A Secret Atlas (24 page)

before dropping him. As his body hit, the Turasynd drove at Moraven Tolo again. His

saber came up in a two-handed strike designed to cut the man in half, yet left his belly

open.

The Prince squinted, not really wishing to see the aftermath of Moraven’s obvious avenue

of attack. While he didn’t object to the Turasynd’s death, having him kneeling there

keening as he tried to stuff entrails back into his stomach really would put a damper on

any festivities. Still, Moraven Tolo really had no choice.
It is just a matter of how he

chooses to do it.

The Turasynd’s sword began to fall. Moraven Tolo reversed his grip on his sword, letting

the blade rest along his forearm and extend past his elbow. He danced forward, inside the

arc of Chyrut’s blow. Another step in and a sidestep to the left would let him slash right

across the barbarian’s stomach. Tolo’s body would even shield much of the audience from

the spectacle.
Had I his skill, that’s how I would do it.

Even the loud thud of Chyrut’s sword chopping into the wooden floor could not completely

disguise the sharp crack of Moraven’s pommel smashing into the barbarian’s jaw. The

larger man’s head snapped back, then his knees buckled. Moraven Tolo spun outside the

circle of his foe’s arms and brought his blade up high at his left shoulder. The Turasynd

wavered for a moment, almost holding himself up on his hands, and with the flick of an

arm Moraven could have taken his head off easily.

Chyrut tried to say something, but his misshapen jaw did not function well. He pitched

forward onto his face, the feathers on his back rippling briefly. The Turasynd’s breathing

was labored, but the smaller man seemed barely winded.

A young man came from outside the circle and lifted the barbarian’s blade from the floor.

Moraven frowned for a moment, then dropped to a knee and laid his sword on the ground

before the Prince’s dais.

“The entertainment is ended, Highness.”

Cyron stood and nodded down at the man. “Was he a worthy foe?”

“One of the best I have ever been given the opportunity to fight.”

“Were you ever really in danger?”

The swordsman canted his head slightly. “In the circle, one is always in danger. Your foe

can only hurt you as much as you allow him to. And any mistake can be your last.”

The Prince smiled. “Thank you,
dicaiserr
Moraven Tolo. Before you leave Moriande, I

would appreciate your calling on me at Wentokikun.”

“You honor me.” Moraven Tolo turned and glanced at the younger man who was fiddling

with Chyrut’s sword. “If my aide learns manners by then, might I present him to you,

Highness?”

“Indeed, yes.”

Moraven’s words brought his aide’s head up. The man quickly knelt and laid the sword on

the ground. He bowed, but did not raise himself until Moraven lifted his heel as a signal.

The younger man then straightened, but did not leave his knees.

The Prince opened his arms. “I thank you all for being so attentive during our

entertainments. I would have you continue to enjoy the bounty this harvest has brought

our nation. You have seen heroes here tonight, and from them we can all learn. First, we

know that our best effort can only be produced through dedication and practice. Second,

that to fail to do our best means we have been defeated before we begin to act.”

6th 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

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

At the Prince’s word, the musicians struck up a tune, and the circle that had contained the

night’s entertainment slowly filled with people dancing. Keru came and took both swords

and the Turasynd swordsman away. Moraven Tolo allowed himself to smile at the

congratulations offered, then melted into the crowd with Ciras in his wake.

When Moraven stopped, Ciras moved around in front of him, bowing deeply. “I beg your

pardon, Master. I did not mean to be an embarrassment.”

“This I understand. You may be able to redeem yourself.” Moraven kept his voice low,

then pointed toward an unoccupied corner. Without a word, Ciras preceded him there.

When the youth positioned himself to watch the room, Moraven took him by the shoulders

and turned the younger man to face him, reversing their positions.

“Forgive me,
Serrcai
Moraven Tolo.”

“Perhaps. Tell me what you are to be forgiven for and why you did it.”

The younger man’s brows tightened. “I was presumptuous enough to assume you would

present me to the Prince.”

“Why?”

“I am of the nobility of Tirat. I assumed you would present me, as I would be presented to

nobility.” Ciras’ head came up. “And this is a contravention of the lesson you taught me in

the graveyard. Here I am nothing.”

Moraven smiled. “That is all well and good, from your point of view, but you must see it

from mine. Do you think me so poorly mannered that I would not have presented you to

the Prince?”

“No, Master, but—”

An upheld hand cut off Ciras’ reply. “Then what reason would I have for not presenting

you?”

The young man’s brow furrowed with concentration. “I am at a loss, Master.”

“I do not think you are.” Moraven allowed himself to lean back against the wall. “You saw

everything you needed to, and you know all you need to puzzle this out. Concentrate.

What did you see?”

“You defeated the Turasynd monster, but that was not a question even from the

beginning.”

“Why not?”

Ciras’ eyes widened. “How could you have had a moment’s doubt? The man was strong

and fast and big, but he had no
classical
training. He showed no recognized forms, he did not flow from attack and defense. He just attacked relentlessly. As you said, he knew you

would defend yourself and not kill him, so he did not have to worry.”

“But was he trying to kill me?”

“No. Wait . . . was he?”

Moraven nodded slowly. “That was his intent. The Black Eagles and
xidantzu
have little

love for each other.”

Ciras smiled. “That’s a known fact even in Tirat.”

“Usually their conflicts occur in the provinces. I’ve not fought them, but I’ve talked to those who have. You might think him an undisciplined fighter”—Moraven held his right hand out

to display where his sleeve had been trimmed—“but he was good. Better than most.”

“If you say so, Master.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“It is not that. He was good, but not good enough to have done as well as he did.”

“That is also true. What does this tell you?”

Ciras wrapped his left hand around his right fist and pressed both hands against his mouth

as he thought. Moraven watched his eyes narrow and widen again as he reviewed the

fight in his head. A realization began to dawn on Ciras’ face, then several more things fell

into place.

“Oh, Master, I am truly sorry.”

“Tell me.”

“The sword. It must be one of those which has been enhanced by a
gyanridin
. I touched it, you feared it might affect me, so you had me put it down and used my breach of etiquette

to draw attention away from the weapon.” He rubbed his hands against his robe as if to rid

them of the weapon’s taint. “Is that not it, Master?”

“Very close, Ciras, very close indeed.” Moraven pressed his hands together, fingertip to

fingertip. “Many fine warriors followed the Empress into the Wastes to destroy the

Turasynd. Their skill led to the Cataclysm. They were all slain.”

“You do not believe that the Empress and her surviving guards will return when we need

them?”

“Perhaps, but if they have not returned in seven centuries, why would they return now?”

Moraven did not allow his apprentice to answer. “While a weapon does not improve when

wielded by the best swordsman, one that has been used by a superior swordsman can

make it easier for another to attain higher levels of skill. It is an aid to the obtaining

of
jaedunto
.”

“I know, Master. I used such a blade for some of my training.”

“Excellent. Then you will understand the importance of what we saw here. There has been

a rumor, which Master Jatan shared with me, that, in the Wastes, certain caches of such

weapons have been found. I saw enough of the Turasynd’s weapon to know it dates from

before the Cataclysm. Someone has been seeking these weapons out.”

“The Desei?”

“Perhaps, or others. But what of that I have just told you does not make sense?”

Ciras thought for a moment. “There should be no vast caches of such weapons. They

would have been entombed with their owners or sent back to their families. They would

not just have been piled up.”

“And this means?”

“Any number of things.” Ciras frowned. “At the very least, someone is out there digging up

graves. And that means—”

“Go ahead.”

Ciras shook his head. “It is foul beyond imagining.”

Vrilxingna,
the darkest of arts, and most dangerous. While it was common knowledge that even the most skilled magician could not raise the dead, it did not mean the dead were

wholly useless.
Vrilxingnaridin
made a practice of locating and despoiling the graves of those known for great virtue or skill. They would take a corpse, grind it down into a

powder, and sell that powder to be inhaled. It was believed that the corpse powder would

grant one the skills of the deceased. Other
vrilxingna
practices were still more

unspeakable, but the idea that the corpses of the world’s greatest heroes could be made

into a powder that could be given to an army was enough to strike terror into the hearts of

any who heard it.

“The Deathbreathers are foul, but think on what you have seen here. A lord of the

underworld has announced to all present that the means to manufacture heroes are

available. Helosundians would desire such wares to help reconquer their nation. Inland

Naleni nobles could see this as a way to raise an army that could overthrow their prince.”

“It is a good thing the Desei prince was not here.”

Another voice, light, replied to Ciras’ comment. “Do you not think,
Lirserrdin
Dejote, that Prince Pyrust has been given his own showing of what is for sale?”

Moraven turned to his right and bowed in her direction. “You honor us, my lady.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled easily, yet not without restraint. “You are the one who

has honored me by acting as my gift. I trust you did not find my offer presumptuous?”

“It was yet another honor.”

She held her left hand out to him, and he took it in his right. “Let us walk. You will be

entertained,
Lirserrdin
.” At her word two of her aides each took Ciras by an arm and

steered him toward the dancers, while others created a circle around Moraven and their

Mistress.

“Should I be angered that you have not come to see me, or shall I assume that you

thought, with your new name, I would not recognize you?” Her words came sweetly and

softly, wrapping in jest the hurt they conveyed. “I have often wondered if you have stayed

away from Moriande because of me.”

Moraven slid her hand to the crook of his elbow and led her through a set of double doors

to the small courtyard garden. Strains of music followed them. The garden, dark and

empty, carried the scent of night-blooming flowers. Their perfume complemented the

scent she had chosen to wear.

“Not because of you, but because of the tragedy of my last visit. Whenever I thought I

would return, an omen reminded me of it.” He smiled at her. “I have thought the gods

strove to keep us apart.”

“And so fearing the gods is why you have spent nights at the House of Three Pearls after

you did arrive?”

“Do not affect that hurt tone with me, my lady.”

“So formal and cold.”

“And now you seek to deflect me.” He closed his eyes. “Is there a familiar name you wish

me to use?”

“For you there is always one.” Her hand came up and she delicately caressed his cheek.

“You are never far from my thoughts. I do like your new name. I shall use it, Moraven. It

suits you much better. It bespeaks more deliberation, a passion that is subsumed but

available.”

“And your name, Paryssa, has always meant passion to me.” Moraven looked down into

her perfect face, with its pale, infinite eyes. Thousands had looked into those eyes over

the years, but how many of them had seen what he had? Beguiled by her beauty,

seduced by her certain movements, the skills she employed with the same facility as he

did a sword.

He shivered, the memory of their first union bringing a flush to his cheeks. He had been

young yet—not as young as Ciras, but young, and so was she. He had fought a duel over

her honor—less because he was concerned for it than that the man he fought deserved

death. It was not the first time he’d felt the magic of the sword, but it was the first time he remembered its remaining with him so long, and the first time he was certain it would not

leave him.

She had reached that same place as they coupled. Together they attained a height neither

had known before, and it thrilled them. And each time after, it came faster and harder,

shaking them. For any two people who had stumbled upon it accidentally, the ecstasy