Cyron smiled. “Let us cast aside pretense. I want you to know I do not see your attendance here as any acknowledgment of my nation’s superiority, even though my dynasty is nearly twice the age of yours. I also thank you for the gift of the fine woods and carvings that you had sent to us.”
The northern Prince stiffened. “I would hope you do not read the wrong thing into the simplicity of our gift.”
“I do not.” The Desei had sent fine hardwoods, well seasoned, that the Prince’s artisans drooled over, and the finished goods that arrived had won admiration from all who saw them. Cyron had even kept a small traveling chess set for himself before distributing the rest of the works among his ministers and friends. The only difficulty with the Desei gift was its overall size, for they should have offered much more than they did.
Cyron leaned forward. “You are aware that Erumvirine sent a million quor of rice to us as a gift?”
Pyrust’s eyes hardened. “News of their largesse runs rampant throughout Moriande. Even the deaf and the dead know of it.”
“And news of your lean harvest is likewise known.” Cyron deliberately chose the word “lean” because the truth was so harsh it could have whipped flesh from the bone. It had been a dry year, and the Black River had not flooded, so the rice crop all but failed in Deseirion. With a quor being enough rice to feed a man for a year, the Desei harvest had left them with barely half a quor per person.
“It is my intent, Prince Pyrust, to honor the Erumvirine gift by distributing their black rice among my people.”
“Your people, then, will be fat and happy.”
“Happy, indeed, for that is what I wish for them.” Cyron pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and rested his chin on his fingertips. “I intend to take a million quor of our gold rice and send it north, to Deseirion.”
Pyrust covered his surprise well, but only with suspicion. “Why would you do this?”
“I would have thought my motives transparent.” Cyron exhaled, straightening up. “Your people will suffer this winter and some will die. If your harvest next year is as bad—which my astrologers suggest is quite possible—you will have one choice. That will be to move south with troops and take what you want and need from my nation. The thing of it is that after a year of famine, your army will be weaker, so you will have to move now, this year, and within the next month, or the disaster cannot be averted. A fool would wait until next year, and you are not a fool.”
“You say I am not a fool, but you seek to bribe me with food.”
“I don’t think a wolf is a fool, but if food cast out to it will keep it from entering my home, I will feed it.”
Pyrust’s face closed for a moment, then he nodded. “You put me in a difficult position. Food is what my nation needs immediately, and you offer it. Not freely; I expect a price of some sort. Since you are also not a fool, I know that price will be dear. But you also know the inequality of food is not the overwhelming disparity between our nations. I have dreamed of what is. As you explore and trade with the rest of the world, you grow more wealthy. If I let you bribe me with food and gold, I will grow dependent on you; and then when you cut me off, my nation collapses.”
“I will not dispute your reading of the future, Prince Pyrust, but I will maintain it is but one future of many.”
“Ha! You wish to reunite the Principalities into an empire just as much as any other prince. Only you would buy us instead of take us.”
Cyron raised an eyebrow. “Peaceful consolidation of an empire is a vice?”
The northern ruler hesitated. “It’s not the way of things. Your brother knew that. Your action reduces the rest of us to slaves. It destroys our spirits.”
“And being conquered doesn’t?”
“Those who survive a war of conquest are cowards. Those with spirit will have died in the defense of their nation.”
The Prince of the Naleni nodded. “Let me explain things to you carefully, then. I will ship grain north, but only at intervals. If your army invades, the warehouses and way stations will be burned. I will draw you south with my army while my fleet burns Felarati. The Helosundians have far more people under arms than you imagine, and as you move south, they will move in behind you, cutting off your supplies. Your army will starve. Once I have crushed your army, I will move north with food and win over your people, establish a Helosundian regent for Deseirion, and unite all three realms under my banner.”
“It sounds good when you say it, my brother-prince, but crushing my army will take more than a long march and rebels running through mountains.” Pyrust held his hands up. “But the future you outline is possible. It will profit neither of us. This leaves me asking what you will demand for the rice?”
“My ministers will meet with yours, but what I want is a cessation of the Helosundian campaign. I want you to withdraw your troops from the field.”
The Desei leader thought for a moment, then nodded. “You could have gotten more from me. A pact of nonaggression for five years.”
Cyron shook his head. “You would not honor it, nor would I have trusted you to.”
Both leaders fell silent, but the echoes of gasps from ministers filled the air. The two men did smile at that.
Pyrust frowned. “Your defense of your realm would work whether or not you were willing to give me food. Why, then, do you not let me starve?”
“Because you will not starve, my brother.” Cyron shook his head ever so lightly. Why don’t you understand? “Your people will starve. My desire is to save them from pain and death.”
“But they mean nothing to you.”
“But they should, shouldn’t they?”
“There are some who would argue in favor of that point, yes.” Pyrust stood slowly. “I am not one of them. The power we have is power to exercise for the glory of our dynasties. It is not enough to survive. We must prosper, and others must be made to bow and acknowledge our superiority.”
Those could have been my brother’s dying words. Cyron rose as well. “This could be true, Prince Pyrust; but if it is, it won’t be happening this year.”
Pyrust smiled. “No, but there are many years to come.”
Chapter Thirteen
3rd 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
Keles Anturasi became aware of the buzz of murmured voices as he woke, almost because of their abrupt silence as he stirred. The stinging scent of smelling salts still filled his head and he sneezed, once—violently—reigniting the ripping pains in his back. He felt tightness, where his flesh had been stitched closed, but it felt as if red-hot wire had been used for the sutures, and ground glass had been bound into his wounds.
He gasped and wanted to cry out, but his dry throat and thick tongue prevented it. He lay on his stomach and tried to lift his head, but even that simple movement sent a pulse of pain through him. He bit at the pillow and managed a growl as a fat man’s pale hand brought smelling salts near him again.
The man’s voice came distant and disdainful. “He must lie still or he will reopen the wounds. He has slept long enough for the poultices to draw most of the poison, and for the lacerations to begin to heal, but things are still delicate.”
Keles couldn’t place that voice, but his mother’s followed. “You are certain he will be well?”
“My lady, I am the Prince’s own physician.”
“I know this very well, Geselkir, but the question is how hard do you wish me to use my influence with the royal house on your behalf?”
“Well, really!”
Keles smiled, despite feeling as if his insides were drifting within a shell of pain. His mother did not often reveal her steely nature. On those few times she did she invariably got her way.
“You are still of the opinion that he cannot be taken to attend the healing
tomorrow evening?”
“Under no circumstances. I was adamant at the start about that, and have not changed my mind.” Disgust infused the physician’s words. “The healing is superstitious nonsense, and dangerous as well. The Prince’s pet may be docile, but he was not always so. He could revert at any time. To allow one of the vanyesh to live is unthinkable.”
“It is not the vanyesh’s life which concerns me, Geselkir.”
“Keles should remain quiet for several days. I will return to remove the stitching. Keep the wounds clean, change the poultices often, and he will do very well. If there is redness, especially if it spreads, you will tell me.”
“You will see it yourself when you visit him.”
“My lady, if you think . . . yes, of course, as you desire.”
Drawing in as deep a breath as he could muster, Keles studied the pain in his back. He discovered a dull ache in his ribs lurking beneath the fiery lines in his flesh. The sharper pain in his back throbbed—four distinct lines of it, each in its own time as if a fiddle string was being plucked at random. He let his breath out slowly, hoping some of the pain might fade, but instead it just thrummed in a new, jagged melody.
He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of a rotund man still wearing a Festival robe. The brownish stains at the knee and on the sleeves were obviously blood, and undoubtedly his. Keles dimly recalled some sort of commotion, but his throbbing skull prevented him from being able to remember anything clearly.
Keles tucked his chin toward his chest and looked at his mother. She, too, wore the gown from the previous night. He knew she hadn’t slept, but she looked as beautiful as ever. Beyond her stood his sister, likewise pretty, but wearing everyday clothing. She had not slept much either, but Keles was certain their mother had sent her off to bed at some point.
Keles tried a grin and it worked. His voice did, too, in a croak. “How long have I been sleeping?”
From near his head Geselkir offered, “Not long enough.”
Siatsi smiled at her son. “You will sleep more, but it was important we wake you now. Thank you, dicaifixtsi, you are excused.”
“If you think for one moment I approve of what you are going to do, you are sorely mistaken, Mistress Anturasi.”
“Your concern is noted.”
“I don’t think you understand. You have made him my responsibility. The Prince has made Keles my responsibility. What you are about to do—”
“—is necessary.” His mother’s voice remained even, but her expression was unrelenting. “You give me no choice. You’ve said he cannot go to the healing, so I must bring it to him.”
“It is dangerous nonsense, worse than subjecting him to the vanyesh. You risk your son’s life.”
“Have you changed your mind about the healing?”
“No, and I resent your questioning my judgment in this matter.”
“Do you?” Siatsi’s chin came up. “Exactly how many claw wounds from a Viruk warrior have you treated?”
“Well . . .”
“Would that be none?”
“I have seen them.” His voice grew small. “After death.”
“Wait outside.”
“Gladly. I shall not be a party to this.”
Keles waited for the doctor to leave, then looked at his sister. “Water.”
His mother held her back. “Not yet.”
“But I need water.” Keles fought to speak clearly, but his throat closed.
Siatsi squatted down to bring her face on a level with his. “You need something else first. Nirati, please bring our guest.”
His sister departed without a word and quickly returned leading the Viruk ambassador. At the sight of her, a flutter began in Keles’ belly. She came close enough for him to catch a hint of her scent, and perspiration immediately blossomed on his brow and upper lip. His breathing came harder and his lower lip trembled. His stomach clenched and he almost lost control of his bowels.
Ierariach stood back away from him. “The nesginesfal is in him. I can prevent it doing any lasting damage, if you please.”
His mother nodded. “Please.”
“Stand away from him.” The Viruk came no closer, but as his mother moved behind her, she pressed her hands together, palm to palm, with fingers pointing toward him. She crossed her thumbs—he wasn’t sure why he noticed that, but he did. Then her hands shot away from each other like stags leaping away from dogs.
The air between her hands shimmered, much as it did above a sun-baked rock. Her form rippled and shifted, then a blast of heat slammed into Keles. It poured into him along the stripes on his back, liquefying the ground glass and searing his flesh. Hot bile from his stomach burned up into his throat and how he refrained from vomiting he did not know. The pain, which had been sharp, melted into soft flows, but that only lasted for a heartbeat or two. The heat spiked, hurting him enough that he cried out, then went limp. Strength drained from him as a chill seeped through damp sheets and into his skin.
Keles labored to breathe. He shivered a bit and wanted to roll onto his side so he could draw his knees up, but he could not. Each breath felt as if he were lifting the whole of his family’s tower, and each exhalation sounded as if it might be his last.
He would have been worried that it would be, save for his mother’s whispered question. “What do we do now?”
The ambassador spoke plainly, but also in subdued tones. “The poultices will not hurt. Keeping the wounds clean will be good as well. He should remain in bed for several days—I know his grandfather will not wish this, but I have an ancient chart that might buy your son the time he needs. Mild meals, and no meat to anger the blood.”
His mother nodded. “Your magic has cured him?”
“Some.” The ambassador nodded toward him. “The venom may yet have some residual effects.”
“What do you mean?”
“I will show you.” From the sleeve of her robe she drew a handkerchief and used it to mop the perspiration from her brow. She stepped toward him, then brought the kerchief to his nose. “Can you smell my scent, Keles?”
He breathed in, though not deeply, for fear of starting the fire in his back again. At the first hint of her scent, however, his gorge rose and he could not restrain it. He vomited over the cloth and her hand. Worse, his bowels let loose and his bladder as well. His body convulsed. He threw up again, then aspirated a bit of vomit, which started him coughing.
The ambassador whipped away the pillow and held his head as he vomited one more time. He coughed again, hard, and the pain exploded in his back. He choked, coughed, and couldn’t breathe. He fought for air, unsuccessfully, and with agony wracking him once more, the world narrowed and became black.
Chapter Fourteen
4th 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
Ministry of Harmony, Liankun
Moriande, Nalenyr
Pelut Vniel looked up from the small table at which he knelt. A long rectangle of rice paper lay on it. The black pinecone he’d quickly brushed there glistened wetly. He set the brush down and smiled as Kan Hisatal bowed.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Minister Hisatal.”
“It is my pleasure to answer your summons with alacrity, Minister.” The heavyset man held his bow for a second more than required by protocol, then took one step forward and sank to his knees at the edge of the floor. “How may this one be of service?”
Pelut did not answer as his clerk, Iesol Pelmir, knelt and cleared the low table. The clerk—a slight and bald man—meekly and precisely set the table aside without disturbing the painting, then shuffled over to Hisatal and gave him a pillow on which to kneel. The clerk withdrew to his corner, where he knelt on the bare wooden floor, and Hisatal’s hesitation betrayed surprise that the clerk remained.
This pleased Pelut. Hisatal had come expecting a private conversation,
as many of their conversations prior to his departure on the Stormwolf had been. Neither of them wanted a witness to what was said. Iesol’s presence suggested that either the minor clerk was soon to be elevated, or that what was to be said would be safe for wide currency. Neither is true, but if he assumes it is, he will be looking for hidden meanings. He will be off-balance, and I want that.
Pelut looked up. “We have several things to discuss, you and I, concerning the future. Your future, and how it shapes the nation’s future.”
“May it be of benefit to both of us.”
And you think I do not know all the nuances of your statement. Pelut resisted the urge to smile and instead slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe, thereby emphasizing his superior stature. As with any member of the bureaucracy, he wore a blue robe with a gold sash. While the two others wore cotton, Pelut wore silk, and his cuffs and hem were decorated with wide gold cloth bands. All three had the Naleni dragon embroidered in purple on the ends of the sash, but Pelut also had it on the gold bands at his sleeves. He was in a position of power both of them hungered for, and Hisatal especially needed to be reminded of that fact.
“The most important first, then . . .”
Hisatal nodded, betraying himself. “I do not think Keles Anturasi’s being shifted from the Stormwolf should affect the expedition in any way. Its outcome will be the same.”
For you, yes. Pelut cocked his head to the right. “No, Minister, the most important first.”
The heavyset man’s mouth snapped shut and his jowls jiggled. He glanced down quickly and color rose to his cheeks. “Forgive me, Minister.”
“Your error is understandable, Minister.” Pelut straightened his head but did not smile. “The most important item is the Prince’s notion of sending grain to the Desei. He has done this despite our best attempts to dissuade him. Grand Minister Lynesorat was less than forceful in making our case to the Prince. This leaves us in quite a muddle.”
Hisatal nodded gravely. “The Helosundians have initiated protests over many ministerial contacts. They have spoken to me even though they know I am leaving. They see this as Prince Cyron’s subsidization of the enemy and are not pleased.”
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