A Secret Atlas (63 page)

storm would not be ignored. The winds it kicked up began to howl. An oppressive heat

built, making him want to strip off his clothes. All around him, the magic was making

the
thaumston
fabric glow. As riders moved and horses galloped, as cloth gathered in

wrinkles, the edges and peaks would flash with silver or blue, while iridescent violets filled

the darker valleys.

The storm would kill them, there was no question of that. But despite his certainty, it

wasn’t death he feared. It was something else. It came from the deepest recesses of his

mind, a black creature, hulking and reeking of corruption. It wore armor that clanked, and

a mask. An armored battle mask with the scales of a dragon. Its mouth gaped open

showing sharp teeth, and from its throat issued a low laugh that blended into the wind’s

lupine shrieking . . .

Hoofbeats competed with thunder. Illuminated by the light of the storm’s fire, the line of a

path became visible. Not too steep and fairly wide, it cut up and across the bluff’s face,

leading to a large dark opening through which they would be able to ride without

dismounting. Borosan’s horse took it first, and the others followed. Rekarafi cut to the right

and just scaled the cliff face, lurking beneath the edge at the opening until

the
thanaton
chased the last of the horses within.

Moraven ducked his head to enter the cave, then vaulted from his saddle. Ciras sagged

away from him, but clung to the saddle. Before he could fall, Keles and Moraven were

able to ease him to the ground. Tyressa herded the horses deeper in and around the

corner to the left, and their hoofbeats clicked and echoed from what sounded like the walls

of a massive chamber.

Moraven tore away his veil and pulled the paired coifs back to a thick roll around his neck.

“We need to get Ciras deeper into the chamber. Help me.”

Keles nodded and took the young man beneath the armpits, while Moraven grabbed his

ankles. They made their way slowly along the passage, relying on sound since the light

from the opening faded the deeper they went. The Viruk’s shadow played along the walls,

effectively blocking much of the light. Moraven could understand the fascination with the

storm, and knew the Viruk would not be so foolish as to linger there when it hit.

As they reached the entryway to the next chamber, Borosan ignited the
gyanrigot
lantern he’d brought along. Its blue light stabbed deep into the chamber, illuminating the tall,

arched opening into yet another chamber, but it penetrated no further. As

the
gyanridin
swung it around to the right, splashing it over the chamber’s wall, it became obvious that what might once have been a normal rock formation had been worked long

and hard by the hand of Man.

Moraven dropped Ciras’ ankles and straightened up mutely. He wanted to speak, but

words would not come. He found what the light revealed both glorious and terrifying. He

knew in an instant that he had found the source of his fear. He had found what they had

been hunting, what
jaecaiserr
Jatan had sent him to find. His knees buckled.

Borosan’s light played over a wall that had been worked smooth, then had square

chambers the height, width, and depth of a man carved into the face. Each one of these

holes had been plugged by a slab of stone that had been cemented into place. On these

stone slabs had been carved the names and deeds of the people entombed behind them.

The lettering had been leafed with gold, so the names and legends glowed in the light.

Keles gasped. “That one there. It’s the grave of Amenis Dukao. He died with the

Empress!”

Before anyone else could offer a comment, the Viruk screamed. Moraven turned, unable

to make any sense of his words, but it didn’t matter.

The storm has finally caught us.

The Viruk’s silhouette filled the opening. Rekarafi grabbed both edges of the entryway and

hung on as the storm hit. A cloud of dust blasted in first, lifting the Viruk from his feet. His legs trailed out behind him, then a red-gold tongue of flame jetted in, wreathing him. The

rock in his right hand crumbled. Rekarafi, still anchored by his left hand, flew back and

smashed into the entryway’s wall.

No longer blocked by the Viruk’s presence, a shimmering silver ball of wild magic bounced

into the chamber. It floated for a moment, then sent tendrils of black lightning out in four

directions. Their forks cracked and popped, moving like arms and legs as the ball crawled

forward. For a heartbeat Moraven thought it had modeled itself on
thanaton
Number

Five.
Or we made it do that, with our minds.

Then a dark hole opened at the ball’s center and filled with molten magic. The red dot

swung back and forth as the ball came on. It looked. It searched.

It focused on him.

Then it exploded.

An argent wind slammed into Moraven and blew him off his feet. Agony sank into him as

he tumbled through the air. Every muscle spasmed and locked, then sagged. When he hit

the ground he bounced limply, his momentum unabated. He slid across the chamber floor,

stirring up dust, then smacked up against the burial wall.

He remained dimly aware of all that was happening to his body, but it was of little

consequence. When the magic hit, something entered his mind. It thrust deep, ripping

harshly, and filled that wound with contempt.

<<
It’s you. You have returned. Good.>>
Moraven’s sense of the world faded, until only its voice remained. <<
You won’t get away again.>>

6th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Prince Pyrust found Jasai of Helosunde waiting for him in his audience chamber. The

hearth contained only banked coals and produced minimal heat. Despite that, she wore

nothing on her feet and only a nightshirt to cover her. Woven of thick wool, the nightshirt

was not so heavy that he could not see the sharp outline of her erect nipples. She had

been given to wearing this type of garment for bed, but had always favored the gay colors

common in Nalenyr. Now she wore the garment undyed, as did the common folk of

Deseirion.

She knelt as he approached and lowered her head. Her long blonde hair slid down to veil

her face, but he sensed no fear or contrition in her stance. She wanted nothing—least of

all forgiveness—and had no air of remorse about her. This surprised him, but he covered

his surprise by slowly reaching up to undo the clasp on his black woolen cloak trimmed

with a mantle of wolf fur.

It puddled at his feet.

Ignoring her for a moment, Pyrust bent to toss several logs onto the coals. They landed

with a satisfying crunch, spitting a spray of sparks that drifted up the chimney. A burst of

heat washed out, then flames rose, adding light to the dark room. The fire splashed a hint

of gold onto Jasai’s hair.

He drew off his gloves and tossed them onto his cloak. Holding his hands to the fire, he

watched flames dance from between splayed fingers. He rubbed his hands together, then

spoke, keeping his voice low.

“It is warmer over here. I begrudge you no warmth.”

This did produce the response he expected. Jasai may have agreed to marry him and

accompany him to Felarati for the sake of her brother, but she had still rebelled in

countless ways. The first was to complain of the cold and to keep a fire roaring in her

chamber day and night. Pyrust had explained to her that his was a poor nation and that

such profligate use of wood was not permitted.

This did not stop her.

He let her have four days of constant fires, then she was provided no wood at all. When

she complained, he told her she’d used up her allotment. He, on the other hand, had used

less than most, so had more to spare. He told her that she could join him in his night

chamber and that she would be kept very warm, but she’d said she would prefer the cold.

Her resolve lasted one more day, and might have lasted longer had he replaced the

furnishings she’d burned. She had come to him. And despite a new ration of wood being

made available to her with the turn of the week, she had chosen to remain.

Pyrust was no fool. They’d been hastily married in Meleswin and he’d consummated their

union that evening. She had accepted him that night for it was part of their bargain, but

she had rejected him again until the night the lack of heat had driven her to his bed. Even

then he knew she had been coerced. Yet it really mattered not at all
why
she shared his bed, but that she did. Hatred, apathy, unquenchable desire—all of these things he could

deal with. Just not disobedience.

Jasai did not raise her head. “You have explained, my husband, that valuable resources

are not to be squandered here in Deseirion.”

“But you did squander my wood until you learned I would be governed by the same laws

as my people.”

“I was foolish.”

“And now you are wise?”

“Wiser, my lord.” She raised her face and firelight flashed from the traces of tears on her

cheeks. “I have news for you, Prince Pyrust.”

The tears made little sense. He turned to face her and moved forward so the firelight

would silhouette him.

“What news?”

She hugged her arms around her slender middle. “Your heir grows in my belly.”

Pyrust clasped his hands behind his back, left in right, suddenly aware of his

maiming.
What will my child think of it?
That thought came to him as if it were another message from the gods, and sent a shiver through him. What he had seen as his life and

his future now projected further, on through generations to come. He had always been

an
end,
but now he was a link in a chain, and his responsibility was to make that chain strong.

He narrowed his eyes. “
My
heir, or Helosunde’s heir?”

Jasai’s eyes widened, then her gaze dropped to the floor. “It should not surprise me your

asking that question. You promised my heir the throne of Helosunde and said I would be

his regent. That is the bargain I accepted. That was the goal I had in mind as I lay with

you. I knew I would make any child hate you as I hated you, and the vintage of your life

would turn sour and bitter.”

The vehemence in her voice lacked the sharpness of before. Something had softened it.

“If that was our bargain, why, Jasai, is he now
my
heir?”

She slowly exhaled. “I have been your wife for a month and a half. You told me that I

would learn I could trust you, and this I have learned. You are cruel and capable of many

things, including merciless murder, but you are not a hypocrite. You are good to your

word. You would know the same cold as your people, the same hunger, the same

dangers.

“My life has been spent in Nalenyr listening to lords and ladies proclaiming much, but their

actions never matched their words. They wish to lead, but their method for doing so is to

watch people, see the direction in which they move, then dash to the fore and announce

they are being followed. My brother had no place being Helosunde’s prince and everyone

knew it—himself included. He was told what was expected of him and complied with those

expectations.”

“But now he does better because Cyron has set new expectations for him. That should

give you hope for your nation and its return to power.”

“But it never will return, will it?” Unbidden, she rose to her feet and fetched his cloak,

which she pulled around her shoulders. “You cannot allow Helosunde to rebel, or

Deseirion will be weakened and Cyron will no longer feel threatened. And Cyron cannot let

Helosunde rise for fear of losing control over it. Our child on the throne of Helosunde is his

worst nightmare, since it could unify our nations and leave his border open.”

Pyrust turned and moved behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Your analysis is

good. You forgot to add that your son, as Prince of Helosunde, would be a rival to your

brother, and the settlement of that rivalry would doubtless be the assassination of one or

the other.”

“Likely both, my lord, since the Council of Ministers will control neither.” She glanced back

to the left, then dipped her head and kissed his half hand. “This is why our child must be

the Prince of Deseirion. I see this and accept it. I accept other things as well.”

“Such as?”

“I must become Desei. The Council of Ministers expected to marry me off to someone—

anyone. I did not matter. Being married to you, I am removed from consideration and

consequence as far as Helosunde is concerned. By becoming Desei, your people will

have a chance of loving our child—our children. Toward this end I shall adopt Desei

clothing and custom. Like you, I shall do with less so others can have more. With your

leave, I shall do things that shame other princesses into doing more for their people. If you

approve, that is.”

“Approve, yes.” Pyrust lowered his mouth to her left ear and let his voice sink into a harsh

whisper. “But the swiftness of your decision belies thoughtful commitment to it. You can

understand my skepticism.”