“Janto, I’m so sorry,” said Rhianne. “You sound like you feel that accident was your fault. But you couldn’t have known your cousin would lie about the jovo again.”
“I should have known,” said Janto. “In hindsight, it seems obvious. Addicts always have problems giving it up. My father’s solution was the right one. At the time, I thought it was harsh, but those two years on a ship might have saved Bel’s life. They would certainly have saved the lives of the other mages. The compassion I showed Bel did him no favors.”
“I cannot fault you,” said Rhianne. “It was the wrong decision, but you made it for the right reason. There is altogether too little compassion in this world.”
“You possess it in abundance to give me that much credit,” said Janto. “I have thought long and hard about Silverside and that collapsed cavern. Compassion must be tempered by judgment.”
“Of course,” said Rhianne. “But if good judgment were easy, we’d make the right decisions every time, wouldn’t we?”
“I suppose we would,” said Janto.
“Here’s what I think,” said Rhianne. “I think you should pull up all the jovo root on Mosar and burn it.”
He shook his head. “If only it were that easy. But for now, I have another question. Have I met your requirements, Princess, and told you something of substance about my family? Have I earned the right to share your dinner?”
“I don’t know why you bother to ask, since you ate half of it while we were talking even after you had the gall to say you weren’t using me for food. If not food, what are you using me for?” Rhianne sent him a look of mock perplexity. She knew already what his answer would be.
Janto grinned, and his eyes twinkled. “Come over here and find out.”
It was past dark when Janto left the palace and went searching for one of his bolt-holes to spend the night in. A stable was a good choice, sometimes a supply shed. Anywhere reasonably warm where he could throw a shroud over himself and be certain no one would trip over him. It was a harsh reality check, trading the silk sheets of an imperial princess’s bed for a chilly dirt floor. He shivered just thinking about it.
As he turned the corner, he noticed to the south, away in the harbor of Riat, a soundless yellow light exploding in the air. Janto blinked as the afterimages danced before his eyelids. That was a pyrotechnic signal!
He broke into a run, heading for a nearby hill where he might have a better view. Pyrotechnic signalers were rare and valued. They were not used lightly, and they transmitted only news of great importance.
From the higher vantage point at the top of the hill, he saw that the yellow starburst had been not a lone pyrotechnic shout but merely the highest in elevation of a flurry of pyrotechnic communications cascading across the harbor. Bright and numerous, they cast the harbor in an otherworldly light. He could see the harbor was full of ships. Some were in the process of anchoring. Others were moving in, signaling frantically, their brown canvas sails round and fat with wind. It was a scene of eerie beauty, yet it sent Janto’s heart plummeting to the pit of his stomach.
Is that the Kjallan fleet, su-kali? asked Sashi from his shoulder.
It is, said Janto. There were only two possible things the fleet’s return could mean. One was that his people had beaten the Kjallans off and they’d come limping home. But Janto didn’t see how that could have happened. Why entertain false hope? The other possibility was the only one that made any sense.
Mosar had fallen.
20
At sunrise, a blast of trumpets summoned the people of Riat to the harbor. The horns played a brief fanfare in a six-beat rhythm. Deep, brassy cornus joined in, followed by snare drums and tympani. Color exploded overhead as the pyrotechnic mages added their visual accompaniment.
Janto, who’d spent a sleepless night observing the fleet and its communications with the Imperial Palace, dropped his shroud, emerged from the dockside warehouse where he’d taken cover, and joined the crowd of civilians watching the spectacle. With so many people around, no one would take notice of him.
The Kjallan pyrotechnics were among the most skilled he’d seen. Any pyro could pull shapes and colors out of the spirit world, but sculpting them into recognizable forms like people and animals required talent. Above the crowd, they had summoned and shaped a brace of cavalry horses. Trumpets sounded the charge, and the illusionary horses reared and galloped forward. The horses faded, and in their place appeared ocean waves. A cadence of drums beat the waves’ undulating rhythm, driving to a crescendo until a ship’s bowsprit crashed through them.
The airborne images began to float away from the harbor and toward the city proper. Janto hurried after them, pushing his way through the crowd toward the parade he knew lay at the center of the throng.
Breaking through the massed civilians, he saw the marching soldiers, a troop of infantry in tight formation wielding orange flags. Behind them plodded draft horses with docked tails and feathered hooves, each hauling a supply cart loaded high with who knew what, probably stolen treasures from Mosar. Tarps covered the bounty. Next marched a cadre of drummers, keeping time with a rolling beat. Along the tail of the procession, Janto saw more soldiers, horses, cannons, and supplies. The pyrotechnics and their images were ahead.
He withdrew into the cover of the crowd and pushed his way through until he spotted the pyrotechnic mages. They gesticulated with agile fingers, their brows furrowed with concentration as they called their complex creations from the Rift.
“There he is!” cried a man from the crowd. “The legatus!”
Janto whipped his head to where the man was pointing. Four men in officer’s uniforms rode in a quadrille, their horses’ paces nearly synchronized. Ahead of them rode four more, and leading them was a single officer, lightly armored, astride a dark bay warhorse frothing at the bit. Janto recognized the rider easily enough: Augustan Ceres. The legatus had come for Rhianne. For Janto’s woman.
Janto stared at the man with such furious hatred, he half expected the back of Augustan’s neck to burst into flames. The legatus turned and scanned the crowd, but his expression was mild, and his gaze passed over Janto without interest. Two men walked on either side of Augustan—servants, by the look of them. Each carried a wooden box. Gifts, Janto decided, for Rhianne or the emperor. More treasures stolen from Mosar, which Augustan would use to secure his theft of Janto’s throne and his princess.
Kill him, suggested Sashi, if he takes what is yours.
Rhianne was never mine, said Janto.
You have mated with her, said Sashi matter-of-factly. If another man steals your mate, kill him.
He is a war mage. Impossible to kill, said Janto. Even were it otherwise, love and marriage are not simple when it comes to my kind.
Your kind makes things too complicated, Sashi scolded.
Janto frowned. His familiar had a point.
Rhianne awoke to the news she had been dreading. Augustan was victorious. Mosar had been conquered. The war was over, and her fiancé was at this very moment marching to the Imperial Palace from the city of Riat to celebrate his victory and claim his bride, who, unfortunately, was her.