A Secret Atlas (27 page)

Jorim frowned, swiped at a tear. “Allergies.”

“Of course.”

“Does this wisdom come with being just two years older?”

“Well, that, and having a little brother who so often needs it.”

“Uh-huh. If you were
that
wise, you’d have avoided the sharp side of a Viruk’s claws.”

Keles laughed. “Very true indeed.” He nodded toward his brother. “I have listened to what

you’ve said. I will have a bow taken along with me, and I will practice.”

Jorim’s smile broadened. “I’m glad to hear that. I already took the liberty of having my

second-best bow stowed with your gear. I’d have given you the best, but you won’t be up

to drawing it for a while. The one I’m giving you will put an arrow through armor at forty-

five yards.”

“You’re giving me your bow so I won’t get close enough to have to use a sword, right?”

Jorim leaned forward and patted his brother’s knee. “Keles, let me put this to you gently.

You’re so bad with a blade that an apple doesn’t get worried when you approach it with a

paring knife.”

“I am not
that
bad.”

“Close. Doesn’t matter, though.” Jorim ducked a hand inside his right sleeve and it

emerged holding a ring of jade with an inch-long flange that curved in toward the far side.

“This thumbring is something I found here in Moriande. It once belonged to Panil Ishir.

He’s even mentioned in your memoir there—though that’s probably the only fact in the

book. He was one of the finest archers in the Empire. Practice with this, and you’ll be

shooting better than ever in no time.”

Keles took the smooth stone ring and fitted it over his thumb. The flange protected the

pad, and was worn where it had been used to draw a bowstring back. The cool jade didn’t

tingle with magic or otherwise betray service to an ancient hero. But he had no doubt it

would work as his brother suggested, helping him refine his skill, and he knew his brother

must have paid dearly for it.

“This is too great a gift for me to take into the Wastes, Jorim, and you’re more likely to

need it where you are going.”

“Nonsense.” Jorim closed his brother’s hand around it. “You’ll need it, I’m sure of that.”

Keles sighed. “I will take it, but only because I have an ulterior motive. Panil Ishir is one of those who supposedly survived the battle. He’s out there with the Eternal Empress, ready

to serve her on her return should ever the Nine Principalities require succor.”

“Oh, really?” Jorim burst out with a laugh. “You should go back to reading the memoirs.

They are much more believable than the stories of the Sleeping Empress.”

Keles shifted his shoulders uneasily and felt a twinge in his back. “You’re not looking at it

correctly. The tales make sense.”

“You’re delirious, but I’d love to hear your reasoning—flawed as it is.”

“It’s not flawed at all. The Imperial forces must have been victorious; otherwise, the

barbarians would have long since overrun the Principalities. She and the others were

trapped in this new place that is changed because of the battle, with monsters and other

things that are as much of a threat to her Empire as the barbarians ever were. She and

the survivors stayed out there eliminating these threats, and still remain there. Had they

not, the monsters would have long since overrun the Principalities. It’s all very logical.”

“It would be if you weren’t basing things on a fallacy. You assume monsters aren’t here

from the Wastes because they’ve been killed in the Wastes.
If
monsters ever existed,

and
if
they were killed in the Wastes, it does not follow that it was the Empress and her troops who did the killing. And while they were all great heroes, I doubt many of them will

have survived the centuries since then—if any.”

“Kaerinus did.”

“He was not a hero.”

“Immaterial.” Keles smiled sheepishly. “If one of them did, and he is Panil, wouldn’t it be

great to return his property to him?”

“If he doesn’t take you for a grave robber and shoot you first, yes.” Jorim shook his head.

“There are times, Keles, when I wonder about you. Perhaps that Viruk venom has

softened your head.”

“Hey, you used to believe this as fervently as I did.”

“Sure. Then I grew up. One of the reasons I envy you your journey is that I know you’ll see

things far more fantastic than the Sleeping Empress.”

“But maybe I’ll see her, too.”

“Maybe you will. In the wilds you hear stories. They’re nine times more fanciful than the

memoirs.” Jorim frowned for a moment. “It is odd, though, that
something
kept the Viruk from using the Cataclysm as a means to reestablish their Empire. They take to the cold

better than us, and survive magic better. They could have returned, but they didn’t.”

“See? It could have been her.”

“Or
they
could have been killing the monsters you say she has been slaying.”

“Could be. Not much of a comfort if it is.” Keles’ mind flicked to a greater problem that his

brother’s comment raised. Fear flared in his stomach. “The battle released enough magic

to change this world. What if it did more?”

“Like?”

“Like open a hole into another world so that things from there came pouring through?

What if the Viruk did spend the dark years fighting for their very survival against whatever

came from that place?”

“Well, Keles, if
that
is what happened, I’ve only two things to tell you. First, learn to shoot really, really well.” Jorim’s eyes tightened. “Second, watch your back. You
don’t
want

anything following you home.”

9th 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

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron dismissed his attendants and the minor minister with a wave of his hand. “I

shall finish dressing myself. Minister Delar, you will wait in the corridor until Master

Anturasi and I are finished, then you shall conduct him back to the ball.”

The minister bowed silently, waited for the dressers to exit before he did, then slid the

door closed.

The Prince tugged at the shoulders of his overshirt, then glanced up at Keles Anturasi.

The young man looked pale and just a little afraid, both of which were understandable.

Cyron smiled, shifted his shoulders, and lowered his hands. “Does it look good?”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles—wearing a simple overshirt of black, adorned with his family’s

crest in white, over a green tunic and green pants—cleared his throat. “Yes, Highness, it is

spectacular.”

“But not what you would have expected me to wear?” The Prince moved to a pair of chairs

with a small round table set between them. The table had a box made of dark wood

centered on its circular top. He motioned for the cartographer to take the other chair.

Keles bowed abortively, then sat, uncertain of himself.

“Please, Keles, be at ease. I’ve not asked you here to discipline you. I consider you a

friend, and I have been concerned about you. My physician has kept me informed of your

progress. He does not like Viruk magic, but he has grudgingly testified to its efficacy.” The

Prince seated himself, going so far as to extend his legs and cross his booted ankles.

“You honor me by coming here with your family tonight. I even understand that you will

head up the river as your brother sails down in the
Stormwolf
.”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles frowned and eased himself back in the chair. “Highness, I am

honored you consider me a friend, but this puzzles me. You know my brother far better,

and I would have expected he would be here instead of me.”

“And he has been, but not tonight. This is
your
night.” Cyron opened his arms to take in his dressing room. Rich golden wood predominated, save where strips of dark wood

divided the doors and walls with a geometric pattern. Mobile panels blocked off doors,

screens hid corners, and well-fitted doors concealed closet space. Aside from the chairs

and table, the room contained very few furnishings, and most of that practical, such as

armatures for the hanging of robes and a small cabinet for storing wine and drinking

vessels.

“I invited you here to know I really do appreciate the great lengths to which you have gone

for Nalenyr, and to which you will go. May I speak frankly?”

Keles blinked, his light eyes wide. “You need not ask my permission for that, Highness.”

“But no word of this meeting must ever pass your lips.”

The cartographer clasped his hands over his heart and likely would have sunk to his

knees save for the lingering effects of his wounding. “Never, Highness.”

“Good.” The Prince sat forward, leaning on the left arm of his chair. “I was appalled when

your grandfather sent you on this mission to Ixyll. It is true that he and I had discussed the

necessity for sending someone there. That used to be the area through which trade was

carried on with the Far West. For us not to know the state of things would be foolish. If that

way were open, the
Stormwolf
expedition—and the knowledge it recovers—could be

redundant. Still, given what few reports do come from there, we were fairly certain the way

would remain sealed for another ninety years or so. That would give us the time needed to

profit from trade and find another way to put the Empire back together.

“His choosing you, and invoking my name in doing so, put me in a difficult position. As you

know, your grandfather can be . . .
contrary
at times.”

Keles laughed and his manner relaxed. “You are very diplomatic, Highness.”

“I try to be, but with you I can be very open. Your grandfather defies me from time to time,

with increasing frequency, and were he not so vital to Nalenyr, I’d have him publicly

flogged. Now, isn’t that something you’d like to see?”

“See? There are times I would like to help.”

“Well, I doubt you will get the chance, but you can help in other ways.” Cyron’s voice

dropped in volume, forcing the younger man to lean forward. “The mission you are

undertaking is of vital importance, and you will hear rumors about it. Rumors I have

started. The rumors will indicate that you are too valuable to be left to go out into the

Wastes, and that is true. People will be led to believe that you will be secretly recalled to

court.”

“I’m not certain I understand, sire.”

“It is for your safety. A show shall be made of your departure. I have already obtained

someone to impersonate you. I have assembled an entourage to travel upriver, both to

draw attention to your double, and to keep others from getting too close. The company will

make slow progress and attract much attention. Our enemies will watch that group. And

you, disguised and on the same boat, will pass unnoticed.”

“Forgive me, Highness, but would it not be more prudent to send me out on another

boat?”

“No. Our enemies will be working so hard to learn what they can from the actor, they will

have little attention to spend studying much else. Moreover, their focus on your double will

allow others to identify them.”

“I see, Highness.” Keles lowered his hands and tightened his arms around his stomach.

“You think there will be danger on the trip? I mean, beyond the dangers out there?”

Cyron laughed aloud. “You are an Anturasi. You will be seen as being the key to your

grandfather. You are also invaluable in and of yourself. I know Prince Pyrust spoke to you

about undertaking a task for him.”

“I refused, Highness, instantly and without equivocation.”

“Calm yourself, Keles, I know that. I know you love your family and nation, and I know I

can trust you.” Cyron’s voice grew softer again. “I
can
trust you, can I not?”

Keles winced, but dropped to a knee and bowed his head so low he almost hit it on the

table. “In anything, Highness.”

“As I expected. And thank you. I knew my trust was well placed. Now you need to

understand something from me.” The Prince drew back, his eyes sharpening. “I will see to

your safety. You must trust me on that, regardless of what appearances seem. I will keep

you safe and you will gather the information your grandfather wants. There may be

another service or two I require, and if the opportunity arises, I will communicate my needs

to you.”

Cyron flicked his right hand up and Keles rose, seating himself on the edge of his chair.

The Prince laid his hand on the wooden box on the table. “You know the legend about my

great-grandfather, that because he had played war games with toy soldiers as a child, he

was able to take the throne and establish this dynasty? While others drilled and learned

swordplay, a sickly child marched armies through battles and learned the skills to make

those swordsmen most effective in combat.”

“Yes, Highness. My brother and I used to fight many battles with soldiers when we were

young. My father, and sometimes our grandfather, would show us the Festival figures,

though we were never allowed to play with them.”

Cyron smiled. “I don’t think anyone ever played with them, which is a pity.” He opened the

box to reveal nine figures on a bed of velvet within. “You know, then, that the Prince gives

a set to each family invited to this final celebration. Aside from the sculptors, painters, and myself, you are the first to see this year’s figures. We made only the number of sets