A Secret Atlas (28 page)

required for this evening, and all that are unclaimed will be destroyed.”

“They are beautiful, Highness.”

“I think so, too.” Cyron smiled slowly. “Each year I determine who will be cast.”

“It is a great honor to receive a set, Highness.” Keles slowly shook his head without taking

his eyes from the figures. “To be cast as one is unimaginable.”

“Allow yourself to imagine, Keles Anturasi.” The Prince lifted out the figure of Qiro

Anturasi. “Your grandfather, as invaluable as he is to us, was cast this year in honor of his

eighty-first birthday. You and your brother will be cast upon returning from your missions.

So much greater will your contribution to Nalenyr be that such an honor is easily within

your grasp.”

Keles’ expression of awe slowly dissolved as he met the Prince’s gaze. “If my grandfather

were to guess that were possible, he might do the unthinkable.”

“True, so we shall not let him know.” Cyron replaced Qiro in the box and closed it again.

“That secret shall remain as safe as these figures are. And I shall keep you equally safe.”

“Yes, Highness. Thank you.”

The Prince opened his hands. “You shall return to the party and enjoy yourself. Tell the

assembled that I’d heard a story of a jungle cat the color of red sand with black stripes

and, while you are not your brother, I dearly wished you would capture me a half dozen for

my sanctuary. Something like that will suffice for most, and those it won’t satisfy will be

smart enough to know you could not be saying anything anyway.”

“Yes, Highness.” Keles rose from his chair and bowed.

Before he could straighten up, the Prince rose and clapped him on both shoulders. “That

you bow despite your injury marks the depth of your soul, Keles Anturasi. Your future and

that of our nation are intertwined. They will grow together into prosperity. Never forget you

are loved and respected, and your return is anxiously awaited.”

Keles nodded, rose, and withdrew from the room.

As the door slid shut behind him, Prince Cyron turned to a screen that had concealed one

corner of the room. “We will be undisturbed now.”

Moraven Tolo, dressed in black and white with black tigers embroidered on his overshirt,

emerged from behind the screen. “I have listened as you bid me, Prince Cyron.”

“I beg your forgiveness,
serrcai,
for making you a party to that deception, but I needed you to hear two things. First, you would agree, he really has no idea of the sort of difficulties he will face. He is naive and will need protecting.”

The swordsman bowed his head. “You wish me to do that?”

“I would not presume to reduce you to the role of a mercenary,
serrcai
. I think you will find that in your mission for
dicaiserr
Jatan, having a cartographer along will be of great aid.”

“The wisdom of your words cannot be denied, Highness.” Moraven turned and looked

back toward the door. “I will not be alone in seeing to his survival?”

“You have your apprentice.”

“True, Highness, but you evade my question.”

“He will not travel alone.” The Prince slipped a folded paper packet sealed with red wax

from the interior of his overshirt. “I will have another service I require from the both of you.

You will open this only when you meet him again in Gria.”

The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. “I do not begrudge you a service, Highness, for we both

know I owe a debt of honor to your family. You want two things from me—great, difficult

things. You do presume much.”

Cyron killed the smile beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth. “The other evening you

did a favor for a friend in entertaining me. I ask you to pay your debt to the House of

Komyr. And the House of Komyr will now be indebted to you.”

Moraven bowed his head slightly, but brought it up far too quickly. “It will take more than

casting me as a toy to pay this debt.”

“Some debts can never be paid, Moraven Tolo, but let us worry about the service being

performed first.” The Prince forced his expression to soften. “In your wanderings, you are

able to shield a few from disasters. On this journey, you will find the means to prevent war

from destroying many. I will stand the debt, but we both know that I shall not be the only

one to benefit from your actions.”

“Were it for any lesser reason you asked me to do this, I would refuse you, Prince Cyron.”

Moraven bowed respectfully. “I hope my efforts will succeed.”

“As do I.” A shiver ran down Cyron’s spine. “If you fail, there may be no House of Komyr

left to honor its obligation.”

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

Keles was not surprised that his sister was the first person to find him after he returned to

the Festival celebration. Plenty of people had seen him drawn away, doubtless wondering

if he were being singled out for some honor or an upbraiding. When he returned without

some visible sign of the Prince’s favor, most people decided to ignore him.

“Why are you so concerned, Keles?” Nirati took his arm and rubbed a hand over his back.

“You’re frightened.”

He glanced at her, realizing she was correct. “I thought you couldn’t read my mind.”

“Only your face.” She smiled bravely at him. “And even if we were able to communicate

that way, you know I would not be able to read your mind, just that which you wished to

send me.”

“I wouldn’t wish to send you any of this.” Keles led her over to a side table, where servants

poured him a small porcelain cup of sweet wine. He drank, then purposely shrugged his

shoulders and tried to let tension drain from his body. “The Prince did nothing to scare me.

In fact, he did everything he could to be reassuring. I actually do take heart in what he told

me, and you should, too, Nirati. Do not fear for me.”

His sister’s blue eyes narrowed as she accepted a cup of wine. “If I promise not to worry,

will you tell me what he said?”

“I cannot. He forbade me to reveal anything he said to anyone. I’d give you the story he

told me to tell others, but you’d see through it in a heartbeat.”

Nirati regarded him for a moment over the curved rim of the cup. “Tell me why you are

frightened, then.”

“That’s a little more difficult.” Keles drank again, thinking that if he gulped the wine he

might find some euphoria. He also realized that was actually the last thing he needed.

That wouldn’t make his situation any better; it would only put off what had to be faced.

“In talking to the Prince I truly came to see the enormity of the task ahead of me. Jorim

pointed out the dangers accurately enough when we spoke the other day. I figured they

would all be things that an arrow or two could handle.”

His sister laughed. “All things considered, shooting well won’t hurt.”

“I agree, but the Prince made it apparent that there was more going on. My mission is not

just a way for Grandfather to banish me for spoiling his birthday party. It actually has

value, and could be crucial to Nalenyr. He took what I’d seen as little more than a family

squabble and broadened it.”

She nodded. “He raised the stakes, making the price of failure much higher.”

“As if the possibility of dying was not enough. Yes.”

“And you want me not to worry?”

Keles leaned in and kissed his twin on the forehead. “No, I’ll do enough of that. I want to

know you are back here in Moriande having fun, breaking hearts, and finding someone

who will be a brilliant addition to our family.”

Nirati’s eyes sparkled. “I think I have the harder task, given that Mother and Grandfather

will be watching over me. Still, there are possibilities.”

Keles turned and followed her gaze. Just entering the hall were Majiata Phoesel and her

family. Along with them came a tall man who, by his dress and demeanor, embraced his

Desei heritage. The man was handsome, and certainly the type that had attracted his

sister in the past. When the count had visited him, Keles found him to be intelligent as

well, which was good; his sister would suffer no idiots.

“Tell me, Nir, do you want the Desei because of him, or because he is with
her
?”

He felt a shock run through Nirati. “Your lips are moving, but I hear Jorim’s words.”

“You’re not answering the question.”

“One of those reasons suffices, but the other makes it that much more fun, brother dear.”

Her eyes slitted as Majiata broke from her group and approached them. “I’ll let you speak

with her alone.”

“Could be she is coming to warn you off.”

“She can send me a letter—if she learns to write.” Nirati kissed him on the cheek and

wandered away, not even acknowledging Majiata with a nod as she passed.

Keles nodded as Majiata reached him. “Pleasure of the Festival to you.”

“And you.” Majiata clasped her hands at her waist. “I am pleased to see you have

recovered from your injuries.”

“Am recovering, but it is expected I shall heal fully.”

She hesitated for a moment, clearly expecting something, then glanced down. “I am

recovering from my injuries as well.”

“Your injuries . . . Ah, yes, I heard you were at the healing. I was unconscious.” Keles

imagined a red scar on what had previously been soft ivory skin. He recalled her near

panic, once, when a blemish had appeared on her chin. It struck him as curious that he

didn’t want to offer her succor or sympathy, but wished to see the scar so he could forever

erase the vision of her beauty from his memory.

Her gaze came back up and her face became a smooth, ivory mask with a splash of color

at lips, cheeks, and eyes. “In the spirit of the Festival, I wish you to know that I bear you

no ill will for what happened to me. I absolve you of all guilt in the matter. It was not your

fault.”

“Not my fault?” Keles frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“You needn’t feign ignorance, Keles. Despite your rejection of me, I know you intimately,

and you me. I know what you are feeling inside.”

“And what, exactly, would that be?”

“Many things. Regret and anger chief among them.” Majiata kept her voice even and

quiet, prompting the scandalmongers in the crowd to edge closer to hear. “You regret

having sent me away and regret not having been able to keep me safe.”

“I thought I
did
keep you safe.” Keles held his cup out for a servant to replenish. “That, or I got these scars for nothing.”

“Oh, not
that
.” The dismissive tone of her voice coupled with disdain, and put a twist in her mouth that was not attractive. “That you were not able to tell the Prince you would have

excused me the whipping.”

“What?”

“You are not so cruel as to wish me harmed, though you are the man who broke my

heart.”

“I broke your heart?” Keles drank to give himself time to think, trying to pierce her logic.

“You are the one who came to break things off with me, remember? You are the one who

refused to accompany me on the
Stormwolf
.”

“But, you see, had I agreed, I would now be bound for Ixyll.”

He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, hoping her words would make sense as he

reviewed them. “But, had you agreed to join me, I would not be bound for the Wastes.”

“You see, so it is all your fault, Keles.”

“But you said it wasn’t my fault.”

“No, I am
forgiving
you.” Frustration had begun to rise in her voice, but she gained control of it. “I want you to know I will always love you.”

He drained his drink and, in the moment of solitude afforded him by the cup eclipsing her,

things made a crude sort of sense. Majiata had always been self-centered, but had never

before ventured so far into fantasy. He would have put it down to her having been

whipped, save for the calculation he saw in what she was saying.

Quite simply, she and her family were hedging their bets. Leaving things on good terms

with him would make further relations with his grandfather possible. It might also be seen

as something that would please the Prince. Moreover, when he returned—Keles refused

to think of it as
if
—he might very well have found an overland route to the trade of old days. In that case still being friendly with him would directly enrich her family.

He lowered his cup again and a smiling servant refilled it. “Majiata, I have something I

must say to you.”

“Yes?” Her reply came in a husky hushed whisper reminiscent of words spoken

postpassion, in the dark of the night. “Tell me, Keles Anturasi.”

“I see many things right now. Things about you and about me. Truths that cannot be

denied. You say you love me, and will always do so.” He pressed his left hand to his

breastbone. “I also feel something.”

“Yes, Keles?” Her words came breathlessly, and her expression changed to one of

expectation. “What do you feel?”

“Frankly,” he began, his heart racing, “I feel sick.”

“Oh, poor Keles.”

“No, I think you mistake me. I feel sick that I was for so long deceived about you, your

feelings, and your aims. You clearly thought, perhaps from the beginning, that you could

use me as a toy. You could play with my feelings, even as you are trying to play with them

now. That with a coo and a whisper and a kiss and the spreading of your thighs, you could