The balance he sought to shift was simple, but the scale on which he wanted to do it was incredibly vast. I want to make the sea boil. Transforming the cove from fluid to vapor was possible, though he’d heard no tales of such a titanic task being accomplished before.
Chances are, anyone foolish enough to attempt it died before the first wisp of steam rose.
He opened his eyes and all he saw were Mozoyan drawing nearer. One of them was a stone’s throw away. It opened its mouth, revealing the shark’s teeth he’d seen before. Its black eyes locked on his and Jorim found himself looking at his doom.
Then it hit him. Right idea, wrong application.
He ignored the water and concentrated on the sun. He visualized Wentiko in the solar disk. The Dragon had always stood for courage, and Jorim welcomed that as well as the heat and light. He touched the god’s essence and a pulse came through the mai that shook him. Every muscle in his body contracted, bowing his back.
He expected to fall helpless on the beach, but instead he began to rise. His feet emerged dripping from the sea. The Mozoyan that had been closest to him looked up, the hungry expression on its face evaporating into surprise.
Jorim wanted to turn water from fluid to vapor. Converting a sea would be impossible, for the water in the cove was linked to the ocean, which was linked to all oceans. To convert all that into vapor might be beyond even the power of a god.
But making a small amount of water do that was not. He’d done it before, countless times. It had become an effortless task.
So he began the conversion with the water in the nearest Mozoyan’s eyes.
They exploded, and the creature burbled in pain. It sank beneath the surface, but Jorim still tracked it by essence. He boiled its brain in its skull. Bone cracked and skin parted, releasing a bubble of hot gas to mark the thing’s passing.
He turned his attention to another, and another. Mozoyan died writhing. They thrashed in the water, and only as they grew small did he realize he was flying higher, out over the cove. He no longer had to focus himself on any individual. It was enough that they looked up at him and that they felt the touch of the radiance he was projecting. As his rays caressed them, flesh melted and bones blackened.
Soaring slowly, with no more direction or intent than a kite on a light breeze, Jorim approached the Blackshark. He glanced down at himself and wondered how he was not blinded. His skin glowed with noontime intensity. The water reflected his golden corona and tiny wisps of steam curled up from around dead Mozoyan.
Jorim looked at the Blackshark. He could not see into it, but as his gaze swept over it, he found Mozoyan cowering on deck and hiding in the ship’s depths. One by one he touched them and they died.
The enormous fish that had released the Mozoyan closed their mouths. They slowly began to sink, but the harbor’s shallow bottom hindered them. But it scarcely would have mattered, for his rays pierced the water easily, and the lumbering creatures could never have dived fast enough to elude him.
With the wave of a hand he burned them from end to end. Their thick tails twitched, stirring up mud, then they sank into the muck. He waited and watched for any Mozoyan to escape, and boiled those that did inside their own flesh.
Pulling his radiance back in, Jorim floated down to the Blackshark’s deck. His bare feet touched the wood. It sizzled and smoked. He stepped back and looked down, gaping at the footprints burned into the deck.
They were the footprints of a dragon.
Chapter Twenty-six
14th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Disat Forest, West of Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron smiled. Though early in the year, the day had dawned bright and warm. He’d had ample sleep the night before and rose early to prepare for the day’s outing. He’d initially resisted the idea of joining Prince Eiran and Count Turcol, but going along was the expedient course. Turcol had the potential for being a very nasty thorn in his side, so whatever he could do to take care of the problem immediately was best.
Besides, the Disat Forest had always been a favorite haunt of his. In it, on a small hill, his grandfather had accepted the surrender and abdication of the previous dynasty’s last prince. This began the Komyr Dynasty and, contrary to rumors, he did not have the man slain on the spot. His rise to power had been tempered by mercy. To remind himself of his grandfather’s wisdom, Cyron liked to travel to the hill and meditate, especially on the anniversary of his rise.
His father had made the forests a royal reserve. Poachers knew they could suffer severe punishments if they were caught taking game, but some risked it because they believed that if they could elude the warders and make it to Memorial Hill, the Prince would grant them mercy. Cyron always did, once. If a man were caught more than once, he gave him exactly what his grandfather had given his predecessor.
The forest itself had a beauty and serenity that even a trailing troop of attendants could not spoil. Pines predominated in their eternal coats of green. Where other trees—oaks, elms, maples, and birches—peeked through, their bare branches already showed green buds. Spring would be coming early, and with it the birds would be winging their way north again.
Cyron longed for spring and hoped the Virine invasion would not stop the birds. He banished the thought that it might and lightened his expression for the benefit of his host. He tugged back on his reins, slowing his horse enough that Count Turcol and Prince Eiran could catch up with him.
Count Turcol had been inordinately gracious throughout the day. In celebration of his troops’ posting to the Helosunde border, he’d accepted a Helosundian title and informed his troops they were now the Helosundian Dragons. He proclaimed Prince Eiran to be his cocommander, gratefully distributed Helosundian pennants, and left his troops repainting their breastplates with dogs and dragons intertwined.
Turcol had even been quite pleasant to Prince Cyron—though it clearly took an effort. As they rode through the forest to Memorial Hill, the westron count repeatedly complimented the Prince and begged forgiveness for any past misunderstandings.
“I assure you, Count Turcol, I took no umbrage at anything you have said in my presence.” Cyron nodded toward him and Eiran beyond. “You are both strong men, and the future will demand strong men. I would hope, someday, that I will have an heir who can learn from the two of you. The courage you show in speaking frankly to me is to be lauded. As well you know, many courtiers only tell me what they believe I wish to hear, and a prince cannot rule if this is the case.”
Turcol smiled. “Your Highness is too kind. I know that you cannot rest easily with so many things on your mind. I had hoped this day of riding, hawking, and simple relaxation would provide you comfort—though I am certain you have many comforts.”
Cyron followed Turcol’s glance and smiled. The Lady of Jet and Jade had ridden out with them. Her horse had gotten forward of theirs, and the dark green of her robe nearly hid her against the pines. As if she had heard the remark, she looked back and smiled—but her smile was for Cyron alone.
He resisted the urge to turn quickly and catch Turcol’s reaction. He’d seen it a couple of times already. It clearly galled Turcol that this woman, the famed concubine, would not allow him to buy from her what other women so willingly gave him freely.
Cyron turned his head slowly, giving the westron ample time to control his expression. “Have you ever considered, my lord, what you would do were you in my place, on the throne?”
“Me, on the throne? Please, Highness, I do not think of such things.”
Cyron smiled. “Be honest with me, Count Turcol. Your family occupied the Dragon Throne well before mine did, and you come from Imperial nobility. You must have entertained the idea. I certainly hope you have, for, if not, you are not the man I imagined—and certainly not suited to what I have in mind for you.”
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Turcol lifted a branch and ducked his head beneath it. “Perhaps I have thought of it, Highness. Never with avarice, but just as an intellectual exercise.”
“Good, this pleases me.” Cyron reined his horse in closer to Turcol, then looked back to see if the four Jomiri attendants were trailing at a respectful distance. He lowered his voice. “As you know, my lord, I have no heir. Until I can procure one, I have to plan for the future of our nation. May I speak frankly with you?”
Turcol answered quietly. “Of course, Highness.”
“I have looked at those who might be able to replace me, were Pyrust to send assassins after me. I believe you are the man with the most potential. But I would ask you a question first.”
“Please.”
“Were you in my place, and you learned of an invasion of a southern neighbor—say Erumvirine—which threatened to destroy that nation, what would you do?”
Turcol sat up straight and his horse slowed, allowing Prince Eiran to ride forward. “I’d find out how much of a threat it was. I would want to know who the invaders were. Is it a fight for the Virine throne, or is it something larger that threatens Nalenyr?”
“That is a good place to start, Count Turcol.” Cyron frowned. “Suppose all you know is that the defenders have been forced back, and that very few refugees have fled—not because they are content with the invaders, but because they’ve all been slain. Moreover, assume the Virine Prince is too slow in answering the challenge, and that even the professional spies are not reporting back. What would you do?”
“In that case, the indications are obvious. I’d shift my best troops south to guard against an invasion, and I would shore up my northern defenses by calling . . .” Turcol’s head came up as his eyes grew wide. “Is this why you demanded troops from the west, Highness? Is there a threat from Erumvirine?”
“It would be dreadful if that rumor were spread about. It might cause a panic, don’t you think? Better to start a rumor that troops have become weak and need to be rotated away for training and discipline. And best to start calling up troops who will be needed if the invasion is more than the Keru can handle.”
Turcol reached out and caught his arm with a hand. “Is that possible?”
“That is the problem with being a prince, my lord. A prince hasn’t the luxury of asking if something is possible. He must just plan for what he will do when it happens.” Cyron smiled and pointed ahead. “There it is, Memorial Hill. Let’s not have any more dour talk, shall we?”
Turcol looked up, then nodded. “No, Highness. You honor me with your thoughts and your confidence. I wish to assure that if I were to replace you, I should keep our nation safe.”
“It pleases me to hear that.” Cyron nodded. “Now I can die reassured.”
They rode on. Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade reached the hill first. They dismounted and hitched their horses to some bushes. Cyron joined them, and the three walked up to the hilltop together. Cyron strode to the center where a trio of stones had been placed. Two smaller ones held up a large grey granite slab, forming a rough lean-to.
Resting a hand on one of the support stones, he turned to the other two. “I had these stones raised thus. The slab is my grandfather, the two supports are my father and brother. Perhaps when I am gone my successor will dig up another stone from the hill and place it here for me. The hill once was an old Imperial fort, Tsatol Disat. It had wonderful command of the countryside.”
The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled as she slowly spun in a circle, taking in the view. Though not the highest point in the forest, it provided an unobstructed view to the north and east. In the distance Moriande was visible. Forest claimed the hill’s western side and the dark trees contrasted beautifully with the stones.
“I understand why you come here, Highness. It is very beautiful and peaceful.”
The Helosundian Prince nodded. “I shall find such a spot in Helosunde. It gives you perspective.”
“Perspective, yes, but do not underestimate the value of peace.” Cyron looked back down the hill to where Turcol, still mounted, was speaking with the attendants. He waved to him, and shouted, “Come join us, Count Turcol.”
The count waved back, but fell into conversation again.
The Lady of Jet and Jade came to Cyron’s side. “I think it is my fault, Highness. I do not think he likes me.”
Cyron laughed. “I think he doesn’t like the fact that you don’t like him. You’ve seen how he watches you.”
“Does he? I care not for how anyone watches me.”
The sincerity of her remark surprised Cyron. “You’re quite serious about that.”
“Completely, Highness.” She laughed lightly and faced both men. “I am a concubine, and a Mystic. As with other Mystics, I have seen more years than you would suppose. One of the things I have learned over the years is that it matters not at all how people look at me. It is how I look at them, and how I reach them, that matters. The external will fade unless one is blessed, but how you present yourself, and how you engage others, is what attracts them to you or not.”
She waved a hand toward Prince Cyron. “My saying what follows will not matter to you at all, but the good count would find it cause to react. You see, I could tell you that on this very spot, I made love with your grandfather after he was made Prince. With you, no reaction, no desire to do what your grandfather had done, no sense of competition with the past. You, Prince Cyron, require other things to excite you. If the count heard me say that . . .”
“Say what, my lady?” Turcol reined his horse back and looked down at her. “Do continue.”
The Lady of Jet and Jade’s eyes sharpened. “If I told you that I made love with Prince Jarus Turcol on this spot, and was willing to have him because he was a prince, you would be driven to take the throne and have me here and many other places. You are not satisfied with your life, so you seek victories that are foolish and petty.”
The westron raised an eyebrow. “Am I that transparent, my lady?”
“Prince Jarus Turcol was. It’s in your blood.”
Turcol’s expression hardened. “And would I have to be a prince to enjoy your company?”
“It would be a step.”
Cyron laughed and stepped forward. “My lord, you don’t see her joking often, do you?”
“She was serious, Highness. And she was right.” Turcol planted two fingers in his mouth and whistled aloud. A dozen men and women emerged from the forest depths. Half of them carried bows with arrows fitted to them already. The others had clubs, save for two with swords. They spread out in a semicircle, with two of the archers mounting the stone slab.
Cyron stared hard at Turcol. “You will explain this, please.”
“Only because you have been so gracious in explaining your confidence in me, Highness.” Turcol rested his hands on his saddle-horn and leaned forward. “You’ve ruined our nation and left it open to threats from both north and south. You have beggared and humiliated the western counties. We now face a military crisis, and you are ill suited to deal with it. Were you any sort of warrior at all, you’d be out here with more than just a dagger.”
The Prince nodded. “And so you hired these bandits. You will explain how you fought them valiantly and while you were able to drive them off, it was not before we were slain, all three of us.”
“Not three; two.” He looked down at the Lady of Jet and Jade. “I will have you here and wherever else I desire. Unless, of course, you want to die.”
She shook her head and stepped away from Cyron. “Not for a long time. Forgive me, Highness.”
Cyron shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, my lady.” He looked up at Turcol. “You know it will have to be a convincing act. You can’t come away from it unscathed. Perhaps there, in your right shoulder, an arrow. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to convince many of your effort. My doctor, Geselkir, will take care of it.”
Turcol snorted. “Perhaps you’re right, Highness, but that’s a detail I ca
n work out later.”
“Another thing a prince cannot do, Turcol, procrastinate.” Cyron pointed up at the westron. “His right shoulder. Shoot him now.”
The archer above the Prince drew and loosed in one easy motion. The black barbed arrow pierced Turcol’s shoulder and darkness began to seep into his midnight-blue robe. He looked from his shoulder to the archer and back again.
Turcol bit back any cry of pain, clenched his teeth, then looked up at the archers. “You idiots! I give the orders. Shoot him!”
Bows twanged in unison. Down the hill, the quartet of attendants fell, each stuck through the chest with an arrow.
Turcol blinked and slumped in his saddle. “This is not happening. This is not how it was planned.”
“Not how you planned it, Turcol.” Cyron shook his head. “Had you not made your approaches to Grand Minister Vniel quite so obvious, my Lord of Shadows would not have discovered what you were up to. Hiring assassins in Moriande was a second mistake. That is my realm, and loyalties to me run high.”
“Loyalties to you?” Turcol shook his head with disbelief. “They are assassins.”
“So they are. And I pay well each year to make certain they do not act against me. Surely you did not believe you were the first noble to think of killing me?”
The count started to answer, then closed his mouth. Moving slowly, he dismounted, then sank to his knees. “In the spirit of the day, the spirit of this place and tradition, I ask for mercy.”
Prince Eiran laughed aloud. “Are you insane? You’ve committed treason and you want mercy?”
Cyron held up a hand. “Just a moment, Prince Eiran. I am not deaf to your appeal, Count Turcol. In the spirit of this place, you wish what my grandfather gave his predecessor? Is this it? Nothing less will satisfy you?”
“That’s what I want, my lord.”
“I can grant you that.” Cyron folded his arms over his chest. “The legend is true. My grandfather spared his predecessor’s life; but his predecessor was much like you. Bold, brash, ambitious. He was a man who did not know when he was beaten. He planned, even as you do now, of returning to power and returning his dynasty to the throne.
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