I looked Jarys in the eye. “What was said?”
“We were told that someday a man would come to Deraelkun. He would be young, but very old-the old formulation for designating someone a Mystic. He would be a wise man who could be daringly foolish.”
I laughed at that latter bit of description.
The count did not. “And we were told he would laugh when he heard himself described thus.”
A chill puckered my flesh. “What else?”
“We were told he would not be of Derael blood and that anyone who claimed this package as being meant for him would not be the man for whom it truly was meant.” The count lifted a trembling finger. “Open it.”
I untied the braided purple cord that secured the package. Even before I began to remove the leather sheet, I knew what the package contained. Of course, being jaecaiserr, feeling the presence of swords even within thick leather presented little challenge.
And fine blades these were. From hilt to point they were five feet long. The wooden scabbards were scarlet washed in black, with gold decorations and covered in a clear lacquer. The pattern on them matched the interwoven cords wrapping the hilts-the hilts and scabbards were boldly tiger-striped. Beneath the cords on each hilt, a stalking tiger charm of bronze had been bound, linking the warrior using them to Chado, and marking him a Morythian.
The disk-shaped handguards revealed more about the swords even before I drew one. The Zodiac rimmed each disk, but Chado did not occupy the spot of honor atop the blade. That had been given to a dragon, the Imperial dragon. The blades dated from well before the Cataclysm. The handguards and the weaving on the hilt also indicated the swords belonged to a member of the Imperial bodyguard.
I stood slowly and bared a blade with my left hand. The silvered steel came free easily, not just the way a fine weapon would be expected to do, but as something meant for my hand alone. Perfectly balanced, the sword felt like an extension of my arm. With that blade in my left hand and its mate filling my right, I would not know defeat.
Save through treachery.
Thoughts and memories exploded in my head. I remembered the day before, but a day in a different time when I faced a man, tall and dark, wearing a crowned-bear crest. We fought on that same island before Tsatol Deraelkun for hours, trading blows, never drawing blood-but refraining because we had no desire to hurt each other. Even so, we came so close and closer, daring each other to trim a lock here, bare a patch on an arm or leg there. It was a dangerous game we played, but one we had to play.
And then, another time, darkness and the slice of a blade into my chest. It should have felt cold, that steel, but instead it felt molten. It shattered ribs and opened a lung. I could hear my breath hissing from my chest as I fell. I tried to look back over my shoulder to see who had struck me down, but I could not. The only clue to his identity was a softly whispered “I’m sorry,” and the hushed rustle of his feet as he made his escape.
I sat down hard in the chair and looked at the blade. I saw my reflection in it, distorted and twisted, but no less recognizable. I had seen it so often before, in that sword, that I could not help but know who it was.
“Count Derael, tell me, to whom did the swords belong?”
“The chief of the last Emperor’s bodyguard. He rode past here with Empress Cyrsa and died in Ixyll.”
I nodded. “Virisken Soshir.”
“The very same.”
I looked at the dying man. “You know you have returned to me the swords I bore to Ixyll.”
His pale eyes narrowed. “If this is true, there is a message for you.”
“What?”
“Your duty to the crown has not been fulfilled.”
A jolt ran through me and the last bit of fog cleared from my mind. I knew two things-two things as certain as the sun’s rising in the morning and setting at night. “Prince Nelesquin has returned. He covets what he always coveted. She always feared he would come back to claim the Empire.” I raised the bare blade. “I am Virisken Soshir. He’ll ascend to the throne over my dead body.”
“A poor choice of words, Master Soshir.” The Gloon stared at me with all seven eyes. “Now you know who you are. Now you are free to die.”
Chapter Fifty-nine
4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Tsatol Pelyn, Deseirion
It seemed to Keles Anturasi that he could have had a blanket for every survivor in the fortress draped over him and he’d still not stop shivering. He sat on the parapet of the north wall, looking down into the courtyard. The people, still in armor, still in the prime of their lives, moved about, lining up the dead, straightening their limbs, saluting comrades in arms who had fallen.
And it all made no sense to him.
Though he did not know what he had done, he knew he had done it. He hoped that as the sun made it over the horizon the fortress would fade. He hoped it had been an illusion. It just couldn’t exist, but he could see the dancing reflections of sunlight from the moat, still hear the pennants snapping in the breeze and could hear the crisp, strong footsteps of people who, hours before, could have barely managed an exhausted shuffle.
The way they dealt with each other baffled him. They gathered in groups-family groups, he assumed, based on the crests on the armor-but it was no longer a grandparent gathering children or elderly maiden aunts comforting each other. These people had become warriors. Some had regressed to a life they knew, others had become things they had long ago abandoned dreaming they could be. And children… the children had grown into the sort of soldiers who inhabited heroic stories of the Imperial period.
Some people had escaped transformation, but it had touched even Rislet Peyt. The diminutive minister had swelled into a warrior with a double-handed great sword. He’d chopped one of the four-armed things in half with it. He’d gotten an arm broken in the process, but he sat there with his arm in a sling, joking with the men who had previously been his bodyguards.
Keles clutched the black blanket around his shoulders more tightly, but his broken hands had swollen to the point where they were all but useless. This had all been his doing, but he couldn’t undo it, nor could he do it again. All he could remember was that he knew he had to do something, and he rebelled against the situation that doomed so many people.
Somehow I must have touched magic.
But even that explanation defied logic. He was a cartographer. It was true that he had been working more as an engineer in making the changes in Felarati, but everything he had done had been something he’d learned as a by-product of his main pursuit: cartography. They were all things he could not have helped but learn, and many of them he’d learned without even realizing it.
That could have explained, maybe, what happened with the fortress itself, but not what happened with the people. As much as he tried to figure things out, he couldn’t. Even a convoluted scheme by which their desires to avoid death had combined with his desire to save them-letting all of them touch magic and thereby be changed-fell short. That might have worked for the adults, but not the children.
What made what happened to the people even worse was that while the children had become adults, they had no memories or experiences of the years that should have passed. To make things even more confusing, most of the survivors were drunk with victory and, save those who volunteered to stand sentry, were wandering off in pairs to enjoy carnal experiences they’d never known, or had long since forgotten.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up at Rekarafi. “Do you know what happened?”
“I did not know the first time.”