Authors: Michael A Stackpole
Borosan frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t. The last thing I used it for, if you will recall, was going into a hole to see if there was any
thaumston
secreted there. It went for the horse
because, I would imagine, the saddle pack has some
thaumston
. Once it has detected it, it will keep going for it and I’ve not enough here to bring it back in this direction.”
The clatter of armor and bones sounded over by Rekarafi. The Viruk tossed a helmeted
skull at the sphere, but missed. As the missile flew past, the water flowed into a disk and
concentrated sunlight melted the helmet.
“No matter you are faster than
us,
Master Dejote, you need to be faster than
it
.” The Viruk shook his shaggy head. “You are not that fast.”
Ciras ignored him and began to stretch. “I will not fail, Master.”
“Wait, I have an idea.” Keles started to rummage around in his saddlebag, then
dismounted. “Borosan, that thing was focusing sunlight to burn the mouser, right?”
“I believe it was.” The
gyanridin
smiled broadly. “Yes, how incredibly efficient. As long as the sun is shining, it has a limitless source of power, and if it can do the same with
moonlight and starlight, which it must do since some of those skeletons are of purely
nocturnal animals, then . . .”
Ciras shook his head. “There isn’t a cloud in the sky. Speed will be the key.”
Keles shrugged his shoulders. “You could be right. Let me look at something here,
though.” He tossed his horse’s reins to Tyressa, then jogged around to the west along the
perimeter of the circle. Almost opposite where the Viruk crouched, he dropped to a knee
and studied the pool. He weighed the leather pouch in his left hand, then undid the thongs
tying it tight. He clearly measured the distance to the pool, and Moraven had no doubt the
cartographer could estimate it down to the inch.
Then, instead of coming back to tell them how far it was and calculating how fast Ciras
would have to run, Keles sprang to his feet and sprinted. He drove straight at the pool,
leaping over piles of bleached bones and cutting around the half-melted helmet. His legs
pumped and sand flew with every step. With his head down and arms swinging, he ran
faster than Moraven would have thought possible.
His speed really didn’t matter, though.
The motion in the sphere quickened. Ripples formed on its surface and the light swirled
through it. The disk flattened as it had before. The center swelled. Sunlight silvered the
edges. Because Keles charged straight at it, the disk didn’t have to swivel to aim. It just
tipped down effortlessly, tracking him with all the cold deliberation of a raptor soaring
above a rabbit.
Moraven would have shouted a warning, but a cry of “Brilliant!” from Borosan stopped him.
For a heartbeat the swordsman thought the
gyanridin
was describing the disk’s
performance, but then he saw what Borosan was seeing.
“Faster, Keles, you’re almost there!”
Keles laughed in triumphant panic. His chosen path started in sunlight, but carried him into
a narrow wedge of darkness. An outcropping of stone high up on the canyon’s wall cast a
slender shadow into the pool’s heart. Another minute or two and the sun would have
shifted enough to rob him of this passage, but Keles had seen it and acted instantly.
But what will he do when he reaches the pool?
Chest heaving, the cartographer dropped to his knees, powdering an ancient skull at the
pool’s edge. He flicked the leather pouch skyward. A black jet of powder shot out and
peppered the disk. The disk boiled and darkened as Keles upended the bag and emptied
its remaining contents into the pool. The same inky blackness that had flooded the disk
flowed through the pool, rendering both opaque.
Tyressa clapped her hands. “Of course, ground inkstone.”
Keles, his face blackened by ink dust save for his teeth and eyes, laughed aloud. “If light
can’t move through it, it can’t burn anything.”
Moraven applauded. “Well done, Master Keles.”
The swordmaster’s companion scowled. “How did you know that would work?”
Keles shook his head. “Running into the shadow just made sense.”
Ciras nodded. “I know. I had seen it, but it was not near the mouser. I meant the inkstone.”
The cartographer sat back on his haunches. “I didn’t think if it would work or not.”
“Perhaps we need to consider how long it will continue to work.” Moraven climbed into the
saddle again and reined his horse around. “If it is alive, it might purge itself of the ink. If it is just magic, it may do so faster. I would suggest haste.”
Nodding, Keles scrambled to his feet and retrieved the mouser. “Do you want
the
thaumston,
too?”
“Please, yes. Never can have too much.”
“Ciras, get what you can from the bandit bodies, including any other
thaumston
. Maybe
there will be clues to let us learn who they are.” Moraven took the reins of Ciras’ horse.
“Be quick about it. If this canyon does go through, we’ll be in the uplands ahead of them.
Knowing where they are going and what they are planning will make our journey much
easier.”
10th day, Month of the Tiger, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Prince Cyron read Prince Eiran’s ire as if it were written in the blackest of ink on the most
pristine of papers, but he did not care. Snow had fallen during the day—fallen pure and
white, no longer something to scare children. Cyron could see it as a thing of beauty, not a
harbinger of evil times, and greatly enjoyed walking in it in his garden sanctuary.
The rising moon made the snow glow, and provided enough light for him to see the
nocturnal animals begin to stir in their enclosures. Some of them did not tolerate the cold
well and remained nestled in their burrows until their keepers came to feed them, but his
favorites heard his tread and his voice, emerging to watch him pass in hopes of a treat.
Cyron paused before one small cage and smiled. In it, a clouded linsang had crawled into
a wooden branch. Tan-furred with thick black stripes and dots running the length of its
sinuous body, it struck the Prince as a cross between a cat and a weasel.
Much like you,
Eiran, save you lack its grace, poise, and charm.
Cyron clicked his tongue at it and the creature’s narrow head came up.
“This one, Prince Eiran, came from the southernmost reaches of Ummummorar. Jorim
Anturasi brought it and its mate back for me. Though it tolerates being caged, it would
much prefer I give it the run of the garden. I can’t, however, because it likes to eat eggs
and that disturbs the birds I have.”
Eiran, looking poorly for his fast ride to Moriande and the fact that he’d not been received
the night before, did not even attempt to feign interest. “It has something in common with
my sister, then.”
“Your sister sucks eggs, does she?” Cyron opened his cloak and brought out a small
basket that held a clutch of tiny blue eggs. He lifted one to the bars of the cage and the
linsang sat up. The creature accepted the egg in its forepaws, then cracked it and began
to lick at the oozing albumen.
“No, Prince Cyron, she, too, is a captive. Prince Pyrust has her. They are probably back in
Felarati, living as husband and wife.”
“Thank you for reminding me. I shall have to send them a gift.”
Eiran began to tremble with rage, his pale face purpling. Had Cyron not long since
mastered his own anger, his face would have been similarly contorted. He had not
anticipated that the Council of Ministers for Helosunde would choose a prince to lead them
so quickly, and he certainly never would have thought Eiran would be their choice. Jasai
would have been a better choice than Eiran; but Helosundians only seemed to revere
women as mothers, concubines, or the Keru, and she fit none of those categories. He had
no doubt that Eiran had been advanced so someone else could move into the succession
through marrying her, and Pyrust was doing just that. And the only way to blunt his claim
on the Helosundian throne would be to keep Eiran alive, when he wanted nothing more
than to toss the idiot and those who elected him to the tigers.
Cyron had thought that if the ministers were going to make a quick choice, they would pick
General Pades. He had the military background to make him the logical choice. Pyrust
had seen how dangerous he was, and had doubtlessly taken great delight in charging
Eiran with bringing Pades’ severed head to Cyron.
The retaking of Meleswin had killed the most able military leaders outside the Keru, and
had harvested the most able-bodied of the Helosundians. The mercenaries—termed
Honor Guards to assuage the gods and appease human vanities—remained in their
fortresses in the mountain passes. Pyrust still would be neither strong nor foolish enough
to venture south, especially with snow falling, so the situation in the north would remain
static until the spring.
I could but hope for a long and deep winter. Not only would it keep him home, but would
give me an excuse to skip a shipment of rice.
Cyron sighed as he dismissed that thought.
The Desei people were as much captives as the linsang, and if Cyron did not feed them,
they would starve. He did not want that happening.
He shook his head and moved on, hearing Eiran crunch snow beneath his feet as he
followed. In the songs of heroes there usually was a verse or two about some great
hardship a hero witnessed that prompted him to do great good later in life. Were he worthy
of such a song, a bard somewhere would manufacture some incident that explained why
Cyron did not let the Desei starve. Perhaps it would be his having rescued some exotic
animal from the Moriande bazaar and nursed it back to health. He would have seen it as
his calling to do that for the Desei and, perhaps, eventually, the whole Empire.
Cyron would have found it a comfort if such a thing had actually happened. If it had, he
could have put it in perspective, defined it, and seen its limitations. He could work around
it when necessary. Having his enemy weakened by starvation would be a benefit, but he
could not bring himself to do that.
His father or grandfather could have, without batting an eye; but they’d grown up in a more
difficult time, when ruthlessness was a virtue. For him, with his father’s program of
exploration, he saw the world as one of expanding resources, not a limited supply that
necessitated rationing. Trade was making his nation strong and providing benefits to all,
which made most of his people happy—and those who were not were just impatient
because wealth was taking its time in trickling down to them. Even they, however, had to
admit that he was spending money on projects that benefited them, like dredging the Gold
River.
Because his nation was master of a growing world, he had the time to look past the
divisions that had separated the parts of the old Empire. During the Time of Black Ice, the
Principalities had become fiercely nationalistic. They needed that sense of self to give
them purpose and unite them in common adversity. The snows that fell all but isolated
them, so they really had little news of and contact with the rest of the world. People barely
had enough to survive, so trade was seen as a luxury, and wood more useful for heat than
for building ships to explore.
The other Princes, when they did give thought to the old Empire, saw it as a place split up
by a warrior-Empress and one that, therefore, would have to be reunited by the sword.
There was no doubt that Cyrsa had divided the Empire among families that would
compete with each other for power. She had done that because she assumed none of
them would become ascendant and be able to oppose her on her return. What was
expedient for a year or two, however, had become entrenched and unworkable after the
Cataclysm.
Cyron didn’t see the need for conquest by the sword. The Helosundians seemed content
to remain bought. Erumvirine enjoyed the expansion of trade and didn’t seem to mind that
their access to the rest of the world came through Nalenyr. Their more moderate climate
lent itself to a lifestyle that rewarded lazy indolence. The Virine slumbered like the Bear
that represented them and, at this point, Cyron doubted the Bear would be much of a
threat were it ever roused.
In another generation I could join the houses through marriage and merge our nations.
“My brother, you have heard nothing of what I have said.”
Cyron stopped and regarded Eiran coldly. “Look about you, my
brother
. What do you
see?”
“Snow. A garden. Cages. Animals.”
“Now really look.”
Eiran slumped his shoulders beneath a snow-flecked cloak. “I see what I have told you.”
Cyron nodded. “Then tell me what you don’t see.”
“I don’t follow.”
“No, you don’t, which is why you are in the muddle you are in now, and why your nephews
and nieces will have a half-handed man as their father.” Cyron waved a hand along the
row of cages. “Do you know what you will not see here, Eiran? You won’t see a dragon.