Chartomancy

Chapter Forty-eight

8th 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

Voraxan, Ixyll

Ciras Dejote and Borosan Gryst resumed their trek northwest once they quitted Tolwreen. Even though that had been the direction they’d been traveling when they found the vanyesh stronghold and, therefore, would seem a logical course for the vanyesh to take in pursuing them, it still seemed the best possible choice. Northeast, which would have taken them toward the Turasynd Wastes, seemed a bad idea, and retreating along their previous passage would have been worse. They also still had their mission to find the Empress, and the alliance between the vanyesh and the Turasynd-as well as the vanyesh claim that Nelesquin was soon to return-made their mission’s successful completion vital.

Ciras scratched at the back of his neck. “What if the story of the Sleeping Empress is just that, a story?”

“It can’t be.” Borosan spurred his horse along a narrow trail that snaked up a cliff side. “If she’d been destroyed-if the place where she’s been waiting had been destroyed-the vanyesh would have mentioned it.”

“That’s if they did it.” Ciras looked back to make sure the packhorses and thanatons were following. “Besides, she might never have survived.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Borosan shifted his shoulders uneasily. “Rekarafi told us where we would be going and what we would be doing. He travels through Ixyll without any protective clothing, and can absorb the wild magic and use it. I think he knows she’s out here.”

Ciras frowned, not liking the fact that he’d missed that clue. “But if that’s true, why didn’t he tell us exactly where to go?”

The inventor laughed. “In this land? The chaotic magic constantly switches everything around, so no landmarks stay the same.”

“Still, that is no guarantee we will find the place.”

“True, but I think there might be something else.”

“What?”

Borosan sighed loudly. “I think you can find her sanctuary if you want to find it.”

“I’m not certain I follow you.”

“We found Tolwreen because the vanyesh saw you fight grave robbers. They left you the vanyesh sword and watched. I think that if they’d decided we were not meant to be at Tolwreen, we’d never have gotten there. Similarly, our path may lead to Cyrsa, but those who are her enemies can never find her.”

“You mean to say that the vanyesh and the Empress could exist very close to each other and not even know about each other?”

Borosan shrugged. “I think the fact that one has not destroyed the other bears this out.”

Ciras was about to protest that having hidden the Empress’ sanctuary so completely would take a lot of magic, but he stopped given where he was. “So if what you are saying is true, couldn’t we have found a more direct route?”

“Perhaps the journey is not just about direction, Ciras.” Borosan turned in the saddle. “If you look back at your life’s journey, is it a direct line?”

The swordsman thought for a moment, then smiled. “Any path looks direct in hindsight, but there are many choices made along the way.”

“Exactly. I think maybe we can’t really want to find the Empress until we know we need to find her. Before we saw the vanyesh and knew they were allied with the Turasynd, our mission was to find her and ask her to help prevent a war within the Nine. There have been plenty of battles between principalities before, so how would this one be different?”

“You’re saying she could not have been found until the need was urgent?”

“Yes.”

“But urgency is in the mind of the seeker. What is urgent to us might not seem so to another, and what is trivial to us might seem earth-shattering to someone else.” Ciras frowned. “Do you think others have found her in the past?”

“It could be. Probably so.”

“But she did not return.”

“Rekarafi did say we’d have to be convincing.”

The swordsman nodded. “I wonder what has happened to those who found her and could not convince her to return?”

“I don’t know, my friend.” Borosan stood in his stirrups and shaded his eyes with a hand. “I think, however, we’re going to get our chance to find out very soon.”

They rode hard to the northwest, moving down into a desert valley and along it. Ciras felt confident they’d found a portion of the old Spice Route and, from the look of it, the site of the battle that triggered the Cataclysm. His flesh began to itch as they descended to the valley floor and the land itself changed minute to minute, from hard-edged stone to a fluid putty that shifted up and down before it solidified again. At times, Ciras was certain that he saw the forms of men moving beneath the red rock surface, like children beneath a blanket, reliving bits and pieces of the battle fought there.

Fortunately for them, their path skirted the actual battlefield, for Ciras’ impression had been correct. Stone armies rose and fell, shrouded by magic and the passage of years. Chariots wheeled in unison, carving swaths from infantry formations. Turasynd cavalry charged and Imperial infantry lowered spears to fend them off. Warriors stepped from the lines on either side to challenge each other, exchanging blows until one or both melted away.

At first, Ciras found the battle thrilling. Though muffled in stone, the warriors fought hard. He could not hear the sounds of steel ringing on steel, or the thunder of hoofbeats, but the fluidity of action could not be mistaken. In the duels, swordsmen matched skill with speed that defied the stone’s ability to keep up. Any number of times he wished the red rock veil would part so he could admire the swordsmanship displayed.

For a moment or two he thought it might have been simply marvelous to go through eternity fighting, but the endless repetition mocked both heroism and glory. There, moving through the rock, was a living testament to the futility of battle. This had been the greatest battle of history, fought to save the world from destruction, but all it had done was to destroy the world. Even war lived past it, and still threatened mankind.

Even the evil that spawned this battle survived it.

He had spent his life learning the way of the sword. He sought skill and knowledge because he wanted to be a guardian against the evil that spawned war. Even so, his actions could set into motion events that would cascade beyond control and might result in another war. And that war would lead to more wars.

Try as he might, he could see no end to the cycle.

They rode on in silence. The roadway remained stable, but the land to the south rose and fell disturbingly. Having been raised on an island, Ciras had spent a certain amount of time on a ship. The heaving landscape reminded him of mountainous waves in a storm, which he found curiously comforting.

Borosan, on the other hand, averted his face and went visibly pale. As the road rose, the land became more solid and Borosan haltingly reiterated his thoughts that magic had to flow like water and collect in the low places.

Ciras smiled. “And that battlefield got a very good soaking.”

They topped the rise and both men reined back, because the image before them could not possibly be there. Borosan had seen the hint of a flash in the distance, then the roiling land. Ciras thought it might be a piece of metal or a mirror. Yet, at the same time, I knew it was our goal. Had he thought about it for a moment, he would have dismissed what he felt for what he knew, but his feelings had won out.

He looked at Borosan. “The reason the vanyesh have not found this place is because they can think and know, but they’ve left behind feeling. They know what is possible, and what is impossible, and refuse to believe in the impossible.”

Borosan nodded. “And they believe that finding this place is impossible, so they will never find it.”

The two men slowly started their horses forward again, moving them into green grasses that grew up beside a silver river flowing with sweet water. Little bugs skittered over the mirrored surface, and fat fish rose after them, apparently unmindful of the fact that the river flowed into nothingness a few yards further downstream.

Upstream, however, the river broadened and flowed through a massive gate made of crystal. Both the gate and the crenellated wall surrounding the entire city were a deep, pure amethyst. At the gate, onyx cobblestones paved the way through a collection of buildings, twisting off through countless paths. Sometimes the roadway split for a small building, and at other times ran through tunnels piercing larger buildings. At points it even rose to an elevated roadway that linked two buildings before sloping back to the ground.

Though their course seemed without direction, and neither man steered their horses, both knew they drew closer to their destination with each passing moment.

Borosan, clearly awed, gaped at his surroundings. Even the thanatons appeared to be dazed. They sped up and slowed, slipping side to side, then darting forward or back. Whatever information they’d be collecting to map the city would be worthless, and it occurred to Ciras that one of the city’s greatest strengths might be that it was unknowable.

And those who come here and do not have sufficient cause to win the Empress’ support are doomed to wander forever.

Though that prospect would have been enough to daunt him, another aspect of the city overwhelmed him. The buildings had been shaped of crystal. Some were ruby and others emerald, citrine, topaz, or diamond. While other, more colorful stones-like opal-decorated many buildings, those that were shaped out of a single stone all had one thing in common. They resembled mausoleums-sometimes with just one occupant, often with more. Men and women-clad in armor and clutching their weapons, lay on biers as if sleeping, preserved forever in their crystalline graves.

Ciras caught himself, because he knew, somehow, that these warriors were not dead, but sleeping. They would rise to the challenge the Empress set before them. Just as they had set out with her to keep the world safe, they would return to the Empire to save it once again.

Regret flashed through him. For that moment, it seemed better that they wait forever than have to leave peaceful sleep and endure warfare again. There might be some who gloried in it, but he suspected far more of them had seen quite enough of war. Even so, they would answer the call because they were heroes.

How odd it is that we are willing to fight for peace, and yet we know that the greatest of warriors never has to fight. That paradox surprised him, because he had never been overly philosophical. He had concentrated on perfecting his skills with the sword so one day he could become a Mystic. And now, having reached that threshold, he looked beyond the skill to the consequences and responsibilities of jaedunto.

Which is exactly the sort of thing Master Tolo had tried to make me realize throughout our journey together. The swordsman smiled and bowed his head back to the southeast, toward the cave where his master lay. Your wisdom has made itself manifest. I trust it is not too late.

The horses took them around a hematite building and into an onyx courtyard. A diamond fountain in the shape of a dragon dominated the center. The water flowed from nine wounds pierced in the dragon’s side, though the dragon appeared to be in no distress.

Beyond it, dominating the far end of the rectangular courtyard, rose a small ruby tower. Though built on a modest scale, it matched the images of the Imperial Palace in Kelewan. It rose four stories, and though the stone was dark enough to deny clear sight of the inside, Ciras was fairly certain he detected an interior room with a throne and something, perhaps golden, glinting from within.

Further speculation on what that was became moot as a man turned from the fountain. Water dripped from his hand and mouth. He wore armor marked with a dragon, and appeared to be only a dozen years older than Ciras’ master. White had crept into his dark hair, but only as a forelock. His pale eyes, though flanked by dragon’s feet at the corners, remained quick and intelligent. He wore two swords, but made no movement toward either.

He drew himself up and bowed respectfully, holding it longer than Ciras would have expected.

The swordsman slipped from the saddle and bowed lower and longer. He reached out to steady Borosan, then they both straightened up. “I am Ciras Dejote of Tirat, and this is Borosan Gryst of Nalenyr. We have traveled all this way to speak with the Empress.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Welcome, travelers. I bow in respect for all you have done to get here. You are the first visitors we have had in a long time.”

Ciras looked about. “You seem quite alone.”

The man laughed. “I am the one who has sentry duty.” He opened his arms wide. “I have many comrades, but this is why you are here, isn’t it?”

“That will be for the Empress to decide.” Ciras nodded toward the ruby tower. “May we speak with her?”

“It is possible. Eventually.” The man shrugged. “I am but one soldier. I will awaken those who can make such a decision, then it will be made. Until then, avail yourselves of the peace Voraxan offers. If you prove worthy, it could be yours forever.”

Borosan’s eyes widened. “And if we do not?”

“It will be yours forever.”