Chartomancy

Chapter Forty-one

3rd day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tolwreen, Ixyll

Ciras Dejote had to keep reminding himself that the vanyesh were evil, because once they had honored him in the Prince’s Hall, they all turned out to be terribly nice. Intellectually he knew they were malignant creatures who had clung to life awaiting the return of Prince Nelesquin. Nelesquin would again raise them to glory, restoring them bodily, and would lead them back to Erumvirine, where they would remake the Empire and rule over a jaedunki.

Besides, they made a very good case for the need for an empire run by sorcerers. They traced their history back to Taichun and said he’d intended the mages to rule over the Empire. Not only was it in keeping with the social system of the Viruk, but it made sense. Since mages could work miracles, they needed to be supported by the people and feel an obligation to them. Taichun had created the bureaucracy to administer things so mages would not be bothered by the trivial. They could spend their time refining their art so they would be ready when they were to be called upon to act.

Pravak took great pains to explain this history when he invited Ciras to visit him. The vanyesh’s chambers were, as to be expected, oversized and generously appointed. Though Pravak was nothing more than a gilded skeleton, he had thick carpets in his rooms, plush and heavily upholstered furniture and tapestries that, while having no images Ciras could discern, displayed an interesting weave of colors.

The giant wore thick leather bracers to protect his furnishing from the edges of his forearms. Lounging back on a daybed, he held his right hand up and watched, bemused, as the tiny gyanrigot Borosan had fashioned for him as a gift leaped from finger to finger and back again.

“It is rather like a kitten, despite looking very much like a spider.” Pravak’s metal mask twisted into a smile. “I had forgotten the simple pleasure of watching such creatures cavort. We brought no cats with us on the campaign, and those that somehow made it into the city ended up in some wildman’s belly.”

Ciras sat in a large chair, feeling as if he were five years old and listening to his mother’s brother explain about trade with the mainland. “Here you’ve fed us both mutton and beef, yet I see no creatures ranging about.”

Pravak lifted a finger to point up at the mountain, and the little mouser promptly pounced on the tip. “There are mountain meadows. We have your horses there as well. Some of us are good at bhotri, so keeping the grasses growing year-round is not difficult. The sheep produce a lot of wool-again a by-product of magic-and the wildmen have become adept at spinning and weaving. They are not much for pictures, but they love color.”

“So Tolwreen is self-sufficient.”

“Largely. We do get some things in trade, but for a long time we were isolated.” The vanyesh let the mouser climb up along his arm and begin to play with his knotted-filament hair. “Likely about the time your father was born we had a visit from the east and were finally able to put into place the beginnings of our master’s plan. A Naleni explorer became our agent. Kero Anturasi, I believe.”

“Qiro?”

“That was it. Do you know him?”

Ciras heard no guile in the question, so smiled. “Just of him. He is famous the world over for exploring. I have heard no mention of Tolwreen, however.”

“Our master would not have permitted it. Knowing the correct order of the universe, our master has been very careful in his plans. You may not realize it, but you are a part of things. We expect more like you to come to Tolwreen in the next months or years. Many will be trained, as will you, and when all is ready, we will be summoned.”

“But I have been trained.”

“Indeed, you have, but you need more.” Pravak’s hands came together with the muffled clash of cymbals. “People come to the vanyesh in two ways. You and I were warriors first, who have touched jaedun. Others have recognized our value. They will show you what Emperor Taichun taught his most trusted companions: how to wield magic. Jaedun of the sword is a portal to working jaedun in life.”

Ciras managed to suppress a shiver. “And the others?”

“Oh, they were apprenticed to masters of magic and have learned to manipulate jaedun directly. We try to train them in more practical ways, like jaedunserr, but they resist it. Their magics can be powerful, and will help us once we take control again, but it will be warrior-sorcerers such as you and me that will make our Master’s dream possible. He needs heroes, and we are they.”

Ciras smiled, masking his true thoughts. The vanyesh seemed to define heroes as those who used magic in service to Nelesquin. Ciras saw heroes as those who served the common good, shielding the unfortunate from evil and ambition, not keeping them down so the ambitious might soar. They make heroes a part of their evil.

Ciras let his expression become wistful. “I wonder if I will be worthy to return to Tirat as its lord.”

The vanyesh giant laughed. “If that is all your ambition wishes, I can guarantee it. You, my friend, are capable of so much, I should think that anything you desire will be yours.”

“You are too kind.”

“No, just aware of how generous our master is.” Pravak nodded solemnly. “And soon you shall see that for yourself.”

From the moment they had been told that the vanyesh still considered Nelesquin their master, both Ciras and Borosan knew they had to escape. Their mission had been to find the Empress Cyrsa and awaken her to conditions in the Empire. That her enemy still lived and was plotting to destroy what she had left behind made their mission all the more urgent. Moreover, the vanyesh and their mastery of magic would be something the Nine would be hard-pressed to defeat.

So, they set about gathering food and water against any opportunity to escape. Ciras learned which tunnels led up to the meadows, and while he hated being predictable, he knew they would need their horses. Ciras even located and set about repairing their tack, noting to any of the vanyesh who asked, that to neglect even the most simple thing was to abandon the discipline that made him worthy of the honor they had bestowed upon him.

The most difficult part of escaping had been finding an opportunity. When they explored, either together or singly, wildmen watched them constantly. They didn’t think the wildmen were spying on them, but just found them a curiosity. And when wildmen were not dogging their footsteps, one of the vanyesh would find them and offer his hospitality. Some still took food and drink, though none seemed to enjoy it, and the two of them were offered enough food that they concluded the vanyesh were living vicariously through them.

Finally, as planting season began, they received a visit from one of the vanyesh who told them that they must remain in their chambers until summoned forth again. While there was no punishment noted or even implied, their acquiescence seemed assumed. Their visitor did assure them that all would be explained shortly, but that for the moment they needed to remain hidden.

As the vanyesh departed, having taken with him the gift of a tiny mouser, Borosan swept spare parts into a leather satchel with his arm. “I think we go now.”

Ciras nodded. As much as he wanted to know why they were being restricted, he figured there would be no better chance to get away. “If we are caught, we say we decided the best way to be unseen was to go outside the city and tend our horses.”

Borosan looped the satchel over his shoulder, then pulled another device from a similar leather bag. A foot long, not quite so wide, and edged with wood, the flat tablet had a surface made of the silver-white metal. Odd characters etched themselves into the surface, then the inventor nodded.

“I’ve given out a dozen of the mousers. A number of them are converging in a subterranean room. The Prince’s Hall, I would bet.”

“Welcoming another of the vanyesh?”

“Better than Nelesquin.”

Ciras gathered up his swords and two satchels laden with dried meat and waterskins. He followed Borosan and his large thanaton into the silver ball. His companion selected a blank key and used a thaumston stylus to etch a word on it. He slid it into the slot as the door closed and then the door opened again. They emerged in the northwestern quadrant, near the tunnel leading up to the horse meadow.

Ciras looked around. “No wildmen.”

“Fewer chances of our passing being revealed.” Borosan settled the satchels over the large thanaton’s broad back, then took Ciras’ burdens from him. “Just in case you need to deal with something.”

The swordsman nodded and led the way. He moved quietly and soon got used to the ticking of the thanaton’s metal feet on the stone. The tunnel meandered somewhat, but had been carved wide and tall enough that, had they wanted to, they could have easily ridden their horses two abreast through it. Though quite steep, it leveled out as it reached the meadow.

Ciras held a hand up and Borosan sank back into the shadows of the chamber that served as a tack room. Two silhouettes lounged in the shade near the tunnel’s mouth. Men, obviously, and they both wore swords. Even though they were in silhouette, Ciras could see enough of their clothing to know they weren’t from the Nine.

They’re Turasynd.

The idea that the vanyesh were talking with the Turasynd reminded him of a tale Borosan said the Gloon had related. Prince Nelesquin had betrayed Empress Cyrsa by entering into negotiations with a Turasynd god-priest. Fury pulsed through him as he realized the vanyesh were compounding their earlier treason.

“What are we going to do, Ciras?”

The swordsman slipped into the tack room. “Gather two saddles, six bridles, and be ready to move. I’m going to deal with these two. Quickly. If we’re discovered, we will be pursued.”

Ciras moved back into the tunnel, stepping to the center. He kept his gait easy-eager yet casual. He let his hands dangle open at his sides.

He was a dozen steps away from them before they noticed him. They came instantly alert, and his stomach tightened. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords, then they relaxed. They exchanged glances and laughed. He forced himself to laugh, too, then reached inside and, for the first time, invoked jaedun.

His vision changed. Though he saw no more color or less, he somehow saw more clearly. Each man seemed to glow-and the one on the right more so than his companion. He is more dangerous. As Ciras closed, he raised his left hand in greeting, broadening his smile, and they aped his expression.

His right foot touched down and he began to pivot toward the dangerous man. Ciras drew the vanyesh blade in a smooth motion. Even before his foe’s right hand had touched the hilt of his own sword, the draw-cut opened his throat to the spine. Blood gushed and the man gurgled as he fell back.

Ciras continued his spin and brought his blade down and around in a parry. He batted the other Turasynd’s lunge wide, then snapped his sword up high. It fell in a slash that clove the Turasynd from crown to jaw, and dropped him like a bag of rocks.

Ciras completed his turn as the second swordsman’s blade clattered to the ground. He crouched and waited, listening for anything in the echo of the sword’s fall. He heard nothing. Finally, without sheathing his sword, he made his way to the second man’s side and yanked open his leather jerkin.

Black feathers covered the man’s chest. Taken from black eagles, they’d been inserted into the man’s skin, and then he’d willfully entered a place of wild magic. There he’d undergone rituals that Ciras could only imagine, which fused the feathers to his flesh and completed his initiation into the Black Eagle Society.

He quickly checked the other man and found he’d been similarly fletched. This was not the first time he’d seen a Black Eagle. His master had dueled one to entertain Prince Cyron during the last Harvest Festival in Moriande. The Turasynd had been good, and had borne a blade of similar antiquity to the vanyesh blade.

Ciras thought for a moment. He could not directly connect these two with the man in Moriande, but their presence certainly indicated the Black Eagle Society was flourishing. He couldn’t recall if the Turasynd god-priest had been a Black Eagle or not, but it really didn’t matter. He didn’t even know if the Turasynd had another god-priest to lead them, but that didn’t matter either.

I have to assume there is a new one and he is a Black Eagle or allied with them. He sighed. And he or his envoys are in the Prince’s Hall, negotiating an alliance with the vanyesh.

Borosan came up with the thanaton laden with tack. “That was quick work.”

“It had to be. The same must be true of our escape.” Ciras grabbed a bridle and headed out toward the horses. “Ancient enemies are renewing alliances. It won’t be good for us, or the Nine. Let’s hope, my friend, that the Sleeping Empress has spent her time dreaming up a way to deal with them.”