Once inside, his brother immediately slipped away, which Keles had anticipated. Jorim started off on an arc through the crowd defined by the prettiest women present. He angled his way around toward the dance floor near the musicians, for Jorim’s reputation as a dancer had many anticipating his invitation.
The second thing was his sister approaching him, filling the vacuum Jorim had left. The visible concern on her face braced him for some sort of trouble. “Good evening, Nirati. Joy of the Festival to you.”
“And you, brother.” She linked her arm in his and drew him toward the room’s northwest corner, where the crowd thinned. “Mother has asked me to keep an eye on Jorim. The Viruk ambassador brought her consort, and he is a Viruk warrior. Mother is afraid that he may have heard tales of Jorim having slain Viruk on his travels. If he were to challenge Jorim . . .”
“Jorim would accept. And either way it turned out, there would be trouble. Do you wish help on that assignment?”
“No, but it will keep me occupied the whole of the evening, I fear. I do need to warn you of something else, though.”
“What?”
“Majiata is here. She arrived with a Desei noble exile of the Aerynnor family. Grandfather sent him an invitation and suggested he bring Majiata. He seems rather gracious, whereas she is . . . herself.”
Keles felt a barbed serpent begin to coil in his guts. “Do you want me to stay away from her? I really don’t care that she is here.” He put emphasis on his latter statement, hoping both of them could be convinced it was true.
“I trust you to use your judgment and all will be well.” Nirati kissed him on the cheek. “Actually, I want you to have fun. I’ll keep Jorim out of trouble for tonight, at least. After that, he’s your responsibility for the rest of the Festival.”
“Great.” Keles sighed, but smiled. “You have as much fun as you can as well. I’ll be careful and keep my eyes open.”
“Good. I love you, Keles.”
“And I you, Nirati. Go.”
His sister departed in a flash of gold silk, but Keles remained in the corner for a bit. The knowledge that Majiata had chosen to attend his grandfather’s birthday celebration surprised him. In the short time since she had been forced to return his ring, he’d let himself think back over their courtship. While they had been affianced for two years, during a considerable amount of that time he’d been traveling in the west, completing a survey of the navigable stretches of the Gold River. Back in the days of the Empire one could sail from the Dark Sea all the way to the coast, but the glaciers that had come in the Cataclysm’s wake had deposited much debris in the river. The Prince wanted to know what work would have to be done to make the river suitable for trade again, and Qiro had entrusted that job to Keles.
When he was in Moriande and not working, he had attended social gatherings. On the latter occasions Majiata had been with him and had been a perfect companion. She was polite and witty, rescuing him when he would let his enthusiasm carry him into detailed explanations of things that bored others to tears. When they were alone—and there had been precious little privacy outside of bed—Majiata had surrendered the maturity she had shown in public and become demanding, requesting gifts and throwing childish tantrums. He’d felt guilty for having spent so much time apart from her, so he weathered her moods, thinking that it would all be better once they were married and living together.
But recently he had begun to see what Nirati had likely seen from the beginning: these things would never get better. While some people are capable of change, most are not. Majiata had no motive to change because Keles acceded to her every demand. And her family was certainly telling her that what she was doing was right.
Keles shivered. In many ways it would have been easier had humans been as the Soth were rumored to be. The Soth went through each life stage with a period of hibernation in between. Like caterpillars that emerge as butterflies—though the Soth changes were not nearly as pretty—they reached points in their lives where radical changes were necessary. As legend had it, they found a place to hibernate, took months or years to reorder their thinking, then molded their shapes to suit and emerged new creatures, facing the world more wisely.
And the Soth Gloon are even supposed to be able to see the future—though to be seen by one brings dire consequences. He smiled. One must have seen me when I was first introduced to Majiata.
He wished he could just put Majiata out of his mind, but it wasn’t that easy. He could remember her smiles, her coos. While she’d not been very attentive to his needs, he still craved human contact. He wanted someone to look at him with eyes full of desire in the middle of the night, and the feeling he’d not know that again sent a trickle of fear through his bowels.
He shook his head, watching his brother move from knot to knot of giggling women. Jorim was all but a jaecai in the art of flirtation. He had an exotic air about him because of his hair, the bruise on his eye, and the stories he engendered. He was wild and unsafe, and the civilized women of the capital craved that.
Whereas I’m just safe.
Keles sighed. Women had never flocked to him as they did his brother—which was part of the reason he’d fallen so hard for Majiata. She had played him well, making him feel desired. And while he did want someone to share his life with, part of him wondered how he would ever know if he was being played, or if the interest was genuine.
The sharp crack of Keru spear butts on the floor announced the arrival of someone important. Keles glanced at the doorway, half-expecting to see Prince Cyron and his attendants, but instead he saw a single, tall man clad entirely in midnight blue, save for a gold ribbon swirling down his left arm. Prince Pyrust of Deseirion waited for the Keru to bring their spears back upright so he would not have to bow his head to get past their spearpoints. He waited, but they did as well, relenting only after the time one would have held a bow of respect for one of Imperial rank.
The man moved into the ballroom entrance then paused, giving the Keru the chance to watch his unprotected back. He reached up with his left hand to stroke his goatee. Though it and his light brown hair were shot with white, he did not look terribly old. Even at a distance, Keles saw that the Prince had lost the last two fingers on his left hand. A large ring of state rode on what would have been the middle finger.
Even Keles knew the story of that ring. While the conquest of Helosunde had taken place well before Pyrust ever took the Desei throne, the royal line of Helosunde had not been eliminated. After Pyrust became prince, they led a strong incursion into Helosunde and Pyrust himself had headed the army that opposed them. In his travels he was ambushed and wounded, losing both the fingers and the Desei ring of state. He survived, however, and in the subsequent battle shattered the Helosundian force, killing the Crown Prince. The new ring of state that he fashioned for himself came from the coronet he’d pulled from the Helosundian Prince’s head.
Keles started to move toward the Prince to greet him, and the Prince, seeing him, strode in Keles’ direction. He even held up a hand to stop Keles from leaving the corner. At ten feet the Prince stopped, allowing Keles to bow, and the bow was returned respectfully.
Pyrust looked him up and down. “You clearly are an Anturasi. Keles, I assume?”
“I am honored, Highness.”
“The honor is mine. I dreamed of meeting you.”
“A pleasant dream, I hope.”
“Quite.” The Prince approached and smiled carefully. “Anturasikun is lovely. I dreamed I was walking through it with my brother, Theyral. He would have been much taken with this place.”
“I did not know you had a brother, Highness. Did he not come with you?”
“No, he is dead.” Pyrust raised his half hand. “I’ll thank you for your as-yet-unexpressed sympathy. I feel his loss sometimes. And do not regret your not knowing him, for my family is obscure. Your family, of course, is well-known outside Nalenyr, and your work is the envy of cartographers everywhere. I see well why Prince Cyron guards you
so jealously.”
“The Prince’s concern for our welfare is much appreciated.” Keles felt a bit uncomfortable. “Would you like some wine, Highness? I would be honored to fetch some for you.”
“In a moment perhaps.” Pyrust stepped closer, his voice dropping, his hand resting on Keles’ forearm. “I have heard of the work you did in your study of the Gold River. You know the Black River runs through the heart of my nation?”
“Yes, my lord.” Keles agreed even though the Black River had long formed the boundary between Deseirion and Helosunde. “It is one of the three great rivers.”
“You needn’t be polite, Keles Anturasi, for I can see your unease.”
“Forgive me, sire.”
“Perhaps I will have cause to at some point, but your unease is good. It is a measure of your loyalty.” Pyrust’s hand came up, fingering one of the purple ribbons hanging from Keles’ shoulder. “I have need of a survey of the Black River.”
“I am afraid, Highness, that I would be unable to undertake such a venture.”
“Oh, yes, of course. I’d not ask that of you. I was hoping, by reputation, that you knew of any cartographers, here or in my realm, whom you would trust with such a task.” Pyrust gave the purple thread a tug, then let it go. “Of course, if ever you found Nalenyr a place where you no longer felt you could live, accommodations could be made in my realm.”
“Your Highness is very kind. I understand Deseirion is a beautiful nation.”
“It has its charms, though you know well that the glaciers that clogged the Gold River scraped portions of my realm down to bedrock. This is why the Desei are so tough—we work very hard to grind out an existence. As such, we are most eager to improve our situation. As I said, your help in the matter of the Black River would be greatly appreciated. If you were to undertake the expedition, I’m certain your family’s knowledge of my realm would be increased. Perhaps you will discuss this with your grandfather?”
“As my lord wishes.”
“Very good, thank you. Now, I will take some of that wine, if you do not mind.”
Keles nodded and guided the Prince toward the wine tables. He steered him away from his uncle Eoarch, to where the best wine waited. Keles himself took a cup filled with a Desei vintage, though he often found them too dry and bitter. Pyrust chose one of the sweet wines from Erumvirine, and they toasted each other’s health.
Several Naleni nobles approached and introduced themselves, freeing Keles from his duties as host. He didn’t drift very far away, in case he was needed, but Majiata and her escort stood just to his left. They conversed with another couple who looked vaguely familiar, but Keles could not remember their names. Next to Majiata stood the Viruk ambassador, her consort hulking beside her menacingly. His attention seemed drawn to the dance floor, and Keles knew without looking—primarily because of the song being played—that his brother was already entertaining some young woman.
Things happened very quickly from there, and while Keles had flashes of memories, it was not until later conversations with his family that he was able to fully reconstruct the events. Thinking back, he had tried to find any sense of foreboding. There was nothing—no unease, no warning from the gods, nothing—so events unfolded without warning. And very painfully.
Up above, in the room’s southeast corner, the Keru guards hammered the butts of their spears against the floor. This heralded the arrival of his grandfather. Qiro would make his appearance, be applauded and lauded. After that Prince Cyron would arrive, speeches would be made, and the celebration would continue in earnest.
At the sound Majiata had turned and stepped back, looking up as she did so. She bumped into the Viruk ambassador who, at that moment, had just raised her wine cup to her lips. The collision poured the cup’s contents down over the Viruk’s bosom and robe, staining it as if with blood. Ierariach hissed a curse in her native tongue which needed no translation.
Majiata’s own arm had been jostled with the impact, sloshing wine from her cup over her own sleeve and gown. Outrage purpling her face, she heard the oath and turned. In a quick explosion of anger and utterly without thought, she slapped the Viruk for her insolence. Fury narrowed her eyes and she even began to demand an apology from the ambassador.
But before a single word had left her mouth, the Viruk warrior pulled the ambassador back behind him with one hand and raised the other. His claws hooked and the hand quivered, high in the air. Keles remembered that clearly: the talons silhouetted against the ceiling. Then the hand came down and around in a sweeping slash that was intended to rake Majiata’s entrails from her body. So large was he in comparison to Majiata, the blow might even have cut her cleanly in half.
The Desei count grabbed Majiata and spun her about. Wine sprayed like blood. He tried to impose himself between her and the claws, but even his most valiant effort could not succeed. Majiata, locked in her rage, resisted him, dooming herself.
Keles, seeing it all unfold as if he were a Soth Gloon and reading the future, reacted in an instant. He dove and hit the Viruk in the flank with both hands. The impact shocked him, snapping his wrists back. He’d have had an easier time toppling a stone obelisk, but his effort was not wholly in vain. He did manage to knock the Viruk off-balance enough that the swipe would have missed Majiata cleanly.
Unfortunately, his dive carried him within the circle of the Viruk’s blow. The heel of the Viruk’s hand caught Keles square over the left shoulder blade, bowing his back. The cartographer left his feet and flew into the crowd, scattering people before slamming down hard. He landed on his chest and bounced once, then flipped over and skidded. He felt the cold stone against his back, which meant the claws had ripped through overshirt, shirt, and flesh. He looked back along his trail and saw blood smeared on the floor.
Oh, this is not good. He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. He attempted to sit up, but couldn’t do that, either. Mercifully, before panic completely possessed him, he blacked out as the first silver agonies began to gnaw into his back.
Chapter Ten
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
Prince Cyron had been waiting with his entourage just outside the Grand Ballroom. He would have been content to have gone in immediately, but his Minister of Protocol had been very precise in explaining he should enter after Qiro Anturasi had been welcomed. In that way, Qiro would be seen as being more important than Prince Pyrust, would be acknowledged as host, and yet be seen as subordinate to the Crown.
While much of that struck Cyron as silliness, he abided by it. His father had seen his impatience with such shows of manners, but pointed out that it was such manners that were the ligaments and tendons of society. If I ignore them, others will do so as well, and so the whole of society will collapse. He was not certain he entirely believed his father’s words, but during the high Festivals, observing convention did provide a certain amount of ceremonial excitement.
Screams from within the ballroom suggested another kind of excitement. The two Keru guards at the door bolted into the room and the Prince’s head came around fast enough that he saw a limp body in gold on the downward part of an arc. The guards, snapping orders and brandishing their spears, cleared a path to the origin point of that arc. Cyron cut around to where the man had landed. The violence had stunned many of the crowd to immobility, so the Prince’s path was not obstructed, and he reached the bleeding man’s side quickly.
Keles Anturasi? The Prince couldn’t have imagined what Keles could have done to have been subjected to such an attack. Jorim, certainly, but Keles?
He dropped to his knees on the man’s left side, while a young woman knelt at Keles’ right. The Prince recognized her as Nirati and saw her gown had already grown red at the knees. She was desperately trying to roll her brother over,
and the Prince helped her accomplish that task.
Four ragged slashes had been torn in Keles’ overshirt low on the left side of his back. They ended before his spine and welled with blood. No blood spurted, which the Prince knew was good. No artery had been severed, but the amount of blood soaking his clothes and smeared along the floor left no doubt the wounds were deep.
Cyron pulled his own overshirt over his head, tugging it free of the sash, and laid it over Keles’ back. He pressed his hands to the wounds and Nirati did likewise, despite the paleness of her face and the quiver in her lower lip. Her mother slid through the crowd and knelt at the Prince’s side.
“Thank you, Highness, but I will . . .”
“No, Mistress Anturasi, no.” Cyron lifted his head. “Where is my physician? Geselkir! Get over here, or you and your entire school will forever be barred from Crown service.”
A portly man wearing formal robes of purple that featured a lengthy train and impossibly long sleeves appeared at the head of the blood trail. “Highness?”
“You have work to do, now.”
The man lifted his hands; the overlong sleeves hung limply to his knees. “But my robe!”
“It will be your shroud if Keles Anturasi dies.”
One of the Keru poked the physician in the backside with the butt of a spear. The man waddled forward, his gown’s train sopping up a good deal of the blood. He struggled down to his knees and took over from the Prince, then began issuing orders, commandeering various guests into service.
The Prince got up and followed the Keru to where two others stood beside the Viruk ambassador and her consort. The Keru whispered to him the story of what had happened as they approached the Viruk. The warrior had his hands lifted, and blood stained the claws on his left hand. The Prince also noticed the clear print of a hand on the ambassador’s face and the wash of wine over the front of her gown. To their right he also saw a young woman hiding her face against the breast of a tall man wearing the colors of a Desei exile.
A Secret Atlas Page 9
