A Secret Atlas (17 page)

Both leaders fell silent, but the echoes of gasps from ministers filled the air. The two men

did smile at that.

Pyrust frowned. “Your defense of your realm would work whether or not you were willing

to give me food. Why, then, do you not let me starve?”

“Because
you
will not starve, my brother.” Cyron shook his head ever so lightly.
Why don’t
you understand?
“Your people will starve. My desire is to save them from pain and death.”

“But they mean nothing to you.”

“But they should, shouldn’t they?”

“There are some who would argue in favor of that point, yes.” Pyrust stood slowly. “I am

not one of them. The power we have is power to exercise for the glory of our dynasties. It

is not enough to survive. We must prosper, and others must be made to bow and

acknowledge our superiority.”

Those could have been my brother’s dying words.
Cyron rose as well. “This could be true, Prince Pyrust; but if it is, it won’t be happening this year.”

Pyrust smiled. “No, but there are many years to come.”

3rd 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

Keles Anturasi became aware of the buzz of murmured voices as he woke, almost

because of their abrupt silence as he stirred. The stinging scent of smelling salts still filled his head and he sneezed, once—violently—reigniting the ripping pains in his back. He felt

tightness, where his flesh had been stitched closed, but it felt as if red-hot wire had been

used for the sutures, and ground glass had been bound into his wounds.

He gasped and wanted to cry out, but his dry throat and thick tongue prevented it. He lay

on his stomach and tried to lift his head, but even that simple movement sent a pulse of

pain through him. He bit at the pillow and managed a growl as a fat man’s pale hand

brought smelling salts near him again.

The man’s voice came distant and disdainful. “He must lie still or he will reopen the

wounds. He has slept long enough for the poultices to draw most of the poison, and for

the lacerations to begin to heal, but things are still delicate.”

Keles couldn’t place that voice, but his mother’s followed. “You are certain he will be

well?”

“My lady, I
am
the Prince’s own physician.”

“I know this very well, Geselkir, but the question is how hard do you wish me to use my

influence with the royal house on your behalf?”

“Well, really!”

Keles smiled, despite feeling as if his insides were drifting within a shell of pain. His

mother did not often reveal her steely nature. On those few times she did she invariably

got her way.

“You are still of the opinion that he cannot be taken to attend the healing tomorrow

evening?”

“Under no circumstances. I was adamant at the start about that, and have not changed my

mind.” Disgust infused the physician’s words. “The healing is superstitious nonsense, and

dangerous as well. The Prince’s pet may be docile, but he was not always so. He could

revert at any time. To allow one of the
vanyesh
to live is unthinkable.”

“It is not the
vanyesh
’s life which concerns me, Geselkir.”

“Keles should remain quiet for several days. I will return to remove the stitching. Keep the

wounds clean, change the poultices often, and he will do very well. If there is redness,

especially if it spreads, you will tell me.”

“You will see it yourself when you visit him.”

“My lady, if you think . . . yes, of course, as you desire.”

Drawing in as deep a breath as he could muster, Keles studied the pain in his back. He

discovered a dull ache in his ribs lurking beneath the fiery lines in his flesh. The sharper

pain in his back throbbed—four distinct lines of it, each in its own time as if a fiddle string was being plucked at random. He let his breath out slowly, hoping some of the pain might

fade, but instead it just thrummed in a new, jagged melody.

He opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of a rotund man still wearing a Festival robe.

The brownish stains at the knee and on the sleeves were obviously blood, and

undoubtedly his. Keles dimly recalled some sort of commotion, but his throbbing skull

prevented him from being able to remember anything clearly.

Keles tucked his chin toward his chest and looked at his mother. She, too, wore the gown

from the previous night. He knew she hadn’t slept, but she looked as beautiful as ever.

Beyond her stood his sister, likewise pretty, but wearing everyday clothing. She had not

slept much either, but Keles was certain their mother had sent her off to bed at some

point.

Keles tried a grin and it worked. His voice did, too, in a croak. “How long have I been

sleeping?”

From near his head Geselkir offered, “Not long enough.”

Siatsi smiled at her son. “You will sleep more, but it was important we wake you now.

Thank you,
dicaifixtsi,
you are excused.”

“If you think for one moment I approve of what you are going to do, you are sorely

mistaken, Mistress Anturasi.”

“Your concern is noted.”

“I don’t think you understand. You have made him my responsibility. The Prince has made

Keles my responsibility. What you are about to do—”

“—is necessary.” His mother’s voice remained even, but her expression was unrelenting.

“You give me no choice. You’ve said he cannot go to the healing, so I must bring it to

him.”

“It is dangerous nonsense, worse than subjecting him to the
vanyesh
. You risk your son’s life.”

“Have you changed your mind about the healing?”

“No, and I resent your questioning my judgment in this matter.”

“Do you?” Siatsi’s chin came up. “Exactly how many claw wounds from a Viruk warrior

have you treated?”

“Well . . .”

“Would that be
none
?”

“I have seen them.” His voice grew small. “After death.”

“Wait outside.”

“Gladly. I shall not be a party to this.”

Keles waited for the doctor to leave, then looked at his sister. “Water.”

His mother held her back. “Not yet.”

“But I need water.” Keles fought to speak clearly, but his throat closed.

Siatsi squatted down to bring her face on a level with his. “You need something else first.

Nirati, please bring our guest.”

His sister departed without a word and quickly returned leading the Viruk ambassador. At

the sight of her, a flutter began in Keles’ belly. She came close enough for him to catch a

hint of her scent, and perspiration immediately blossomed on his brow and upper lip. His

breathing came harder and his lower lip trembled. His stomach clenched and he almost

lost control of his bowels.

Ierariach stood back away from him. “The
nesginesfal
is in him. I can prevent it doing any lasting damage, if you please.”

His mother nodded. “Please.”

“Stand away from him.” The Viruk came no closer, but as his mother moved behind her,

she pressed her hands together, palm to palm, with fingers pointing toward him. She

crossed her thumbs—he wasn’t sure why he noticed that, but he did. Then her hands shot

away from each other like stags leaping away from dogs.

The air between her hands shimmered, much as it did above a sun-baked rock. Her form

rippled and shifted, then a blast of heat slammed into Keles. It poured into him along the

stripes on his back, liquefying the ground glass and searing his flesh. Hot bile from his

stomach burned up into his throat and how he refrained from vomiting he did not know.

The pain, which had been sharp, melted into soft flows, but that only lasted for a heartbeat

or two. The heat spiked, hurting him enough that he cried out, then went limp. Strength

drained from him as a chill seeped through damp sheets and into his skin.

Keles labored to breathe. He shivered a bit and wanted to roll onto his side so he could

draw his knees up, but he could not. Each breath felt as if he were lifting the whole of his

family’s tower, and each exhalation sounded as if it might be his last.

He would have been worried that it would be, save for his mother’s whispered question.

“What do we do now?”

The ambassador spoke plainly, but also in subdued tones. “The poultices will not hurt.

Keeping the wounds clean will be good as well. He should remain in bed for several

days—I know his grandfather will not wish this, but I have an ancient chart that might buy

your son the time he needs. Mild meals, and no meat to anger the blood.”

His mother nodded. “Your magic has cured him?”

“Some.” The ambassador nodded toward him. “The venom may yet have some residual

effects.”

“What do you mean?”

“I will show you.” From the sleeve of her robe she drew a handkerchief and used it to mop

the perspiration from her brow. She stepped toward him, then brought the kerchief to his

nose. “Can you smell my scent, Keles?”

He breathed in, though not deeply, for fear of starting the fire in his back again. At the first hint of her scent, however, his gorge rose and he could not restrain it. He vomited over the

cloth and her hand. Worse, his bowels let loose and his bladder as well. His body

convulsed. He threw up again, then aspirated a bit of vomit, which started him coughing.

The ambassador whipped away the pillow and held his head as he vomited one more

time. He coughed again, hard, and the pain exploded in his back. He choked, coughed,

and couldn’t breathe. He fought for air, unsuccessfully, and with agony wracking him once

more, the world narrowed and became black.

4th 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

Ministry of Harmony, Liankun

Moriande, Nalenyr

Pelut Vniel looked up from the small table at which he knelt. A long rectangle of rice paper

lay on it. The black pinecone he’d quickly brushed there glistened wetly. He set the brush

down and smiled as Kan Hisatal bowed.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Minister Hisatal.”

“It is my pleasure to answer your summons with alacrity, Minister.” The heavyset man held

his bow for a second more than required by protocol, then took one step forward and sank

to his knees at the edge of the floor. “How may this one be of service?”

Pelut did not answer as his clerk, Iesol Pelmir, knelt and cleared the low table. The clerk—

a slight and bald man—meekly and precisely set the table aside without disturbing the

painting, then shuffled over to Hisatal and gave him a pillow on which to kneel. The clerk

withdrew to his corner, where he knelt on the bare wooden floor, and Hisatal’s hesitation

betrayed surprise that the clerk remained.

This pleased Pelut. Hisatal had come expecting a private conversation, as many of their

conversations prior to his departure on the
Stormwolf
had been. Neither of them wanted a witness to what was said. Iesol’s presence suggested that either the minor clerk was soon

to be elevated, or that what was to be said would be safe for wide currency.
Neither is

true, but if he assumes it is, he will be looking for hidden meanings. He will be off-balance,
and I want that.

Pelut looked up. “We have several things to discuss, you and I, concerning the

future.
Your
future, and how it shapes the nation’s future.”

“May it be of benefit to both of us.”

And you think I do not know all the nuances of your statement.
Pelut resisted the urge to smile and instead slipped his hands into the sleeves of his robe, thereby emphasizing his

superior stature. As with any member of the bureaucracy, he wore a blue robe with a gold

sash. While the two others wore cotton, Pelut wore silk, and his cuffs and hem were

decorated with wide gold cloth bands. All three had the Naleni dragon embroidered in

purple on the ends of the sash, but Pelut also had it on the gold bands at his sleeves. He

was in a position of power both of them hungered for, and Hisatal especially needed to be

reminded of that fact.

“The most important first, then . . .”

Hisatal nodded, betraying himself. “I do not think Keles Anturasi’s being shifted from

the
Stormwolf
should affect the expedition in any way. Its outcome will be the same.”

For you, yes.
Pelut cocked his head to the right. “No, Minister, the
most
important first.”

The heavyset man’s mouth snapped shut and his jowls jiggled. He glanced down quickly

and color rose to his cheeks. “Forgive me, Minister.”

“Your error is understandable, Minister.” Pelut straightened his head but did not smile.

“The most important item is the Prince’s notion of sending grain to the Desei. He has done

this despite our best attempts to dissuade him. Grand Minister Lynesorat was less than

forceful in making our case to the Prince. This leaves us in quite a muddle.”

Hisatal nodded gravely. “The Helosundians have initiated protests over many ministerial

contacts. They have spoken to me even though they know I am leaving. They see this as

Prince Cyron’s subsidization of the enemy and are not pleased.”

“I have heard, but that is a problem of their own making. They maintain their Council of