Cartomancy
Page 45
Nirati smiled. “The question is not worthy of asking, beloved, for there is no answer.”
He leaned down and kissed her softly. “You will be my empress, Nirati, my only wife. We will make this empire greater than any that has gone before. Certainly greater than Taichun’s. It shall rival the Viruk Empire and even exceed it. Your face shall be on coins coveted from here to Aefret and beyond. Countless throngs will bow to you and worship you.”
“Will I be an empress or a goddess?”
“Either or both, and deserving of worship regardless.” He laughed aloud and the sound echoed from the hills. “Come, it is time we board the ship.”
They walked hand in hand to the shoreline, then out along a wharf next to which the Crown Bear was moored. The ship, with its nine tall masts, hid the far headland and seemed to be a world all by itself.
He turned and smiled, grasping her left hand in both of his. “Come, Nirati, we will sail to our new empire and the adoration to which we are due.”
She smiled and stepped after him, then stopped abruptly as if she’d slammed into a wall. Her hand slipped from his grasp and she rebounded from the collision. She fell back hard.
She raised her left hand to her face and touched her upper lip. Her hand came away wet and red, but she didn’t feel like she’d bumped her nose.
Nelesquin stared for a moment, then knelt by her side. “What’s the matter, beloved?”
“I don’t know.”
He scooped her into his arms and started toward the ship. Her left shoulder hit an invisible barrier and they both bounced back. Nelesquin turned, walking sideways, but her toes jammed into the unseen wall.
He stepped back and set her down again, then passed through the barrier without difficulty. “I don’t understand.”
Nirati rubbed at her shoulder. “Neither do I.”
“Ah, wait.” Nelesquin looked beyond her toward the hill they’d descended. “He doesn’t want you to go.”
Nirati turned. Her grandfather stood at the crest of the hill, holding Takwee’s hand. Nirati waved and both of them waved back. “Can he stop me from leaving?”
Nelesquin laughed. “He created Anturasixan, so it operates by rules only he can imagine. He created Kunjiqui as a sanctuary for you, to protect you from the world that hurt you. He may not know it, but he will not let you leave if he believes you can be hurt.”
Everything Nelesquin said made sense to Nirati, but she wasn’t certain he’d gotten to the core of things. Something else was happening to keep her in Kunjiqui. She didn’t want to dwell on it, but just knowing sent fear through her.
Nelesquin’s eyes hardened. “I understand his reasoning, for I would not have you hurt either. I will make the world a place that will never harm you.”
Nirati turned and looked at him. “You are still going?”
He nodded solemnly. “The events I read in the stones are a bit more dire than I told you. In them, I saw a glimmer of an old enemy returning to oppose me. He was the source of Gachin’s problem and, if he is not eliminated, he could be worrisome.”
“But you are in no danger?”
His booming laugh reassured her. “No, beloved. I long ago took steps to assure neither he nor anyone else could harm me.” He reached a hand through the barrier. “Because I love you, I am called away. I will come back for you, Nirati Anturasi. You are my empress, and I shall go become the emperor who is worthy of your love.”
She smiled bravely, took his hand, and drew him to her. “I know you will, beloved. I will be with you in spirit.”
“That shall not make me miss you less.” His arms enfolded her and pulled her tightly to him. He peered down into her eyes, then kissed her deeply.
Nirati clung to him, not because she wanted to prevent him from leaving, but because she knew she would never hold him again.
Nelesquin broke the kiss and slipped from her embrace.
She stepped forward and rested her hands against the barrier.
Nelesquin smiled, then bowed to her grandfather and her. “I go a prince; I return an emperor.”
“Go bravely, then.” Nirati smiled softly. The barrier is death, beloved. Go bravely, but remember, becoming an emperor does not make one immortal.
She hugged her arms around herself and waited there, watching until the ships had vanished over the horizon, and Takwee came to guide her home.
Chapter Sixty-one
4th 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
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Even low grey clouds and rain could not diminish the magnificence of Moriande. Rain pattered against Prince Pyrust’s cloak, and his horse splashed through puddles as he rode toward the Dragon Tower. Count Vroan’s Ixunite troops had manned Northgate, and the Shadow Hawks had cleared the streets. It had nominally been agreed that Pyrust was entering the capital to pay his respects to Prince Cyron, and the Keru busied themselves with a hunt for Duke Scior.
The appearance of a Desei host on the hills north of the city had rendered the idea of resistance ridiculous, and there were those nobles who allowed that Nalenyr’s fall had been the product of Cyron’s pride. While he looked overseas for trade to strengthen his nation, he had not paid attention to more dire threats closer to home. Pyrust had no doubt that the perceived wisdom would become Cyron’s historical epitaph, and that few would ever look at the true facts surrounding his fall to see how shortsighted a judgment that truly was.
It did not surprise Pyrust to hear that Cyron had survived the assassination attempt, though stories differed about how he had fared. The Mother of Shadows had scoffed at the ineptitude of Helosundian assassins, but Pyrust felt something more was at play. Grija had promised him great glory, and very great would be the glory of ending the Komyr Dynasty. He had wanted to kill Cyron himself. The gods and circumstances had conspired to let him do so.
Pyrust looked up and around at the buildings lining the street and took heart in the flashes of eyes peeking out at him from doorways and behind shutters. Had a conqueror been riding through Felarati and the order had been given that no one was to look upon him, the Desei would have remained hidden within their homes until told they could emerge again. Learning to obey orders had been what preserved life in Deseirion, but here, in the south, spirit and initiative had created a more vibrant society.
He admired their spirit and, for the first time truly realized how difficult administering an empire would be. He did not let that problem overwhelm him because he still needed to fight the invaders. If they defeated him, all problems of empire would be nothing. Moreover, the bureaucracy would continue to function, keeping the Naleni state working as it should. He felt fairly certain that once he made the nature of the southern threat known to the bureaucracy, they would do all they could to facilitate his destroying the invaders.
It did concern him, however, that they had clearly condoned the assassination and usurpation that would have occurred under Duke Scior or Count Vroan. While bureaucrats often embraced their duty first, they could not be divorced from nationalistic sentiments. The ministers of Helosunde had directed their nation for years, and he had no doubts that Grand Minister Pelut Vniel would gladly seize power if Pyrust were to fall in battle.
The bureaucracy here has willingly played politics. He began to draw up a short list of individuals the Mother of Shadows would have to make disappear. Timed correctly, their deaths would not seem overly suspicious, yet would encourage obedience among other ministers. Similarly the deaths of certain Naleni nobles would disorganize any movement against him.
A tiny piece of him wondered if Cyron would have stooped to preemptive murder had he known the extent of the plotting against him. In general, he would not have put any man above it, but Cyron had been odd in that way. Pyrust never would have sent grain to Nalenyr. While he understood Cyron’s motiva
tion, he still viewed it as weakness. He’d not shoved the knife in when he had the chance, and that was what allowed him to lose.
Not a mistake I shall make.
The gates to Wentokikun stood open. Pyrust rode through alone, then up the broad steps to the tower’s doors. There he dismounted and threw off his cloak. He entered through the open doors in rain-dappled armor of black, with the Desei hawk painted in gold. He wore a single sword and marveled how his footsteps echoed within the vast entryway.
When he had been in the Dragon Tower before, he had come as a visitor, swathed in formal robes that restricted his strides. He’d shuffled his way down the long corridor to the throne room, having to study the murals depicting Naleni dominance over its neighbors, including Deseirion. Now the Desei murals had been covered by tapestries that showed older scenes, when Desei and Naleni heroes had united against the Turasynd or an ambitious Helosundian prince.
The presence of those tapestries told him that though Cyron might be gravely injured, he was far from dead. Pyrust quickened his pace, stalking down the hallway to the Naleni throne room. He passed around the wooden screening wall, then paused in the doorway. His gaze followed the line of the red carpet to the Dragon Throne.
He struggled to control his reaction to the man seated there.
Cyron had been dressed in armor, but wore neither helmet nor face mask. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump, which was still leaking. He sat as straight as he could, his face grey and wet with perspiration. A sheathed sword sat across the arms of his throne and his right hand rested on the hilt.
Pyrust removed his own helmet and face mask, setting them down by the door. He bowed, then approached slowly. He checked himself, for his gait had gone from that of a conqueror to that of someone entering a sickroom. He considered for a moment, then continued forward sedately, stopping nine feet from the foot of the throne.
Cyron swallowed hard, then licked at dry lips. “I was urged to meet you in robes of state. I would have, but as much as I hate wearing them, I do like the colors. Blood would spoil them.”
“Your robes are magnificent, much like your city and your nation.”
“Hardly mine anymore.” Cyron’s expression tightened. “I wanted to meet you in armor. You’ll kill me, and we needn’t have it said I cowered or you murdered me.”
“Armor or robes, those things will be said regardless.” Pyrust rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “How bad are things to the south?”
Cyron smiled weakly. “I tried to keep that from you.”
“You were right to. I have stripped my nation of those capable of fighting. I have united the Helosundians. We are heading south to fight the invaders.”
“Vroan is with you?”
“For as long as he is useful.”
The Naleni Prince nodded. “Destroy the westrons.”
“I’ll let the invaders do that.” Pyrust paused and looked around the room, at the golden wood and simple artistry of the Dragon Throne. “I can understand how you became complacent.”
“If that is what you understand, brother, then you understand nothing.” Cyron winced, then struggled to sit forward. “You see the Nine as an empire that needs reuniting.”
“As you did.”
“But I saw it as more. United as a people, in contact with the rest of the world, we could learn and teach. We could make life better.” Cyron slowly sagged back into the throne. “War can only destroy, not build.”
Pyrust pointed to the south. “We did not choose the war.”
“No, but you will use it. Only do not destroy so much that you cannot build again.”
Pyrust paused for a moment, allowing Cyron’s words to sink in. He would not have expected Cyron to beg for his own life, and was pleased that the Prince did not. It surprised him, on the other hand, that Cyron would offer advice. He has accepted his own death, but wishes his dream to live on.
Cyron’s dream surprised Pyrust. He’d seen bits and pieces of it and, as recently as the ride to the tower, had dismissed it as weakness. The fact was that Cyron’s looking beyond empire mocked Pyrust’s shortsightedness. He had always looked to empire for the sake of empire.
But what use is it for me to have my name on monuments that will be crushed if the Empire is not sustained? Growth is all that can sustain it. Soldiers may be able to guard and preserve, but war cannot advance a culture into a peaceful future.
The Desei Prince slowly nodded. “I will treat your request with the sincerity and thought it merits.”
Cyron nodded slowly. “Thank you.” He shifted his right arm, so the sword tipped forward and down. The scabbard half slid off, then he shook it the rest of the way clear. It clattered down the dais steps and lay halfway between them.
Pyrust drew his own sword. “I would keep you alive for the value of your ideas, brother, but you will become a rallying point for opposition. Even after I kill you and mount your head on a spear at the gate, there will be those who say I only killed an impostor. You’ll be reported in the east or west, the Helos Mountains; you’ll be in the company of Keru who are bearing your children. I’ll never be rid of the Komyr curse.”
“Shall I lift my chin so you can make the cut clean?” Cyron laughed. “I trust your blade will be sharper than the assassin’s. I’d not want to live through the first stroke.”
“It will be quick.” Pyrust took a step forward, bringing his blade back, but a rustling at the doorway caused him to turn.
A slender, dark-haired woman in a robe of jade, trimmed with jet, stood on the carpet. “Do not kill him.”
Pyrust lowered his sword and glanced at Cyron. “Are these the liberties you allow courtesans? She treads where only nobles may walk, and gives orders to princes?”
“Do not kill him.”
Pyrust stared at her. “You order me? Who do you think you are?”
The Lady of Jet and Jade looked at him with ageless eyes. “This is my Empire, Prince Pyrust. I am Cyrsa, and when I give you an order, you will obey.”
About the Author
Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning author, editor, game and computer game designer. As always, he spends his spare time playing indoor soccer and now has a new hobby, podcasting. Mike is currently at work on A New World, the sequel to Cartomancy, and ideas for a half-dozen other novels.
To learn more about Mike, please visit www.stormwolf.com (his website) and to learn more about podcasting, please visit www.tsfpn.com (the website of The SciFi Podcast Network).
BOOKS BY MICHAEL A. STACKPOLE
THE WARRIOR TRILOGY
Warrior: En Garde
Warrior: Riposte
Warrior: Coupé
THE BLOOD OF KERENSKY TRILOGY
Lethal Heritage
Blood Legacy
Lost Destiny
Natural Selection
Assumption of Risk
Bred for War
Malicious Intent
Grave Covenant
Prince of Havoc
Ghost War
THE FIDDLEBACK TRILOGY
A Gathering of Evil
Evil Ascendant
Evil Triumphant
Eyes of Silver*
Dementia
Wolf and Raven
Once a Hero*
Talion: Revenant*
STAR WARS® X-WING SERIES
Rogue Squadron*
Wedge’s Gamble*
The Krytos Trap*
The Bacta War*
Isard’s Revenge*
Star Wars®: I, Jedi*
Star Wars®: Dark Tide
Star Wars®: Onslaught
Star Wars®: Ruin
THE DRAGONCROWN WAR CYCLE
The Dark Glory War*
Fortress Draconis*
When Dragons Rage*
The Grand Crusade*
THE AGE OF DISCOVERY
A Secret Atlas*
*published by Bantam Books
CARTOMANCY
A Bantam Spectra Book / March 2006
Published by
Bantam Dell
A Division of
Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2006 by Michael A. Stackpole
Map by Michael Gellatly
Bantam Books is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc. Spectra and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Stackpole, Michael A.
Cartomancy/Michael A. Stackpole.
p. cm.—(The age of discovery; bk. 2)
eISBN-13: 978-0-553-90240-2
eISBN-10: 0-553-90240-7
I. Title.
PS3569.T137 C37 2006 2005054591
813/.54 22
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