Cyron half closed his eyes and waved the suggestion away. “Hardly. I merely wondered if Prince Pyrust ever suffered nightmares?”
“I can inquire, Highness.” Grand Minister Vniel let his smile broaden. “I do think, however, that Prince Pyrust will soon have news that disturbs his sleep. It is likewise my hope that this news will allow you to sleep that much more soundly.”
“Thank you. I hope you are correct.” Cyron gave the man a slight smile and hoped it covered the trickle of ice running up his spine. You’re one of the vultures, aren’t you? I hear what you say, I see what you want me to see, and what I say goes through you. A sense of peace came over him as that bit of the mystery cleared up.
Now, who are the ants and from whence do they come? His eyes sharpened. And when they come, can I stop them?
Chapter Fifty-one
2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Thyrenkun, Felarati
Deseirion
Sweet grey smoke drifted up over the soothsayer’s face. The dim light allowed the incense’s cherry glow to impart some color to his wrinkled features, but mostly it made his face a spiderweb of black. His eyes—half-closed, milky white, and all but sightless—glistened wetly in the smoke. Leathery skin hung somewhat loosely, as if he had once been corpulent but had wizened through years untold.
Pyrust sat there patiently, cloaked in the darkness of a hood. The soothsayer had only been told that he was one of the Prince’s advisors. Pyrust had even donned a glove with two filled fingers to disguise his maiming. The incense’s scent calmed him even as the smoke made his eyes tear. He kept his breathing shallow when the smoke drifted over him, then sucked in fresher air when the opportunity arose.
The soothsayer’s voice sank deep, resonating with a strong timbre. “Beware, Hawk-Prince, the howls of the bitch in heat. She would rob you of all flight. Lairing in a den of earth, she would keep you from the nest and from soaring, as a Hawk must do. The Hawk thinks he understands her yapping, but his ears are made for better things.”
The skeletal man reached beneath the small table between them and produced a brass bowl and an egg. The seer moved the egg through the smoke, letting the grey vapor wreath it. He held it up with his fingertips, then opened his hand and let it rest in his palm. With his other hand, he grasped the edge of the bowl. He cracked the egg with one hand and emptied its contents.
“There! See? See?” The old man cast aside the eggshell and held the bowl up with both hands so Pyrust could peer into it. The hanging candles above and behind him did cast enough light to show him a yellow yolk shot with blood. Pyrust recoiled and the old man lowered the bowl.
His voice returned to a whisper. “That egg was laid by a chicken in Thyrenkun. The chicken drank the urine of Princess Jasai. Her evil humors are thus revealed. It is a sign the Prince cannot be allowed to ignore. To heed her brings disaster.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“I would disagree.”
“You saw the egg. It is a sign from the gods.”
“Hardly. The gods would never resort to base trickery.” Pyrust shook his head. “You are old, slow. I saw the blood bladder in your left hand.”
The old man blinked. “I need use no trickery to see the future.”
“No? You do, however, when you are messenger to ministers.” Pyrust lowered his hood. “You know who I am.”
The man bowed his head. “Highness.”
“I shall give you one more chance to read the future.”
“Yes, sire?”
Remorselessly, Pyrust drew a very sharp, thick-bladed dagger. He thrust it into the man’s belly, then ripped to the left before pulling it free. “Read your entrails.”
The soothsayer sat there, his intestines a steaming tangle of white in his lap. “I see Death.”
Pyrust laughed. “I almost regret killing you.”
The man’s head jerked up, as if caught in a spasm. His face contorted, then he began speaking in a growled voice, his words bitten off sharply. It was not the voice he had used before. It sounded like nothing that should have come from a human throat.
“The gates of my realm gape wide for your commerce, Prince Pyrust. You will offer me more and varied fare than any before you. Shrink not from this duty, and your desires will know fruition.”
The soothsayer flopped back, gurgled, then lay still.
Pyrust sat there, the bloody dagger dripping onto the small table. My realm? The month of the Wolf: Grija, the god of Death. Did the god of the Dead speak through this dying seer? My ministers made him a tool. Why should a god not do the same?
The Prince shook his head. The world knew he set store by prophetic dreams precisely because he wished the world to believe it. As men came to accept that as true, they presented things to him in the form of dreams. It made spotting their attempts at manipulation that much easier. He often abided by what they told him, and he often manufactured a dream to explain some other decision or victory. Already people knew he’d dreamed of Princess Jasai before the battle at Meleswin.
“Are the gods as deceived about me as men, or did Grija speak to me?”
The dead man did not answer, but the Mother of Shadows appeared at his right hand and bowed. “The gods seldom speak. When they do, their requests are difficult to ignore. They are even more difficult to abide.”
Two other forms in black emerged from behind her and dragged the soothsayer’s body away. In no time, any evidence of the murder would be erased, and those who suspected anything would remain silent or pass through Grija’s gates themselves.
“Did you hear?”
“No, my lord, nor do I wish to know.”
Pyrust smiled and stood. “Do you fear the gods?”
“Only one.” The cloaked form led the way from the building and into the night. “If commanded, I will enter the realm of the gods and slay Grija for you.”
“He was not that insolent.” Pyrust fell into step beside her. “You know which ministers filled that man’s mind with their own prophecy?”
“Yes, Highness. Their death will come more swiftly than the whisper with which you order it.”
“Hold off. I will let it be known that I had a horrid dream and went to a soothsayer, but he had vanished—just as in my dream. The ministers will wonder if there is a dissident faction in their midst that wished to deny me that message. They can kill each other and save me the trouble.”
“As you wish, Highness.”
Pyrust nodded. “I will ponder what else I heard. You may not wish to know it, Delasonsa, but part of the message was for you. As the god commands, you shall not lack for work.”
Chapter Fifty-two
2nd day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Nemehyan, Caxyan
Before they traveled to the capital of Caxyan, Captain Gryst negotiated the release of the Moondragon crew. The negotiations proved surprisingly simple. Not only did the crew return to the ship and get started on repairs, but the artisan class of Tocayan accompanied them—to learn as much as they could and to help supplement supplies from local products.
Little substitution was required since the fleet carried ample supplies, but Anaeda accepted foodstuffs willingly. The artisans spent most of their time observing, and the Naleni learned that the Amentzutl had no maritime tradition to speak of. While they fished in rivers and from shore, they really looked upon the land as their source of bounty.
It was, therefore, not without a certain amount of trepidation that Tzihua and his entourage stepped aboard the Stormwolf for the trip north. Nemehyan had been constructed high on a bluff overlooking a natural harbor, and the reasons why the Amentzutl did not sail seemed clouded in the pa
st—a past everyone seemed reluctant to discuss. But after reviewing maps and measuring distance, it was decided that what would have taken a week and a half on foot could be sailed in a third the time.
Jorim welcomed the warrior and his men onto the ship and conducted them belowdecks to their accommodations. He’d learned enough about their caste system to know that warriors occupied an elevated position. In preparation for the trip north, ships’ carpenters had repositioned bulkheads such that the ten men Tzihua had brought with him would share living space with the Stormwolf’s own warriors. Tzihua himself would share Jorim’s cabin, which seemed acceptable to all.
The giant had been forced to duck his head to enter the cabin, and stoop his shoulders to move about it, but this he took with good nature. It clearly intrigued him that, over the course of the trip, Shimik studied his mask, and the fur on the Fenn’s face took on green-and-gold tones. More interestingly, furred tufts grew from his forehead in imitation of the feathers.
Jorim and Tzihua spent most of the time at sea closeted together in the cabin. The initial reason was because each wished to expand his knowledge of the other’s language. Tzihua turned out to be a good linguist—perhaps not with Jorim’s skills, but intelligent nonetheless—and very eager to learn. The various castes had their own dialects and Tzihua needed to practice the maicana dialect, as he had just been elevated to that caste.
This news surprised Jorim. “Perhaps I do not understand correctly how your society works. With us, moving between castes is all but impossible. A peasant could no more become a bureaucrat than an artisan or warrior.” He hesitated. “Well, it is true that a peasant could become a warrior, but only after much training. And this is rare, so passage is rare.”
Tzihua nodded. “The maicana are what I believe you call the jaecai. When one of us learns enough and is blessed with skill that allows us to draw upon magic, we become maicana with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities.”
“And the maicana rule the Amentzutl?”
“As it should be. They shield us from the wrath of the gods.”
“Our gods are not that vengeful.”
The big man let a smile light up his broad face. “You have nine gods, we have six. Ours have more to do, so become angrier.”
“Ours do not often concern themselves with the affairs of men.”
“As long as we sacrifice, they do not either. If we have pleased them, they bless us during the time of centenco.”
“I don’t know that word.”
Tzihua tightened his dark eyes. “It is not for me to explain it, my friend. All you must know is that centenco is again upon us and the fate of the world will be decided once more.”
The second reason Tzihua and Jorim had remained sequestered was because a storm roughened the seas on the second day of the journey. The Amentzutlian warrior’s face drained of color, and Jorim was pretty certain he managed to vomit up half his weight. Shimik did his part by hauling off buckets and dumping them through the ship’s heads, but quickly enough began to cringe when Tzihua began to retch.
Luckily the storm passed quickly and no word of his illness leaked out to his men. Though he said nothing, Jorim understood the loss of dignity that would ensue. He had a word with the ship’s bhotcai, and the delivery of a particular tincture had the Amentzutlian warriors all vomiting the night before the ship arrived at Nemehyan. Tzihua was able to visit and tend them, which made him all the more godlike in their eyes.
If he ever suspected the deception, he said nothing to Jorim.
Though Jorim had seen Tocayan and most of the capitals of the Nine Principalities, nothing had adequately prepared him for Nemehyan. He’d carried in his head the image of a lone pyramid rising on top of a bluff, but no one had mentioned that the bluff had once had a mountain rising above it. That mountain had been leveled as if a sword had decapitated it, providing a plain roughly five miles square. Pyramids, as well as many of the roundhouses, rose from that plain. A causeway snaked up the inland portion of the mountain, crossing back and forth in an easily defensible pattern. The plains around the base of the mountain and to the north also had roundhouses and were cultivated. The nearest jungle had been slashed back north for several miles, and off to the east lay a vast marsh where workers harvested salt.
If Tocayan was home to a thousand . . . Jorim did a few mental calculations and wished he had Iesol to double-check them. This one city might have had as many as a hundred thousand people, which meant the fields would be insufficient to support it. That means trade in food from faraway places like Tocayan.
As the fleet came in, people gathered to greet it. They waved brightly colored cloth banners and sang songs. Jorim couldn’t catch enough of the words to make sense of them entirely—the singers were not from the warrior or maicana castes, so his grasp of vocabulary hindered him. “As near as I can tell, Captain, it is a song welcoming the serpent, which makes sense.”
Anaeda looked up at the purple sail emblazoned with the Naleni dragon. “I am glad they find this a good omen. I’m certain your robe will be seen as the same.”
Jorim nodded. “Tzihua insisted I wear it. Otherwise, I’d be wearing my Stormwolf uniform.”
“It matters not, Master Anturasi. We’ll still claim you. The Stormwolf will lay at anchorage here. Some of our ships with more shallow drafts will conduct a survey, and we will see how close we can get. This harbor would be perfect were a quay waiting. We will have to make do with ship’s boats. You are away first, with Tzihua.”
“I will make certain they know you just seek safe anchorage, not that you fear treachery.”
“In any other place it would not be the truth, but these are singularly peaceful people. I’m almost surprised they have a warrior caste, and one that is sufficiently trained to produce a jaecaiserr.”
“It does bear investigating. And, as per our agreement, I have communicated none of this back to my grandfather.”
Anaeda raised an eyebrow. “Does he suspect something?”
“He always suspects me of something, so I have things he can pluck from my mind after a little effort. He seems content with that now, and distracted.” Jorim shrugged. “I imagine Keles is doing well on his survey, and that’s occupying most of Grandfather’s time.”
“A blessing in disguise, then.” She smiled. “If your brother were with us, I doubt we would have gotten along as well or as far with the Amentzutl. Go now; make certain we get along even better with them.”
Jorim bowed to her, then turned to run to where the Tocayan contingent was descending into a boat. Shimik caught up with him in a bound. Not only did the Fennych have the furred tufts on his forehead, but he had grown out side locks the same as Jorim. The cartographer had braided beads into Shimik’s fur and, with Tzihua’s permission, had agreed to take Shimik along in the boat.
Lieutenant Linor ordered the boat away from Stormwolf and the sailors pulled hard. The bay remained placid and Tzihua weathered the crossing well. As they passed through the rest of the fleet, the crew and passengers raised cheers, and the Amentzutl acknowledged them with waves.
But the homage paid to the visitors by the fleet paled when compared with the greeting given them by the people of Nemehyan. The boat slid up on the beach and Jorim, riding in the bow as was his custom, leaped out and dragged it further up. Tzihua matched him, and quickly enough they had the boat high and dry. The other warriors poured out, split into two groups of five, and flanked the two men and the Fenn who, childlike, marched a few steps ahead and studied everything with wide-eyed wonder.
The people at the beach parted and, as the company passed, sank to their knees. They bowed deeply enough that many would rise with gravel still stuck to their foreheads. No one would look Jorim or Tzihua in the eye, but instead hid their faces. At the same time they all chanted “Tetcomchoa,” over and over again, in reverent and hushed tones.
As they came around to the base of the causeway, Jorim’s jaw dropped open. There were people lining every inch of
the two-mile causeway. Their attire and the shifting colors as the road wound higher matched the castes. Regardless of their standing, everyone knelt and bowed, breathing “tetcomchoa.” Not only did Jorim have no idea what the word meant, but the level of greeting surprised him. Nothing of that sort had happened in Tocayan. But the people of Tocayan knew Tzihua. Here he is arriving a new member of the maicana. “Tetcomchoa” must be an honorific of some sort, though why Tzihua would not have taught it to me, I don’t know.
They ascended to the city in a slow, stately pace. Once they arrived at the plateau, the line of people extended straight down a broad boulevard and up a staircase running up the front of a stepped pyramid easily a hundred and fifty feet high. They continued their march forward, accepting the homage of those lining the route. At the base of the stairs the honor guard stopped, but Tzihua continued to ascend. The people on the pyramid did not prostrate themselves, but they did bow deeply and add their voices to the chants from below.
Up and up Jorim climbed with Tzihua, and began to wish he had remained with the honor guard. This is for him, and I sully it. As they neared the top he reached out and took one of Shimik’s hands. He drew the Fenn back to his side and smiled up at Tzihua as they reached the head of the stairs. From there, a red woven mat extended into a dark opening of the square building erected at the pyramid’s summit.
“You go on, my friend, this is your honor. Thank you for letting us come this far.”
Tzihua sank to his knees and gently tugged the Fenn into his arms. “The honor is mine, to have come this far. What waits within is for you.” Tzihua bowed and his feathers brushed the stones.
Jorim’s stomach began to roil. Much as yours must have when the sea tossed. Jorim almost looked back, but he could not bear to have confirmed what he knew lay there: tens of thousands of people with their faces in the dust. He had no idea why they had paid him that homage, and he was certain it was a mistake. Straightening it out wouldn’t be easy, but he figured the place to start would be through that doorway.
That decision didn’t make entering the pyramid any easier. He paused in the doorway’s shadow to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and relished the coolness of its interior. Large, blocky stone constructions became visible first, quickly followed by the more complex forms. The small chamber’s rear wall was dominated by a huge disk, a foot thick at the very least, with thousands of symbols inscribed in it. He recognized them all as Amentzutl script, though he had no clue how to begin to make sense of them.
A Secret Atlas Page 41
