Authors: Michael A Stackpole
“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.
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.
The ambassador bowed deeply and the warrior hung his head. “Prince Cyron, I profoundly
regret the difficulty my consort has caused. How is the young Anturasi?”
“Bleeding.” Cyron turned from her and looked at the Desei noble. “What is your woman’s
problem?”
“She was almost as the Anturasi is now.”
“Turn, girl. Look at me.”
The woman turned, never leaving the safety of the man’s arms, then bowed very low.
“Forgive me, Highness.”
“Forgive you what, child?”
“Someone jostled my arm, Highness, and wine spilled on my gown. It is ruined. I reacted.”
The girl started to straighten up again, but the Prince growled. “Keep your head low. This
is a celebration where you are a guest, not a hostess. You are far too young to be a
doyenne of etiquette, and certainly not sufficiently schooled in it to be disciplining those
who might have done something accidentally. You turned and you struck someone much
your superior. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Highness.”
He glanced at the ambassador again. “It falls to me to set a punishment that will be meted
out in the morning. I will accept your comments on it, Ierariach. I would sentence her to
five lashes with a whip for her slap and the offense it did you.”
The Viruk thought for a moment, and a moment longer when a whimper from the girl stole
the first opportunity to speak. “I would not have her back scarred when what she did to me
shall not leave scars.”
“You are most gracious, Ierariach. Your compassion does you credit.” Cyron looked at the
girl again. “Stand tall, girl.”
She came up from her bow, her face a ruin of eroded cosmetics. “Thank you, my lady.”
The Prince untied the loose sash around his waist and kicked it away. “She may be
gracious, but I am not so inclined. Your slap will not leave scars, but Keles Anturasi will
have four,
if
he lives. So, you will have four lashes in the morning, then four for every year of his life if he dies.”
The girl moaned and collapsed to her knees. “But that would be a hundred. I could die.”
The Prince squatted and took her chin in his left hand, raising her face. He lowered his
voice to a whisper. “No, child, I will see to it that you do
not
die. You will live a cripple, your back a mass of wormtrack scars. Do not doubt for an instant that I will order it done. I will