hulking Mozoyan had already begun to bob and swim toward shore. The slaughter would be complete and the Mozoyan would feast on men as men had feasted on the Mozoyan dead on the plains before Nemehyan.
Then another of the things containing the Mozoyan surfaced. It opened its mouth and more Mozoyan began to emerge.
Shimik’s terrified mewing brought Jorim out of his fugue. “Shimik, find Tzihua. Tell him to run fast fast. Go fast now, Shimik. Go. I have to do something.”
“Jrima stay?”
“Yes, I’m staying, but you have to go, quickly. Now. Very important. Go.”
The Fenn darted off down the jungle path. He stopped, looked back at Jorim, waved, then leaped into the trees and disappeared.
Jorim turned back to the harbor and narrowed his eyes. “It’s all about balance and essence.” He tore off his overshirt and robe, baring his chest. Facing the harbor and the dying sun, he stepped forward until he was knee deep in water. He ignored the Mozoyan and closed his eyes.
He focused on the warmth of the sun as it touched his flesh and hair. He felt the water lapping around his legs—very warm this close to shore, but leaving a chill as it drained away from him with each gentle swell. He let himself feel their essence. The water, fluid; the sun, hot. He sought the warmth in the water, the fluidity in the way the sunlight undulated over the water.
Then he reached out and touched the mai.
It was all about balance, and now he sought to shift the balance radically. He had no idea if he could do it or if the effort would kill him. Still, it was the only chance to save his friends. So he reached within himself as well, binding his essence to the mai, then channeling the mai into the water.
Cartomancy Page 19
