Chartomancy

Chapter Twenty

5th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron found the two men kneeling before him a study in contrasts, though more for their demeanor than their physical appearances. Count Donlit Turcol did have the advantage of size and muscle over both Cyron and Prince Eiran of Helosunde. Cyron and Eiran shared light brown hair and blue eyes, though Cyron’s were icier by far; whereas Turcol had dark brown hair worn in a thick braid and flat grey eyes. Turcol had always struck Cyron as being predatory, and he meant that on a level far above the legends of the count’s womanizing.

Both of his visitors also shared relative youth with the Prince-Eiran was the youngest, and most new-come to his responsibilities. Cyron had trained all his life for the throne and Turcol had schemed for the same, eclipsing an older brother to become his father’s heir. That naked ambition, which he made no effort to clothe with even the most flimsy of artifice, made for the biggest difference between him and Eiran. Eiran had not yet learned ambition; he had barely learned to aspire.

Cyron frowned. “I believe I am having a difficult time understanding you, Count Turcol. You were delivered a copy of the orders sent to your father in Jomir and your father-in-law in Ixun. You have told me you will be placed in command of the soldiers my provinces will supply, in compliance with the order. Is this not all true?”

Turcol nodded stiffly. “It is, Highness.”

“You protest your troops’ assignment to our northern border.” Cyron opened his right hand to indicate Eiran kneeling on the other side of the red carpet strip running from throne to audience chamber doors. “You will be there to help protect Prince Eiran’s people. I do not understand your difficulty with this.”

Turcol stirred, his agitation betrayed by the way his hands slowly curled into fists. He had chosen to wear robes of forest green edged with gold, displaying his family’s crest of a small dragon coiled for sleep. He clearly meant it to remind Cyron that the Turcol family had once occupied the Dragon Throne.

His hands opened again. “It is a matter of honor, Highness. You summon us for your service, then exile us to the northern hinterlands. At the same time, in Moriande, you are surrounded by Helosundian mercenaries. You ward yourself against your people as a conqueror would against those he oppresses.”

Eiran bowed his head for a moment, and Cyron nodded to him. “If you please my lord Turcol, Highness, perhaps I could explain that when I heard of the unit being raised from Jomir and Ixun, I requested they be stationed among my people.”

Turcol’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

He senses the trap, but cannot avoid it.

The Helosundian Prince continued. “My people have learned much of the Naleni way in our time as your guests. The Keru who serve as the Prince’s bodyguard do so out of personal devotion to him only. They acquit a debt to the Naleni nation by warding their beloved leader, much as the nation guards us. And Count Vroan has likewise taken a Helosundian bride, honoring us, and we are grateful to him for his part in fighting for us. He even recovered Prince Aralias’ body from Helosunde.”

Eiran kept his voice soft and his delivery slow. Turcol’s impatience etched itself on his face in deepening lines. Had not six feet of carpet separated them, Cyron was certain the westron lordling would have slapped Eiran. I would have him slain for his insolence.

Turcol’s nostrils flared. “If my lord would come to his point?”

Eiran, feigning surprise, ducked his head obsequiously. “Please, forgive me. Owing so much to Count Vroan, and having heard so much of your valor, wisdom, and courage, I knew having your people among mine would be exactly what was needed. Our younger generations only hear bitter stories of what we have lost. You, my lord, and your men, would remind us of what we can win again.”

The westron frowned. “But the troops on the border now are drawn from your ranks, Prince Eiran.”

Cyron smiled. “I would not have my brother Prince be forced to utter what must be said. You know, Count Turcol, that his Highness led an assault on Meleswin. His troops took the city, only to be overwhelmed by the Desei. His sister was taken and forced to marry the Desei tyrant. We have made much of this.”

Turcol nodded. “We have heard even in the interior.”

“Good. What you have not heard is that the Helosundian troops were broken. Their best generals were slain, their armies scattered. The simple fact is that while the most elite of the Helosundians become my Keru, the state of the other troops is deplorable. If the Desei knew the quality of troops on that border, you would be meeting with Prince Pyrust, not me.”

And he would have your guts for a sash and throw your smirk to street curs to fight over.

Even if he had made an attempt to hide his feelings, Cyron doubted the visiting nobleman would have accomplished much. A light enlivened those grey eyes. Cyron could almost hear thoughts clicking in the man’s mind, as if his brain were a gyanrigot construct of gears, springs, and levers. Turcol was measuring the Dragon Throne for himself, realizing that if the Helosundian troops were so weak that they could not stop the Desei, he might easily lead a force to the capital that could begin a new Turcol dynasty.

“Highness, if the situation is as dire as you suggest, then this is even more reason for my troops to be brought here to the capital. We are no match for the Keru, this is well-known, but we could keep you safe while the Keru warded their homeland.”

Cyron nodded slowly. “This was the plan I considered at first, but then I realized that such a move would alert the Desei to the sorry state of affairs among the Helosundians. No, I will move the Helosundians south, to the Virine border, where they will face no threat and may be trained. I will put your troops in their place and raise other companies from the western marches to help. Pyrust will imagine I am shifting troops around just to annoy him, and shall not look further than that-even if he were to dream the path south was open.”

Cyron waited a moment or two, then smiled. “Which, with your troops in place, my dear Count, will not be true.”

“We would make it a nightmare for him.”

“Indeed, you would.” Cyron’s smiled broadened. “Thank you for accepting this mission so prettily. ‘Nightmare.’ I shall remember you said that.”

Turcol stiffened. “But, my lord…”

“Fear not, Pyrust shall never hear of your brave boast. If he opposes you, I want him surprised at how facile you are.”

The westron lord shifted on his knees, but Cyron snapped open a silk fan, hiding his face. Though he could see through it, all his two visitors could behold was the snarling visage of a dragon. The audience had ended, and with it the discussion.

Eiran bowed. “My lord Turcol, I have the maps and provision lists you will desire. Please, come with me.”

“As the Dragon wills it.”

The two men bowed toward the throne, then withdrew, remaining crouched until they reached the door, and never turning their backs on him. Once they opened the doors and passed through, two tall, blonde Keru shut them again, and Cyron closed the fan once more. He tucked it down into the little hidey-hole on the chair’s right arm, then stood and slipped through a side passage.

He thought he might remain in a foul mood, but the faint hint of jasmine made him smile involuntarily. He hurried along the passage, loosening the ties of his formal purple robe. He mounted the circular stairs, and the scent grew stronger. He imagined he was within steps of catching his quarry, and even thought he could hear the whisper of slipper on stone step ahead of him. Then he reached the panel leading into his personal chambers, slid it open, and stepped into a room redolent of jasmine.

Across the blond wooden floor, she knelt at a low table, pouring him a cup of golden tea.

Scented with jasmine.

Cyron would have been happy to cast his robe into a violet puddle, scoop her up, and carry her to his bed, but doing so would desecrate the aura of peace she’d fostered. In his absence, she had even rearranged the furnishings. His antechamber had always been spare, so she would not have needed much help, and he knew her to be stronger than she appeared. Ultimately it was less what she moved than how and where she moved it.

He, by preference, had kept table and chair edges parallel to walls and the line of the floorboards. She twisted them. The sword stand had been moved from beside the bedchamber door back toward the corner where a chair half hid it. The low table at which she knelt preparing tea had moved closer to the room’s center, but not quite there. The furnishings, which before had been positioned with an eye for maximum utility, now had become islands in an ocean teased by a jasmine breeze.

And on the table, in a slender vase, was a single branch from a jasmine shrub with three blossoms remaining on it. The white petals from the other blossoms had been scattered haphazardly from window to table, as if the branch had floated in all by itself. And while the scattering appeared random, Cyron had no doubt the Lady of Jet and Jade had placed each petal deliberately. They were glyphs in a language he would never understand and yet, even like ballads sung in dialects he did not know, he found it beautiful.

Her silver eyes flicked in his direction, then she set the teapot down and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Highness, I did not hear you arrive.”

“You are kind, for my tread on those stairs was as loud as a chariot’s wheels on cobblestones.” He approached the table and slid to his knees opposite her. As he did so, the jasmine branch lost a single petal, which fluttered to the tabletop. He did not know how she had managed that, but he knew she had. “I apologize for surprising you.”

“To their regret, there are many who find you surprising, no, my lord?”

Cyron smiled, then lifted the small ceramic cup. He let the tea’s steam caress his face and fill his nostrils. He drank and, for the time it took for the tea to warm his insides, he pushed the world away. A sense of peace washed over him and soothed his heart. He exhaled slowly, then drank again before setting his cup down.

“You were prescient in suggesting how Count Turcol would approach negotiations. He did rely on his honor, and Prince Eiran did all I asked of him. He flattered, then fell silent, so I was able to take over. I offered Turcol the dream gambit, and he replied with the nightmare comment. I thanked him for accepting the mission, then ended things. He was trapped.” Cyron studied her soft, seamless face. “Your reading of him was flawless.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade shook her head. “It was not my reading of him, for I have never spoken to him. I only know of him through others.”

“You have never watched him when he has been at the House of Jade Pleasure?”

She did not reply, but instead raised her own cup and drank. Her silver eyes flashed at him over the cup’s edge, and her fingertips caressed the gold dragon crest facing him. She lowered the cup slowly, then smiled. “The House of Jade Pleasure is discriminating in whom it allows within its precincts. Count Turcol has not been admitted.”

“No?” Cyron raised an eyebrow. “I imagine that has pinked his vanity.”

“Your Highness is most assuredly correct.” She fell silent, then poured more tea.

Cyron smiled. While the Lady of Jet and Jade presided over the House of Jade Pleasures, her apprentices were present in all strata of Naleni society. Some of her students became concubines as she was-and some had even left to form their own schools. Other of her students had come to her covertly, were trained, and returned to their lives feeling indebted to her. Cyron had no way of knowing how far her web of influence extended, but given that she had been in Moriande far longer than the Komyr had been on the throne, it could easily be vast. While he doubted it rivaled the bureaucratic tangles of the ministries, he had no doubt it might be more effective in gathering certain types of information.

“If I might ask…”

“Anything, lord.”

“Have you heard much from the Virine?”

Her eyes half closed. “Very little comes from the south these days. Warriors are heading east quietly so no alarm will spread, but the army is being mobilized. They seem to be moving so quickly that families and camp followers cannot keep up. Many have been warned to move west.”

He nodded slowly. “And of the east?”

She plucked the fallen petal from the table and brushed it against her cheek, then set it back down again. A single tear glistened there.

Worse than I could have imagined. He felt a sudden urge to tell her what little he knew of the invasion and his precautions against its spread. Given how she had suggested he deal with Count Turcol, she might well have guessed at some of what was going on. While everything had been kept very quiet, soldiers ordered to move south would have bid farewell to their loved ones, and doubtless that news had made its way back to her.

He looked at her and his fingertips tingled with the memory of how soft her flesh was beneath his touch. He nodded slowly, then smiled.

She returned the smile. “My lord?”

“I choose to trust you.”

“Is this wise, Highness?”

“Wise and necessary. You have eyes and ears where I do not, and you have a mind capable of understanding and communicating subtlety. I need you. Nalenyr needs you.”

“You do me great honor with this trust, Highness.”

“And I give to you a great burden.” In low tones, Cyron explained all he knew about the invasion. She, in her subtle way, provided him with more information. When he noted that the invaders had reached at least as far as Muronek, she gently corrected him. “I believe, your Highness, you meant to say ‘Talanite.’ ”

She took his recital of facts well and seemed no more alarmed than she would have been if he suggested it would rain that evening. When he finished, he looked at her and fell silent. He drained his cup and returned it to the table.

She refilled it. Setting the pot down again, she rested her hands on her thighs and faced south, as if she could see all the way to Kelewan.

“The Virine, Highness, have ever been secure in their history as the Empire’s capital province. They have more people, more crops, more of everything save the spirit which the Naleni possess. For a long while I resided there, in the Illustrated City, but I moved north seeking the future. Their complacency will be their undoing. They may already have been undone.”

Cyron’s stomach began to tighten. “Then the invasion will take us, too?”

“I am not a fortune-teller. Your precautions are wise. They must be taken in stealth, lest panic reign.” She slowly rotated her cup a handful of degrees. “There will come a point where the news will spread, and you must be positioned to respond. This is reminiscent of the Turasynd invasion: all must be called to service, and you must guarantee that no Cataclysm will follow.”

He blinked. “Is that a claim I can make?”

She shook her head. “No, but does it matter? The Cataclysm may kill, but the invaders will kill. The dead will not hold you to account, and the survivors will praise your name that things were not worse.”

“For someone who says she is not a fortune-teller, this is a dire prognostication.”

She fixed him with a stare that made him shiver. “A fortune can be ignored. My warning cannot. Accept that and act accordingly, or the Komyr Dynasty will not live out the year.”