Authors: Michael A Stackpole
true. If instead of spending time plotting raids and complaining about how the gods have
hidden their faces from us, were we to pick up lock, stock, and barrel to head out to
Solaeth or Dolosan, or even up the Gold River, we could build ourselves a new nation. As
it is, we let our past and duty to it define us. It limits what we can become.”
Keles slowly nodded. “And you are saying that my slavish adherence to my training and
my grandfather’s wishes limits me in the same way?”
“Only in that they stop you from seeing the world as it is.” She smiled. “How can you think
to define the world when you have a haze of numbers and an avalanche of scrolls to
separate you from it?”
“I can’t, really.” He frowned for a moment, then looked up into her eyes. “What you’ve just
said . . . It isn’t the sole result of your having come on this trip, is it? You were thinking
these things before, which is why you were chosen.”
Tyressa turned and began to walk back to where their horses cropped heather. “That
might have been a factor.”
“It makes for a lonely life, doesn’t it?”
The glance she gave him was daunting. “You’ll offer to relieve me of that burden?”
“No, that’s not what I was thinking.” He looked down. “You feel lonely because your
thoughts are spreading wider than those of your companions. For me, it was the opposite.
I kept my world small, and others were content to let me go my way. Even here, you were
all ready not to bother me—and bother with me.”
“We might have, but then you dealt with the pool.” She smiled. “You didn’t tell someone
else how to do it; you just did it. You did something for our common good. You joined us.
You let us know we’re more than just
gyanrigot
.”
Keles joined her at the horses and hauled himself into the saddle. “If that’s what you
thought, I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I was not thinking about the world; I was just thinking about what I was supposed to be doing.”
She nodded. “We understand. Most of us, anyway. Borosan is worse than you, and I’ve no
idea what the Viruk is thinking.”
“Worse than me? Is that possible?” He smiled. “And, Tyressa, I’m sorry for thinking what
everyone does about the Keru. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
The Keru slowly turned to regard him. “You mean you don’t find us alluring in the way no
pillow-bred Naleni waif could ever be?”
“Yes. I mean . . . No, I mean . . .” Keles’ shoulders slumped. “Kill me now. It will save
trouble later.”
Tyressa laughed. “The sleeping dragon has awakened. Slowly, slowly, but awakened
nonetheless.”
She pointed out a multitude of things on their ride back—including the opening to a small
cave that appeared to be breathing—and Keles drank in every word. When they reached
the campsite Moraven had chosen, they found three scroungers had joined them. One, a
wizened old man swathed in animal furs of a color not seen in Moriande, sat off to the side
with Moraven and Borosan. The
gyanridin
often served as something of a translator with
the prospectors and bonediggers. The other two, younger and decidedly more hale,
tended the fire and were roasting something over it. Keles would have taken it for a rabbit
save that it had seven legs.
Ciras sat with them and traded pleasantries, but the conversation remained strained.
Rekarafi perched himself on a rock downwind of the campsite. The cool breeze ruffled his
hair. He’d closed his eyes and lifted his muzzle. His slit nostrils flared as if he could inhale whatever they were roasting. His hands rested on his knees, and firelight flashed from his
claws.
Ciras bowed his head as the two of them reached the fire. “We have visitors. They have
seen no signs of bandits, but the winds have blown rumors. They are going to head for
Opaslynoti, at the foot of the pass into Ixyll.”
Keles immediately wanted to ask them to describe the pass, but he refrained. “And
Opaslynoti is?”
One of the bonediggers smiled, revealing a tangle of yellowed teeth. “A crossroads.”
“Once a Viruk town.” Rekarafi opened his eyes. “The
tavam alfel
melted it to human
proportions.”
“Thank you, Rekarafi.” Keles smiled. “I look forward to seeing it.”
The evening consisted of shared fare, and Borosan entertained the visitors with a duel
between his mouser and the small
thanaton
. Ciras sang a ballad from Tirat, and Tyressa
offered a lament for lost Helosunde. Their visitors repaid them with the ribald songs that
warmed the nights throughout Dolosan. It concluded with an agreement to travel together
to Opaslynoti, and Keles crawled into his tent without a single thought about reporting to
his grandfather.
Morning came quickly enough, and when he finally did open his eyes, his head began
throbbing. He acknowledged the pain, then smiled. In the past it had been an impediment
to his mission, but now it was just pain. It was just a small part of his world, so he set
about doing all he could to make it as small a part as he was able.
18th 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
Moriande, Nalenyr
Nirati woke with a start. There had been no sound or movement, or even stray ray of
sunshine to bring her from a dead sleep to consciousness. It was just the instant alert of
one who had been long and fitfully asleep somehow realizing that the time for more sleep
had ended.
She found herself facedown against her pillow. Dampness on the pillowcase felt cool
against her cheek. It wasn’t from tears, though she was certain she had cried during the
night. Instead she’d drooled, sleeping gape-mouthed. Her exhaustion had not even
allowed her the dignity of composing her features in some semblance of beauty.
She slowly gathered her hands under her shoulders, but this was not as simple as it
should have been. She ached all over, but especially in her shoulders and elbows. The
dull ache seemed familiar, having the quality of a strain from repetitive motion. When she
helped her mother with spring or fall planting in their garden, she similarly felt it in her
shoulders and lower back.
Slowly she levered herself over onto her back, then lay there, panting with exertion. She
knew that having something so simple exhaust her was ridiculous, but she felt incredibly
weak. Her blankets seemed so heavy they might as well have been woven from lead. Her
nightclothes had twisted around her legs, and though she plucked at them, she could not
free herself. Being trapped sent panic through her for an instant, then she forced herself to
remain calm.
The panic revived dreams. She slowly reconstructed the night in hopes of sorting fact from
fiction. Somewhere in there she sought what had robbed her of strength—though she
doubted she would find it. But there was little else for her to do than think, and she needed
that façade of control if she was ever going to rise from her bed.
The evening before had been quite pleasant. Count Aerynnor had conducted her to the
theater to watch the production of Jaor Dirxi’s
The Feather Sword
. It was the best of his satires, featuring a goosegirl who was so good at wielding a feather that she was able to
defeat every swordsman she met. That the swordsmen wore costumes denoting their
allegiance to Deseirion, or that her feather was gold and she was a fair maid of Nalenyr,
added a degree of contemporary commentary that saved what was an otherwise mediocre
production.
From there they had walked in public gardens, then returned to the apartments the count
had rented once he had formally severed ties with the Phoesel family. There they had
drunk wine and made love, then he had conducted her home. At least, she was certain he
had, since she had no recollection of the trip, but here she was.
Her mother knew she was sleeping with the Desei noble. But aside from worrying about
Nirati’s heart getting broken, she had approached the whole affair with practical good
sense. She’d prepared the tincture of clawfoot and administered it before each evening
meal. She invited Nirati to confide anything in her, and even suggested they might pay a
visit to the Lady of Jet and Jade for advice.
Nirati had resisted that latter suggestion. Her prior sexual encounters had been with lovers
as inexperienced as she. She had not taken much pleasure in coupling, save a joy that
her partners were pleased and that they clearly desired her. Her own satisfaction she
subordinated to theirs, because until Junel she had not known the ecstasy that could
come from sex.
Junel had been a kind and gentle lover. He looked to her pleasure first, taking his time to
undress her, to study her, to caress and kiss her. The warmth of his breath against her
skin, the tingle of his caresses—whether touching her with fingertips, the back of his hand,
or even when he wore thin leather gloves—started a fire burning in her. He talked to her,
telling her she was beautiful and desirable, then asked what it was she wanted, how she
wanted it. Faster, slower, more heavily or gently; whatever she desired he provided, and
the times he made suggestions he opened whole new worlds of desire to her.
She would have thought, after making passionate love with him, that her dreams would be
languid or peaceful or even torrid, but they had been something else entirely. Her limbs
ached as if the dream had been real. She’d felt helpless, with her arms trussed behind
her, her legs folded under. Thick bands restrained her. At first she thought they were
leather, but as she studied them they became the coils of a furred snake. She could hear
its hisses, and the crush of its flesh chilled her. She struggled to get away, but the snake
merely laughed, saying there was no escape, would never be an escape. She was
trapped forever.
Then her grandfather came and woke her. She was convinced that was a dream as well,
but she drew her arms from beneath the blankets and could see red marks on her wrists
and other bruises on her arms. She had struggled against him, she knew, for she could
still hear his voice commanding her to be still.
She’d stared up at him. “Grandfather?”
“Yes, child. Yes, my little Nirati. I had to come.” He stared down at her, his eyes ablaze,
then they softened. He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hands in his. “You had a
bad dream.”
“Yes, I did; very bad.” She let him tug her up into a sitting position. “But how can you be
here? It’s not possible.”
Qiro Anturasi shook his head. “The Prince thinks he has me locked away, but there are
passages and paths of which he knows nothing. I know them all. Coming to you was not
difficult. And that you needed me was reason enough to risk it.”
Nirati squeezed his hands. “Is there something wrong, Grandfather?”
The old man raised his head as if, by posture alone, he could deny that possibility. Then
he sighed. “Truth be told, Nirati, I, too, have unsettled slumbers. Demons and monsters
haunt my sleep the same as yours.”
She kept her voice quiet. “Is there something you’ve not told me about my brothers? Are
they in danger?”
“Your brothers are as well as can be expected. They report to me as trained. Jorim is
working hard at keeping his mind focused. Keles has always had that ability. I am learning
much through them, which shall be to the benefit of all.”
“You’ve not answered my question.”
Qiro almost smiled. “No, I haven’t. Both of them try to keep things from me. It is not out of
spite; that I would know. They keep it from me so I will keep it from you and your mother,
but I know things. Keles, as expected, is encountering difficulties. He is ill—not seriously,
child, have no fear. But he does not sleep well. At times he slips and I see things. The
Wastes are stranger than I remembered. It is a challenge for Keles.
“As for your brother Jorim, he is excited about what he sees, but the journey is not
progressing as planned. He has made wonderful discoveries, but there is also mystery.
He seeks answers to questions that may not have answers.”
Nirati shivered. “You would know if something terrible happened, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, child, I would.” He stared her straight in the face. “But fear not. I shall let nothing
befall a grandson of mine if it is in my power. Your brothers have resources they do not
know exist. They will do well.”
She gave her grandfather’s hands another squeeze, for she knew not what to say. His
voice, though distant as his stare, carried with it warmth and respect that she had never
heard when Keles or Jorim were around.
“You love them, don’t you?”
Qiro shook himself, and his eyes refocused. “Of course. I drive them because I love them.”
His voice began to rise and a strident tone entered into it. “The world is cruel and cold and
hard. It resists the Anturasi attempt to define it, to tame it. It defies us, but it will lose. Their effort will help see to its defeat.”
He squeezed her hands, then let them drop to the coverlet as he stood. “But now you, my
pet, are the heart of my concerns. I would not have your sleep troubled. Do you remember
the game we used to play?”
Nirati smiled broadly in spite of herself. “Oh, yes. How could I forget?” When she was