“I keep telling her she’s like Empress Cyrsa. She will find her talent.”
“I know, Keles. I agree, but Cyrsa’s story is one that salves the wound for children.”
“How did it turn out for her?”
His mother shrugged. “She said it was good, but talked more about a little boy from the south. You talk to her, see what you can learn.”
“I will. So there was no change?”
“There might have been, but she said it might take time. You know your sister. She’s no more patient than your brother in most things.” Siatsi smiled. “In fact, she is impatient in everything save dealing with your grandfather.”
“That’s true, but I would rather she followed your footsteps than his.”
“So would I, but she would gladly be a cartographer. You’ll have to be kind to her. I think had she found a talent for mapmaking, she would have offered to go in your place.”
“If anyone is less suited to go than I am, it would be Nirati.”
His mother smiled. “I agree, but your brother didn’t.”
“No?”
“He said you were equally ill suited to it. He said if it didn’t kill you or maim you, the journey would drive you insane. Then he said he would give anything to be going in your place.”
Keles managed a chuckle. “He would, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, but he knew you’d not let him—though he did advance a plan where you could trade identities.”
“Wouldn’t work. As I send information to Grandfather he would know of the deception.”
“Jorim agreed that was true, but thought if the deception were maintained, only the family need know.”
“No. Too many others would know, from the crew of the Stormwolf to whoever accompanies me.” Keles sighed. “Unless Qiro changes his mind, or the Prince issues orders to the contrary, I shall be bound for Ixyll.”
His mother nodded solemnly. “Jorim said you would feel honor-bound to go.”
“He knows me well.” But does he know me well enough? He doesn’t think I can even survive. Is he right?
Keles had made journeys for years, and had conducted surveys, but always close to or within Nalenyr. It had not been because anyone thought he could not have gone further, but because things like the survey of the upper reaches of the Gold River were vital, and Keles remained focused on the task at hand. Being able to focus like that had made him successful, but he had to wonder how useful that skill would be on a trip into places where magic could and often did warp the landscape.
He laughed. Even wondering about that showed his focus—and the problem with it. The wild magic out there warped everything—plants, animals, relics—and yet he was concerned about the geography. It was not going to be a mountain becoming a plain that would kill him, but the weirder, less predictable curiosities in that land.
He smiled at his mother. “Jorim will take a trip that will test his skills to the utmost, for he will have to do what I do well and what he does well, both at the same time. On the other hand, I will have to learn to survive the way he does and how to change quickly and adapt, as fast or faster than the realm into which I wander. Not an easy job for either of us.”
“Indeed not.” Siatsi smiled, then kissed Keles’ brow. “Sleep. Heal. That is what you must do now, if you are to stand any chance at success later.”
“Do you think I will succeed, mother?”
She nodded. “Beyond the ability of any of us to dream.”
Chapter Seventeen
6th 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
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
“Sister, you worry too much.” Jorim Anturasi slowly shook his head as they passed through a gantlet of Keru guardswomen to reach the large reception hall in Kojaikun. “The least the healing could have done was cure you of that.”
Nirati quickly stuck her tongue out at him.
The sixth day of Festival was always given over to the honoring of heroes. To make a point and annoy Prince Pyrust, Prince Cyron had chosen to hold it in the tower most associated with Helosunde. Prince Pyrust had sent his regrets and the Helosundians viewed that as a victory of sorts.
Nirati, wearing a green silk gown with yellow, red, and blue birds embroidered on it, gave her younger brother a hard stare. “There is not a night of heroes I can recall when you did not end up in some sort of fight.”
“Youthful indiscretions.”
“Would that a healing could cure you of those.” Her expression softened ever so slightly. “Mother has entrusted us with the family honor, so please be careful.”
“Yes, Nirati, I will.” Jorim paused with her at the doorway to the long, rectangular hall. It had been finished entirely in blond wood, with lighting coming through panels papered over with ivory rice paper. The color of the wood reminded everyone of the Keru and their dedication to the Prince’s service.
He surveyed the room and the gaily robed guests, then gave his sister a smile. “I see no Viruk, so I doubt there will be trouble.”
Nirati’s green eyes became slits. “You remember what you were instructed to say about that?”
Jorim sighed. “Keles is resting comfortably, full recovery expected, in no danger, won’t even see the scars, looking forward to his journey—which he doesn’t even know about unless he’s come awake in the last hour.”
“Jorim!”
“I know, Nirati. I will not say what I should not.”
“And you won’t get into trouble.”
He gave her a hard stare, but she had learned well from their mother. And I have always been her younger brother, which gives her an advantage I cannot undo. While she might be hard on him, she was also protective, and that was something he was reluctant to surrender no matter the cause.
“I won’t get into trouble.”
“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, go have fun.”
“As if that’s possible. I’m going, I’m going.” He smiled into her reproving glare, then moved into the hall and let himself drift. Not for the first time he studied the gathering the way he viewed savage peoples. He didn’t do it with a sense of superiority, only curiosity.
I bet even they don’t know what they reveal about themselves, they are so busy playing their games. To Jorim, a great deal was obvious just from a casual glance. The most important people had taken up positions around the room where they could be seen easily, but not cut off. Rarely was anyone with true power in a corner, though several people who wished to be perceived as having power had taken up positions there.
Lesser personages usually had someone with them—someone of a higher social station—to lend them some sort of legitimacy. Had Jorim chosen to extend an invitation to various women of his acquaintance, he, too, could have had someone on his arm. Women would have fought for the honor—not to be seen with him per se, but to be seen by older men who might take them as mistresses, or dowagers who were looking for someone to bear grandchildren for them. As he watched, that very scenario played itself out a dozen times or more.
Politics and politicians ran a circuit through the room. Likewise the social pressures caused currents, and gossip of both varieties raced. Courtiers and sycophants jockeyed for position awaiting the arrival of the Prince, in hopes they would be able to get a word with him, or at least be noticed.
While friends did meet friends at the gathering, the greetings were brief and fulfilled the minimum demands of social intercourse. There would be time for true friends later in Festival, after the day of Mourning and before the glory of the Prince would be celebrated. On the night of heroes, all those gathered wished to be seen as heroes, so acted in a way they thought full of mythic import.
Jorim didn’t see himself as a hero, though he hoped some people did—and he acknowledged that as a paradox springing from self-de
ception the moment it occurred to him. He had gone places, seen and done things that few in the room could match. While many of them would thrill to his exploits and claim that someday they would like to do the same thing, they preferred the safety of their homes and stable lives. He couldn’t blame them for that, and he didn’t despise them for it.
He just knew it wasn’t for him.
There were those who would claim that it was hatred or fear of his grandfather that prompted him to go so far away, but they were wrong. First off, they didn’t understand that his journeys required him to be very close to his grandfather. The skill for cartography ran strong in the Anturasi bloodline, and with that came the ability—through training and study—for both Jorim and Keles to enter a sort of mental communion with their grandfather. By concentrating very hard and holding information in their minds for a time, they could share basic data with him. He would immediately add it to his maps of the world. Sketching in vast vistas had to wait for their return; but distances traveled, the height of mountains, and other such information could be transmitted over the miles.
Keles was much better at it than Jorim, primarily because he had worked so hard to train his twin. In Nirati’s case the training had been for nothing, since she did not possess that skill. That was not all bad. It meant Qiro did not see her as a threat and, therefore, saw no reason to put her in danger. Jorim, while being able to send information to his grandfather, was not as precise as Keles, and whenever he returned to Moriande, he braced himself for discipline.
No, Jorim went out into the world not to escape his grandfather, but because he loved experiencing the variety of things out there. He allowed his curiosity to govern him, and trusted in his luck to keep him safe. No matter how close he had come to death, his desire to see more and do more had not been squelched.
And now I get the Stormwolf. The ship’s keel had been laid before he went on his last expedition. Jorim had fully expected that Keles would be given the honor of that trip, and that had made him jealous. That was why he’d mentioned the Gryst device to Qiro, in the slender hope it might win him a berth on the ship, too.
Jorim was at once elated and apprehensive about the trip. It would allow him to sate his curiosity. They would be going into a part of the world no one knew existed outside fable and legend, from the Mountains of Ice to whatever lay beyond the Eastern Sea. He would be able to discover things, bring back samples, and add to the world—shaping and defining it with every mile traveled. What was rumor would become fact, what was legend would be proved true or false, and whatever was unknown would become known. He would be there to make all that happen, to the greater glory of his nation and his family.
At the same time Jorim had hoped Qiro would keep Keles close and train him to take over. He’d looked forward to actually communicating data to his brother instead of his grandfather, for he was certain the bond would be tighter and allow for a faster exchange of more information. And speed in the race to discover the world could not be underestimated.
Keles’ journey into the wastelands scared Jorim, for he’d gotten far enough into the wilds to see places where the Cataclysm had changed things, albeit centuries ago. The wild magic unleashed when the Empress’s troops had met the Turasynd hordes had exploded out of Ixyll and washed over half the known world. Skies had darkened, and black snows had fallen early and deep. The histories told of years without summer, which is when the die-off of peoples began. Before the Cataclysm, the Empire had boasted tens of millions of people. Within a decade, the Principalities had been reduced to maybe hundreds of thousands. Most of them clustered in the central river valleys of the three largest Principalities, while others clung to existence however they were able.
Unpredictable weather, coming from the northwest where titanic magical storms raged, had battered the Principalities for another century, with the nine days of the Harvest Festival being the closest approximation to summer. Imperial civilization all but collapsed, and chaos would have reigned had the bureaucrats not maintained order. While the histories of those hard times praised the ministers and functionaries, Jorim realized they must have been much like their modern counterparts. While annoying, they had served a purpose, and that purpose kept people alive long enough to begin a slow recovery.
Jorim knew his dismissal of their efforts was overly harsh, and based on discussions he’d had with Keles when they were younger. Keles had said that just maintaining order and organizing shipments of food was a heroic effort. Jorim had replied that the ministers had been too complacent, seeking order above all else, thereby smothering the sort of ambition that might have allowed the Principalities to recover faster. Each brother had to allow that the other might be right; but with no way to prove their arguments, it became a difference of opinion they both acknowledged and somehow found comforting.
Jorim got himself a small cup of wine and sipped it as he moved through the crowd. He looked for others who, like him, remained detached. A few, by their dress, were foreigners who knew no one. Others were famous or infamous, depending upon how one chose to view them. He found the Lady of Jet and Jade along a narrow wall, protected by several of her protégés.
He hid a smile behind his cup. She was still gorgeous despite her years. He’d heard stories suggesting she had been the concubine to princes even before the Komyr dynasty was founded. He wondered if that were true, or if the woman presiding over the House of Jade Pleasure inherited the title and assumed a role as part of a legend. He was not certain why she would be considered a hero, but many were the heroes who visited her house of entertainment.
I wonder if the Prince will send me to her when the Stormwolf comes back? He considered approaching her and introducing himself, but her aides seemed very selective. So he kept his distance and saved himself the humiliation of being turned away.
Wandering further, he noticed two men in the crowd, the younger one holding a cup of wine but not drinking, the older one watching with restless eyes. The younger one’s belt had been knotted with a swordsman’s knot, but neither of them wore swords. No one would be allowed to do so in the Prince’s presence, so this came as no surprise, but the younger man looked uneasy. Even with that discomfort, however, he did seem more accustomed to such grand surroundings than his companion.
Jorim looked through the crowd again and discovered a couple more individuals who looked equally like swordsmen, but they stood with their employers. None was as watchful as the older man, but he put that down to a familiarity with such gatherings and their confidence that nothing untoward would unfold. Anyone mad enough to start trouble there would find it ended by the Keru.
No one in this city is that insane, save perhaps Kaerinus. Jorim, as with every child in Nalenyr, had grown up fearing the last of the vanyesh. He’d once asked Keles why the sorcerer had been allowed to live, if everyone feared him so, and his brother just gave him a hard stare. Then he lowered his voice, and said, “If they could kill him, don’t you think they would have? He can’t die.”
This had made him more terrifying, and Nirati’s description of him hadn’t eased Jorim’s mind at all. The official story, which people told but did not believe, was that he had returned from the west with his mind shattered, reduced to that of a child. While incredibly powerful, he wished only to heal and do good things. If that were true, however, why would the Naleni princes keep him captive in Xingnakun?
Not for the first time, the parallel between Kaerinus’ fate and that of his grandfather struck Jorim. The sorcerer had been imprisoned because of the harm he might do, and Qiro’s freedom might be similarly harmful. Were his charts to fall into the hands of the Virine or the Desei, they could compete with Nalenyr. The Naleni economy would collapse, but before that, Prince Cyron would have to go to war to destroy his enemies.
Jorim took a big swallow of his wine. Perhaps Keles had not been so wrong. While it might take a great deal of effort for Jorim to hack his way through a swamp, capture some lizard, and bring it back to the Prince, the mor
e heroic effort might be required to make sure there was a Nalenyr for him to return to. When I come back on the Stormwolf how much of Moriande, how many of these people, will still be here?
He looked around, uncertain how to answer that. He pushed the dark thought away. He could think on that tomorrow, on the day of Mourning. Tonight was a time to celebrate and enjoy. As this might be the last night of heroes any of us ever sees, I shall make the most of it.
Chapter Eighteen
6th 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
Kojaikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Nirati let her brother go reluctantly. She felt confident he would not seek trouble, but also she knew there were times when it sought him. Still, at this gathering, he was more likely to be lionized as a hero and questioned about his exploits than to be challenged by someone in his cups. She wished him a night of peace because the coming voyage would likely afford him few.
She moved into the room and around to the left, taking a course that would not bring her around to Jorim until the far side. The robe she had chosen had all the artistry of the one she’d worn at her grandfather’s party, but not the formal cut. The silken trousers beneath allowed her freedom of movement that would make dancing a pleasure instead of a battle against gravity and the entanglements of a longer robe. She’d even done some of the embroidery herself and took pride in it.
She took a good look at the embroidery and tried to evaluate how good she was at it. Since the healing, she’d been reexamining her life, looking at the world with new eyes. My talent is there, I’m sure. Now I just have to find it. But where?
She caught sight of the Lady of Jet and Jade and wondered at her skills. So many possibilities opened up. Nirati might be able to do anything. Could I be a concubine? She wondered what it would be like to be one of the Lady of Jet and Jade’s students. Would it be possible to be so learned in the art of love that it would become a magical experience? For Nirati, whose carnal experience was limited to the inept fumblings of servants and drunken noblemen, that idea seemed as wondrous as it was distant.
A Secret Atlas Page 15
