A Secret Atlas (70 page)

been gone before, but he has always come back. I didn’t want to make him angry. You

don’t know what he is like when he is angry.”

Cyron emerged at the heart of the workshop. The Anturasi paused in their work, looking at

him. All seemed terrified, but Cyron thought it was less because of his possible ire than

Qiro’s wrath if a visitor were found among them in his absence.

That’s it, mostly, but there is more.
Some among them also feared Qiro’s absence, for it left them without leadership. They might have hated him or feared him, but at least he

gave them direction.

Cyron nodded slowly, knowing what he had to do. “I am Prince Cyron. You all know this.

Until Qiro comes to overrule me in this matter, you will take orders from Ulan Anturasi.

Understand something very important. Qiro would not have left if he did not trust that you

could and would carry on the Anturasi mission. Do not let him down.”

The Prince grabbed Ulan by the shoulder and pulled him toward Qiro’s sanctum. They

passed through the blue layer of curtains, then Ulan brought his hands up and beat

Cyron’s hand aside. The older man sank to his knees and bowed so low he seemed

nothing but a discarded cloak wadded on the floor.

“Forgive me, Highness, striking you. Kill me if you must, but I cannot go in there.”

Cyron resisted the urge to kick him. His hands tightened into fists, then loosened again.

He squatted and kept his voice even. “Ulan Anturasi, you heard me tell the others you are

in charge here now. So it is. I will not kill you. I
need
you.
Nalenyr
needs you.”

The man stirred a little, but shivers still ran though him. “You mean that, Highness?”

“Yes, of course.” The waver in Ulan’s voice made Cyron doubt he would be up to the

challenge. “Qiro could communicate directly with Keles and Jorim. Can you?”

“I have, in the past, but it has been so long. Qiro forbade it.”

“Can you communicate with Qiro?”

Ulan’s head came up and the Prince tugged the hood back so he could see the man’s

face. Worry made it an ashen mask. “I have not for a long time, Highness. I know he still

lives, but he is faint and far.”

“How far? Deseirion?”

The old man blinked, then looked down. “I don’t know direction, Highness, but I would say

further. Much further.”

“Work at it. Work at reaching any of them. Now.” Cyron stood and nodded toward the

interior curtain. “I am going to see if there are any clues to his disappearance in there.”

“Yes, Highness.”

Cyron steeled himself for he knew not what and slipped past the last curtain. The room

remained much as it had been when last he visited, save in one very important respect.

The map on the wall had been modified extensively. A chain of islands curved down to the

south to the Mountains of Ice. In the northwest an incredible amount of detail had been

filled in along the Spice Route. As nearly as he could see, the old road remained useful

well into Dolosan, and new routes had formed through the changed landscape. Both Keles

and Jorim had been successful in their quests.

“And I had no idea how much they had learned. You
are
a bastard, Qiro.”

These changes in the world should have warmed his heart, for these discoveries would

guarantee the economic preeminence of Nalenyr through his lifetime and that of his

children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—unto nine generations. He would be

able to reunite the Empire and build it into a greater power than it had ever been before.

He would make Pyrust his warlord and his domain would expand to include all of the

known world and beyond.

One other detail on the map, however, sent icy dread coursing through his veins. There, in

the empty quarter of the Eastern Sea, to the north of the Mountains of Ice, sat an island

continent. Teardrop in shape, as if it had been wept from the mouth of the Gold River, it

floated there to the southeast. Its landmass could have easily encompassed the Five

Princes and Erumvirine as well.

Cyron stared at it, and the image took on definition as if some invisible cartographer were

adding details. Mountains grew up and rivers flowed. Cities appeared, flourished,

collapsed, and started the cycle again. Odd creatures decorated geographical features,

and the name
Anturasixan
scrawled itself over the face of the continent in Qiro’s strong hand.

And all of it was drawn in blood—blood that dripped slowly down the wall. Cyron thought it

might just run in red streaks to the floor, but the fluid shifted and flowed differently, as if it had a life of its own.

It does, just like the place it has drawn.
Cyron watched as letters formed into words. His mouth went dry.

Below the new continent a simple legend appeared, as it did on so many Anturasi maps. A

warning, scrawled clearly and boldly, in Qiro Anturasi’s hand. A warning to be ignored at

the peril of the world.

“Here there be monsters.”