Cartomancy

by Michael A. Stackpole

  The Keru nodded.

  “I don’t know what Jasai feels. I know what she said. I don’t know what you feel. I know what she said you feel. I can’t do anything about her perceptions or yours. The only thing I know is what I feel, and given that I’m probably going to stop all feeling pretty soon, I need to say something.”

  He swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you thought or felt or hoped all the time you were coming this way with Rekarafi. I can tell you what I was thinking. I thought you were dead. I saw you shot; I saw you fall back into the earth and disappear. My heart followed you right down into that hole.”

  “Keles, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Just wait, I’m not done. You were the only person who didn’t see me as a means to an end. You got to know me even though it wasn’t part of your job. I was able to share part of myself with you, and you did the same with me.” He closed his eyes for a second and saw her bloody body slipping away. “When you died—when I thought you were dead—a part of me died inside, too. I was happy when the man who shot you got eaten alive in Ixyll. I was happy to redesign Felarati for Prince Pyrust because I planned many avenues for the Keru and Naleni troops to pour through the city. Unable to express what I felt for you in any positive sense, I channeled it into hatred.”

  He opened his eyes and looked up into hers. “You can assume that what I feel is just a grown-up version of the infatuation all boys have for the Keru. Or you can see it for love, because that’s what it is. And maybe it’s not something you want—I can understand that, too. Maybe everything was duty, and maybe you slipped a couple of times. I understand that, and I can live with it. I’ll probably die with it, but I want you to know that you’re more than just Keru, and I see you as more than that.”

  Tyressa’s hands fell from his shoulders. She hugged her arms around her middle. She looked down for a moment, but when she brought her head up, tears had eroded the dust on her cheeks.

  Keles lifted a hand to brush them away, but she shook her head and turned away from him.

  He let his hand fall slowly. “I’m sorry I made you cry. I’ll get back to work. If I work hard enough, maybe, just maybe, that won’t be my last memory of you.”

  Chapter Fifty

  2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Imperial Road North, Nalenyr

  It pleased Prince Pyrust that his presence shocked Count Linel Vroan. The Naleni noble had been summoned to the Inn of Gentle Seasons by envoys, promising a Desei representative to negotiate Nalenyr’s fate. To whom else does he imagine I would have entrusted such important talks?

  Pyrust smiled and stepped away from the fire. “Please, my lord, join me.”

  Vroan bowed respectfully, then doffed his cloak and tossed it to a minor functionary. “You are very kind, Highness.”

  “Words I do not hear often from the Naleni.”

  The Inn’s common room had been cleared of all patrons and the host had been well compensated for the disruption of his trade. Pyrust’s aides had removed the furnishings, leaving only one small round table and two chairs near the fire. A platter with cheese, smoked sausage, and rice balls sat in the middle of the table, along with a pewter wine pitcher and two goblets.

  Pyrust waited for his guest to sit, then joined him. He poured wine, but did not raise a toast. He watched the Naleni closely and found things in the man that he could like. He already knew Vroan was a fierce fighter and shrewd leader. He’d recovered from his surprise quickly, and apparently had assessed the situation to the point where he was beginning to feel comfortable.

  “Count Vroan, I will not insult you. I know that your accepting what amounts to an invitation to treason is not easy. You have ever been a champion of Nalenyr, and I assume you act out of that motivation.”

  “Thank you, Highness.” Vroan’s green eyes flicked warily toward the kitchen, whence a crashing had come. “I act in the best interests of my nation.”

  “Have you entertained the notion that my rule may be best for it?”

  The Naleni noble leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “That has never been part of my consideration, Highness. I sought to oppose you, and hoped the invitation to negotiate would be one in which we could avoid hostilities. I had hoped you had stopped north of the Helos Mountains, but I can see this is not the case. May I ask how many troops you have with you?”

  Pyrust sat back and took his cup in his half hand. He studied its dark depths. “I have six armies with me. Two are crack troops; two are Helosundian, one militia, the other well trained; and two are Desei militia. They are better trained than you would imagine. I have three more armies in Helosunde, again militia, but well trained.”

  The numbers staggered Vroan. “And my troops in the mountains?”

  “Helosundians have long garrisoned the posts your men were occupying. Because your people did not know I had convinced the Council of Ministers to ally themselves with me, your men were happy to welcome Helosundian warriors who were fleeing my conquest. We outnumbered your men and they were taken with a minimum of deaths. At the successful conclusion of our negotiations, I shall return them to you.”

  “And my cooperation will be their ransom?”

  Pyrust sipped his wine, then set the cup on the table again. “Though I have no obligation to explain my actions to you, I shall. I believe this will prompt you to understand the position you are in. I should state at the outset, however, that if your sole desire is to become the Naleni Prince, your ambition will be thwarted. While I live, that shall not be possible.”

  “I see.” Vroan took up his cup, and only the ripple in the wine betrayed any nervousness.

  “Prince Cyron has moved his best Helosundian mercenaries and house troops south toward the Virine border. You’ve been told this is because those units need time to retrain. I doubt you accepted this rationale, but you have done little to learn what his true motivation was.”

  The Prince continued, ignoring Vroan’s confirming nod. “Erumvirine is under invasion. I know of this because an agent of Prince Jekusmirwyn brought to Felarati a message, which outlined the peril. I have every reason to believe the eastern half of Erumvirine has fallen, and I fear the capital has been taken as well. I further assume that Prince Cyron got a similar message and this is why he sent troops south.”

  The evident shock on Vroan’s face told Pyrust all he needed to know about the man’s knowledge of the situation. And blaming the dissemination of information on the Virines hid just how much information Desei spies were providing the Prince. While Vroan doubtless had informants in his county and in the capital, his intelligence network probably did not extend much further.

  “You are a military man, Count Vroan. Unlike Prince Cyron, you understand the importance of engaging an enemy well away from your own territory. I know you love your nation, as I love mine, so you will understand that I choose to fight this invasion in Erumvirine.”

  Vroan nodded. “And Prince Cyron refused requests for your troops to transit through Nalenyr to the south.”

  “Can you imagine a positive reply to such a request? Your Prince is a proud man, and were he half the warrior his brother was, I would have placed my troops under his command so we could stave off this threat. But since he is not, this is not possible.”

  Vroan smiled. “You could place them under my command, Highness.”

  “Don’t think that was not considered, my lord.” Pyrust kept his voice cool and sharp. “It was rejected because Cyron would see it as a rebellion, and that would trigger a civil war. You would spend more time fighting him than the invaders, in which case my troops would be wasted and the invasion would push through to Deseirion. This was deemed unacceptable.”

  “Yes, of course.” Vroan drank a bit more wine, then brushed a drop from his lower lip with his thumb. “What is it that you expect of me?”
<
br />   “Do you see the threat to Nalenyr? To all of us?”

  “Assuming you’ve told me the truth, of course.”

  “And you would agree it must be dealt with?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good.” Pyrust stood and gathered his hands behind his back. “I will require you to swear fealty to me when I topple Cyron. I would have you move your troops south to help attack the invaders. I would further expect you to enlist other Naleni nobles, and even the citizenry, to this cause.”

  Vroan sipped more wine, then looked up. “What do I get in return?”

  “Did you not listen? The invaders will crush Nalenyr, and your holdings will go right along with everything else.”

  “That I understand, Highness. But, as you said at the start, the invitation to treason is not one I accept lightly. Assuming we can stop the invaders if we work together, I should have some reward for my efforts. You might be able to accomplish your ends if I work with you, but your chances shrink if I oppose you.”

  Pyrust smiled grudgingly. “You make an excellent point. As I noted before, you will not be Prince of Nalenyr. I can arrange, however, for you to administer Nalenyr and the international trade the nation conducts. If circumstances dictate that border realignment take place, I could carve a province out of the western halves of Nalenyr and Erumvirine that would be yours.”

  “But would be part of your Desei Empire?”

  “My ambition to be Emperor has been well known, but only necessity has forced me to reach for that prize.” Pyrust leaned forward on the table. “You would be part of my Empire, yes.”

  “Then in the spirit of empire, I should ask the Emperor a favor—a favor I shall return. “

  “What would that be?”

  Vroan smiled. “I have a daughter who was recently widowed. You have but one wife. A Naleni wife would help you in so many ways.”

  Pyrust stood and laughed. “Very well played, my lord. I knew you were quick of wit, and this you must have just thought of, for you could not have anticipated this turn of events. Tell me, had you thought of offering her to Cyron?”

  Vroan shook his head. “She loathes him for killing her husband.”

  “Ah, I see.” Pyrust nodded. “Consider it done, if your favor is of equal value.”

  “It is of greater, my lord.” Vroan picked up a small cheese cube. “You won’t have to lay siege to Moriande. By the time you reach the capital, Prince Cyron will be dead.”

  “The injuries he already has?”

  “Another, more grievous.” Vroan bit the cheese in half. “Fatal.”

  Pyrust frowned. “He’s to be assassinated?”

  “Yes. Does this not please you?”

  The Prince crossed his arms over his chest. “It does simplify things a great deal.”

  Vroan set the half-eaten piece of cheese back on the table. “But you are disappointed.”

  “I am.” Pyrust smiled slightly. “I had wanted to kill him myself.”

  Vroan returned the smile. “I understand the sentiment. I would love to throttle him.”

  “No, a thrust to the heart. Simple and quick but slow enough for him to look at the sword, then to look up at me.” Pyrust closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “That is how I saw it in a dream. That one, I see, was not of the future.”

  “No, perhaps not.” Vroan drank again. “Nerot Scior has hired the assassin. Blame can be fixed to him, and you arrive to avenge the murder of a brother Prince. I side with you, the dissidents are pacified, and we force the invaders from Erumvirine. Once you take Kelewan, I would imagine the Five Princes will join or fall as you desire.”

  “I hope the gods accept and bless your plan.”

  “Grija certainly will.”

  A thrill ran down Pyrust’s spine. Why did he mention Grija? “I hope so, even though our negotiation here has prevented many from entering his realm.”

  The Naleni set his empty cup on the table and stood. “Delayed, my lord, not prevented. We all enter his realm eventually.”

  “A point well taken.” Pyrust narrowed his eyes. “It would have been interesting to fight you. I would have met you at Tsaxun with twelve thousand.”

  “And I would have defended with five. You might have prevailed, but there would have been no one left to bury the dead.” Vroan bowed deeply and held it, then came up slowly. “It is better to fight at your side.”

  Pyrust bowed low, matching the depth, but cheating a bit on the duration. “You are quite right, my lord. This choice is an ill omen for the invaders. Please give my best wishes to your daughter.”

  “I will. Would you have me meet you in Moriande with my house troops?”

  “A regiment would be appropriate.”

  “And if Scior comes to me for sanctuary?”

  “Treason is punishable by death.” Pyrust nodded. “I’ll want his head to display from the gate of Wentokikun.”

  “As you desire. Moriande, within the week.”

  The Naleni noble withdrew and Pyrust refilled his own wine goblet. He glanced at the empty kitchen doorway, then drank. When he lowered his cup again, the Mother of Shadows filled the doorway.

  She glanced at the Inn’s door. “For one come so reluctantly to treason, he seems very comfortable with it.”

  “You didn’t know they were going to assassinate Prince Cyron?”

  She shrugged. “There has never been a time when someone or other was not going to kill him. We do not know if they will be effective this time or not. His cabal has failed once already.”

  “I recall.” Pyrust frowned. “He can’t be trusted, clearly. If he would plot to kill Cyron, he would certainly do the same to me. Still, he’ll be valuable in the field against the invaders. We’ll wait to see how successful he is. I want someone in position to kill him in the wake of his greatest glory.”

  “You could let him liberate Kelewan.”

  “His glory should not be that great. He has committed treason. He’ll win a battle, then die.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She bowed her head solemnly, then looked up. “Something else troubles you.”

  “Yes, the party we have not heard from. Twice the westrons will have hired assassins to kill Cyron. They cannot do that without compliance by a minister.”

  “The ministers are ever operating against their Princes.”

  “True, but we need them in the coming war.” Pyrust drained his cup. “If they are not with us, the effort will founder and we all shall die. And the difficulty with the ministers is that they won’t mind, just as long as it is all done in an orderly manner.”

  Chapter Fifty-one

  2nd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th year since the Cataclysm

  Nemehyan, Caxyan

  Though the Witch-King’s continued absence worried Jorim a little, he really didn’t mind the solitude. His ordeal had exhausted him to the point where something as simple as wandering into the rain forest to harvest fruit left him staggering back to the chambers. For every two hours awake and active, he required six hours of sleep, and that sleep was far from restful.

  Accepting the fact that he was a god took a lot of adjustment—even though Nauana’s unwavering conviction had certainly pointed him in the right direction. It struck Jorim as rather ironic that he’d not been at all devout earlier in life. While he had worshipped Wentiko, it was more because the Dragon was the state deity of Nalenyr than due to any true belief.

  In fact, his grandfather had been part of the movement away from religion. Qiro had stressed veneration of ancestors—clearly because he wanted that tradition continued after he passed away. Actually, he saw himself as a god, so none of us had to leave our home to worship. Perhaps that had been the root of his problem with Qiro: here he was a god incarnate, dealing with a human who believed himself a god.

  But, as fascinating an idea as that was, Jorim knew that
wasn’t the whole of the truth. Qiro brooked no insubordination because he had a need to be dominant. Jorim had no idea what he might have been afraid of, but that need to make all acknowledge him as supreme was one of the consistent notes in the man’s life. When his son and grandsons rebelled, he sent them all off on expeditions meant to kill them.

  But Keles is not dead. Jorim concentrated and tried to reach his brother. He would have known if Keles had died, and he did get a dim sense of him, but there was no contact. Keles was concentrating on something else, and all Jorim got were fleeting glimpses of nightmare images. He tried to send a calming message to his brother, but had no idea if it got through before the contact faded.

  Dreams interrupted Jorim’s sleep, and he awoke multiple times, his head bursting with images. Some of them seemed hauntingly familiar, and others had obviously been drawn from stories he’d heard about the Heavens and Hells. He recognized gods and goddesses, but they would shift in his vision. Sisvoc, the beautiful goddess of love, would flow from being a woman wearing a robe with eagle embroidery to an Amentzutl woman in a loincloth and gold pectoral, each of them worked with eagle symbology. And then she would change again and again into other shapes he barely recognized, but could guess at belonging to the Viruk, Ansatl, and Soth.

  Most disturbing of all were dreams that paralleled stories about the gods. He’d always listened to them as mythology, but now he was living them, remembering them. He would live through bits and pieces of stories that had been lost or—more likely—edited out to tailor the story to whatever moral the teacher wished to emphasize.

  In some cases, the omissions reversed the lessons that might have been learned. The omissions also limited the gods, because the gods drew life from the nature of their people’s beliefs. If the gods were reduced to one aspect and revered for that aspect only, they would slowly grow into that shape. Tetcomchoa and Wentiko, because they had worshippers from two cultures that revered them for a multitude of aspects and virtues, became more than simple abstracts.

  And what must it be like to be Grija, worshipped and hated because he would sort good from bad, consigning the evil to his Hells and sending the good on to the Heavens? Jorim shivered. The gods may well have created the mortal races, but they found themselves in the same trap as parents who produce children, then become dependent upon those children for sustenance in their later years. They become powerless to govern their own beings, and are at the mercy of whatever charity their children give them. If a family were to tell its patriarch that he would only be fed if he wore a mask and sang songs before supper, the old man would become a masked singer.