No longer blocked by the Viruk’s presence, a shimmering silver ball of wild magic bounced into the chamber. It floated for a moment, then sent tendrils of black lightning out in four directions. Their forks cracked and popped, moving like arms and legs as the ball crawled forward. For a heartbeat Moraven thought it had modeled itself on thanaton Number Five. Or we made it do that, with our minds.
Then a dark hole opened at the ball’s center and filled with molten magic. The red dot swung back and forth as the ball came on. It looked. It searched.
It focused on him.
Then it exploded.
An argent wind slammed into Moraven and blew him off his feet. Agony sank into him as he tumbled through the air. Every muscle spasmed and locked, then sagged. When he hit the ground he bounced limply, his momentum unabated. He slid across the chamber floor, stirring up dust, then smacked up against the burial wall.
He remained dimly aware of all that was happening to his body, but it was of little consequence. When the magic hit, something entered his mind. It thrust deep, ripping harshly, and filled that wound with contempt.
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Chapter Fifty-seven
6th 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
Prince Pyrust found Jasai of Helosunde waiting for him in his audience chamber. The hearth contained only banked coals and produced minimal heat. Despite that, she wore nothing on her feet and only a nightshirt to cover her. Woven of thick wool, the nightshirt was not so heavy that he could not see the sharp outline of her erect nipples. She had been given to wearing this type of garment for bed, but had always favored the gay colors common in Nalenyr. Now she wore the garment undyed, as did the common folk of Deseirion.
She knelt as he approached and lowered her head. Her long blonde hair slid down to veil her face, but he sensed no fear or contrition in her stance. She wanted nothing—least of all forgiveness—and had no air of remorse about her. This surprised him, but he covered his surprise by slowly reaching up to undo the clasp on his black woolen cloak trimmed with a mantle of wolf fur.
It puddled at his feet.
Ignoring her for a moment, Pyrust bent to toss several logs onto the coals. They landed with a satisfying crunch, spitting a spray of sparks that drifted up the chimney. A burst of heat washed out, then flames rose, adding light to the dark room. The fire splashed a hint of gold onto Jasai’s hair.
He drew off his gloves and tossed them onto his cloak. Holding his hands to the fire, he watched flames dance from between splayed fingers. He rubbed his hands together, then spoke, keeping his voice low.
“It is warmer over here. I begrudge you no warmth.”
This did produce the response he expected. Jasai may have agreed to marry him and accompany him to Felarati for the sake of her brother, but she had still rebelled in countless ways. The first was to complain of the cold and to keep a fire roaring in her chamber day and night. Pyrust had explained to her that his was a poor nation and that such profligate use of wood was not permitted.
This did not stop her.
He let her have four days of constant fires, then she was provided no wood at all. When she complained, he told her she’d used up her allotment. He, on the other hand, had used less than most, so had more to spare. He told her that she could join him in his night chamber and that she would be kept very warm, but she’d said she would prefer the cold.
Her resolve lasted one more day, and might have lasted longer had he replaced the furnishings she’d burned. She had come to him. And despite a new ration of wood being made available to her with the turn of the week, she had chosen to remain.
Pyrust was no fool. They’d been hastily married in Meleswin and he’d consummated their union that evening. She had accepted him that night for it was part of their bargain, but she had rejected him again until the night the lack of heat had driven her to his bed. Even then he knew she had been coerced. Yet it really mattered not at all why she shared his bed, but that she did. Hatred, apathy, unquenchable desire—all of these things he could deal with. Just not disobedience.
Jasai did not raise her head. “You have explained, my husband, that valuable resources are not to be squandered here in Deseirion.”
“But you did squander my wood until you learned I would be governed by the same laws as my people.”
“I was foolish.”
“And now you are wise?”
“Wiser, my lord.” She raised her face and firelight flashed from the traces of tears on her cheeks. “I have news for you, Prince Pyrust.”
The tears made little sense. He turned to face her and moved forward so the firelight would silhouette him.
“What news?”
She hugged her arms around her slender middle. “Your heir grows in my belly.”
Pyrust clasped his hands behind his back, left in right, suddenly aware of his maiming. What will my child think of it? That thought came to him as if it were another message from the gods, and sent a shiver through him. What he had seen as his life and his future now projected further, on through generations to come. He had always been an end, but now he was a link in a chain, and his responsibility was to make that chain strong.
He narrowed his eyes. “My heir, or Helosunde’s heir?”
Jasai’s eyes widened, then her gaze dropped to the floor. “It should not surprise me your asking that question. You promised my heir the throne of Helosunde and said I would be his regent. That is the bargain I accepted. That was the goal I had in mind as I lay with you. I knew I would make any child hate you as I hated you, and the vintage of your life would turn sour and bitter.”
The vehemence in her voice lacked the sharpness of before. Something had softened it. “If that was our bargain, why, Jasai, is he now my heir?”
She slowly exhaled. “I have been your wife for a month and a half. You told me that I would learn I could trust you, and this I have learned. You are cruel and capable of many things, including merciless murder, but you are not a hypocrite. You are good to your word. You would know the same cold as your people, the same hunger, the same dangers.
“My life has been spent in Nalenyr listening to lords and ladies proclaiming much, but their actions never matched their words. They wish to lead, but their method for doing so is to watch people, see the direction in which they move, then dash to the fore and announce they are being followed. My brother had no place being Helosunde’s prince and everyone knew it—himself included. He was told what was expected of him and complied with those expectations.”
“But now he does better because Cyron has set new expectations for him. That should give you hope for your nation and its return to power.”
“But it never will return, will it?” Unbidden, she rose to her feet and fetched his cloak, which she pulled around her shoulders. “You cannot allow Helosunde to rebel, or Deseirion will be weakened and Cyron will no longer feel threatened. And Cyron cannot let Helosunde rise for fear of losing control over it. Our child on the throne of Helosunde is his worst nightmare, since it could unify our nations and leave his border open.”
Pyrust turned and moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Your analysis is good. You forgot to add that your son, as Prince of Helosunde, would be a rival to your brother, and the settlement of that rivalry would doubtless be the assassination of one or the other.”
“Likely both, my lord, since the Council of Ministers will control neither.” She glanced back to the left, then dipped her head and kissed his half hand. “This is why our child must be the Prince of Deseirion. I see this and accept it. I accept other things as well.”
“Such as?”
“I must become Desei. T
he Council of Ministers expected to marry me off to someone—anyone. I did not matter. Being married to you, I am removed from consideration and consequence as far as Helosunde is concerned. By becoming Desei, your people will have a chance of loving our child—our children. Toward this end I shall adopt Desei clothing and custom. Like you, I shall do with less so others can have more. With your leave, I shall do things that shame other princesses into doing more for their people. If you approve, that is.”
“Approve, yes.” Pyrust lowered his mouth to her left ear and let his voice sink into a harsh whisper. “But the swiftness of your decision belies thoughtful commitment to it. You can understand my skepticism.”
She nodded slowly. “Oh, be under no misapprehension, my lord. I do respect you and even admire you, but I still hate you. I will bear our children without ever coming to love you. But I will love them, and they shall be the outlet for my love. The fact is, however, that I hate you less than I hate those who put me in this position. They discounted and discarded me. I shall live to see them regret their folly. In this, I do believe, we are united.”
He allowed himself a chuckle. “And how does this play into the gift you gave me? The promise that you would allow me to be Emperor?”
“These things are one and the same.” She shivered and pressed herself back against him. “Our children should be more than either of us, and deserve more than either of us have had. You will become Emperor, and they shall have an empire. It will be best for them and for the world.”
Pyrust kissed the back of her head. “I am pleased my children have so intelligent a mother.” He reached down and swatted her bottom playfully. “Go now, wife of mine, and warm our bed. I shall join you momentarily.”
“Yes, my husband. Then we will make our bed hot indeed.”
Jasai swept from the chamber leaving his gloves, one whole, one deformed, lying flaccid on the ground. Pyrust kicked them into the shadows, then stepped forward to warm his hands.
It did not surprise him when the Mother of Shadows emerged from the darkness, bearing his gloves in a clawed hand. “Something bothers you, my Prince?”
Pyrust stared into the flames, knowing he would barely see her even if his night vision was unaffected. “Less than a month and a half and she is already pregnant?”
“You saw she was a virgin when you took her on your wedding night.”
“Blood appears in eggs and appears on sheets by all manner of means.” He frowned heavily. “Was she pregnant already?”
“Interrogations have revealed no rumors of her having a lover.” Delasonsa’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “On the trip here she bled and has not bled again. It is highly probable she is pregnant and that you alone have lain with her.”
“So, if she is pregnant, the child is mine?”
“Yes.”
“Could learning she is pregnant be what has triggered this change in her?”
The Mother of Shadows chuckled. “It was not so much a change as an acknowledgment of reality. She seeks to make things better for her children. She is young, yes, but not frivolous. Maternity seldom changes a woman in that way; it merely awakens her to her true nature.”
Pyrust nodded. “It is an interesting future she paints.”
“Yes, my lord, but one yet unrealized.” Delasonsa’s voice came softly from within her hood. “She might miscarry, or the child could fail to thrive. Though no assassin will reach her, there will be attempts, and the least upset could trigger a disaster.”
“You are right, of course.” He turned to face her, taking his gloves in his half hand. “Rumors of her pregnancy must be quashed—and the rumor-mongers slain. Cyron would not kill her, but the Helosundian Council of Ministers would. Remind my ministers that their welfare depends on that of my wife, of whom I am inordinately fond. That will have them falling all over themselves to make her happy.”
“You see clearly, my lord.”
Pyrust sighed, tucking his gloves through his belt. “My dead brother’s bastard will become a liability once my child is born.”
She nodded solemnly. “I shall deal with Thyral.”
“Don’t kill him.”
“No?”
“Delasonsa, you may think me a fool, but I am not a heartless one. His father died because he dared listen to Naleni agents and plotted against me. He had to be slain, as did his elder siblings. The boy was but an infant and now is six years old. He does not know who he is, so now is the time to train him. Tell him that I have selected him for a very special duty. He shall be your apprentice, then my son’s bodyguard. He shall come to be the guardian of the Emperor.”
The Mother of Shadows bowed low, held it, and came back up slowly. “You honor me by entrusting me with your blood to train.”
“I dare do it, Delasonsa, only because I know you shall stand between ambition and my blood.” Pyrust smiled slowly. “This future will come to pass. We both will have much work to guarantee it, but it shall come to pass. The gods will it, and so do I.”
Chapter Fifty-eight
6th 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
The trumpet blast rolled over the smoky lowlands, then from the jungle to the northwest came a return call. Though the haze and distance made them difficult to see, five hundred Naleni warriors wearing bright scarlet uniforms rode from the jungle on horseback. Large golden dragons coiled on their chests and red pennants snapped beneath the heads of their light lances. Each man bore a round shield, similarly emblazoned with a dragon, and a colored cloth strip hung from the spikes atop his helmet—a different color for each of the five companies.
Nauana gasped, and a murmur arose among the assembled Amentzutl. In no conversation with them had Jorim found any evidence that they knew what horses were. The pack animals they used—cunya and their larger cousins ayana—struck the Naleni scholars as being more camel-like. While the ayana could sometimes be ridden, the Amentzutl had no stirrups and no martial tradition of fighting while mounted.
As the companies came forward they parted, with two to the left and three to the right, forming a space for a dozen war chariots. Drawn by four horses each, the chariots had a driver in the center and two archers standing on small risers that allowed them to shoot past the driver and horses. A trio of wickedly curved blades four feet in length protruded from the axle hubs and flashed brightly in the sunlight as they turned.
Nauana looked at Jorim, her eyes wide with wonder. “My Lord Tetcomchoa, you have produced a miracle. Strange beasts and stranger things. You have given us victory.”
Jorim shook his head. “Just a chance. How good a one, Nauana, we’ll see.”
She stared back at the battlefield as the murmuring grew among her people. Not only did they not know horses but they had no practical knowledge of the wheel. Given that they lived in a mountainous land, where packing goods on beast back was more practical than building roads for wagons, relegating the wheel to their calendar and children’s toys made an odd sort of sense. Horses and chariots are as world-altering to them as discovering this continent was to us.
The cavalry moved into a trot, quickly coming across cultivated fields. The way the smoke had spread over the fields, the cavalry faded in and out of view. Jorim was pretty certain that neither the Amentzutlian warriors nor the Mozoyan could see the Naleni troops. They could hear them, however. Their hoofbeats echoed like thunder.
Arrows continued to rain down, killing hundreds of the grey legion, and the Amentzutl held their line against the fearsome press of the enemy. A portion of the Mozoyan formation furthest from the escarpment broke north and west. At first Jorim feared they were going to form up to face the cavalry, but instead they just plunged toward the Amentzutlian line. They headed for a spot where the defenders had thinned and grey bodies filled the trench. Whether by design or accident, they
rushed at the line’s most vulnerable point, and in sufficient numbers to overwhelm the warriors set to oppose them.
The grey tendril charged out, but it never reached its target. The Naleni lancers burst from the smoke and slammed into the Mozoyan flank. Swift and strong, the horses crashed into unarmored bodies, snapping limbs and knocking Mozoyan flying. Lancers stabbed steel broadheads through slender bodies, then cast aside weapons weighed down by a half dozen impaled devil frogs. Swords filled empty hands, sweeping around in great arcs that scattered limbs and harvested heads. Shields batted leaping Mozoyan from the air, and steel-shod hooves scattered them.
Mozoyan surged into the gaps between Lancer companies only to face a new horror. The war chariots raced down upon them. The archers shot as swiftly as they could, and every arrow found a mark. In some cases, arrows ripped through one body to skewer another. But the Mozoyan that fell to the arrows were more fortunate than the survivors, because the wheel blades proved even more terrible. They scythed legs and chopped up bodies that had already fallen. Wheels, hooves, and Mozoyan feet churned the ground into bloody mud that spattered everywhere, coating the flanks of wheeling chariots and charging horses.
Disoriented, with no leadership, the Mozoyan on the flank panicked and fled screaming back to the main body. The alarm spread to the whole of the force. It surged away from the cavalry, like a school of fish turning from a predator, then squirted back north. The rear ranks leaped away as swiftly as they could. They disappeared into the smoke, and horsemen plunged in after them.
The grey ranks closest to the trenches turned and tried to flee, but had no room to maneuver. Darts, spears, and arrows harvested more of them. The Amentzutl warriors came up and over the breastworks and attacked the Mozoyan. Tzihua led a small knot of warriors over the filled trench and into the milling mass of the enemy. Their war clubs rose and fell, blood spraying in red arcs, carving a solid wedge from the Mozoyan troops.
The center of the Mozoyan formation remained in chaos. Some drifted northeast and the cavalry swept through them, slaughtering them in the hundreds. The war chariots did what they could, but eventually had to be withdrawn. The bloody mud became so thick it threatened to trap the wheels, and Mozoyan bodies offered little traction. Still the archers picked out individual targets, and toward the end of things challenged each other to more and more difficult shots.
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