Chartomancy

Chapter Fifty-four

3rd 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

Voraxan

Ciras Dejote stood outside the circle between the fountain and the steps to the ruby tower, wearing his best robe. It had seen better days-though he had patched the white silk as best he could. The red embroidery that worked a flame pattern had faded a little, and the intensity of the red sash had been dulled. Still, it was the best he had to wear, and he would not disappoint the Empress by appearing in anything worse.

Tsirin Donitsa, the man they had first met in Voraxan, stood opposite him, at the bottom of the stairs. “Ciras Dejote, you have passed all examinations save this last. You have impressed us with your skills and your diligence. Your tales of adventure through the journey here have also pleased us. Pass this last test and you will surely be suited to joining our number and serving the Sleeping Empress.”

Ciras bowed to him, then to the half dozen men and women standing at the top of the palace steps. They had examined him and Borosan both, though the two men had been segregated so neither knew the nature of the tests the other had endured. For Ciras, it had been endless repetitions of fighting forms. Sometimes he was to move through a progression of forms as called out by his examiner. Other times he was called upon to strike and maintain a form, and once his examiner walked away for a time before returning and calling another.

They examined everything he did, from waking to sleep. Another time, all of that would have driven him utterly mad, but he reached inside and embraced the peace of Voraxan. So close to his goal, he did not want to do anything that would get him rejected.

The only thing that had caused him any trepidation was telling them about the time spent in Tolwreen. While he felt that Borosan was probably right and that only those who sought the Sleeping Empress with the right thoughts in mind could find her, he found it very easy to believe that her guardians might think he was a spy. After all, the vanyesh had trusted him and he had betrayed them, so why couldn’t he do that to Cyrsa’s people?

His examiners listened to his story without much reaction, save for evident pleasure when he described having to kill two Turasynd to effect their escape. Ciras supposed that killing Turasynd was the one thing they had in common, and he hoped that bond would be enough to carry him through the examinations.

Aside from the tests, the stay in Voraxan had been quite pleasant. He’d been given an emerald home all to himself and found it very restful. If he sat in the center of the largest chamber and closed his eyes, he could hear the surf crashing against the beach at Dejotekun on Tirat. When he breathed in, he caught the tang of salt air and the calls of gulls echoed through his head.

Dreams there became quite vivid, and he found himself home again, walking through the gardens in the morning. From what Borosan had told him about the sun, it would be up in Tirat hours before dawn in Ixyll, so his dreams allowed him to wander with his mother in the garden. She couldn’t see him or hear him, of course, but he heard her and shared her delight as his older brother brought his children around for visits.

Most curious of all, no blood nor war entered his dreams. He would have thought he’d relive the exercises or the lessons in which he’d originally learned the forms, but he didn’t. Even in recounting how he’d slain the Turasynd, he presented things in a matter-of-fact manner that dulled the impact of the event.

Even the vanyesh sword seemed at peace. While the writing on it did shift, it did so slowly and with no urgency. Though he could not read it, he imagined the lines being from a poem about a woman wandering through an orchard, plucking ripe plums. He tried to remember such a poem but couldn’t. That didn’t surprise him, for most of the poems he’d learned had been of a martial nature-but then he found himself unable to recall any of them.

Tsirin pointed to the circle with an open hand. “Advance, Ciras Dejote.”

Ciras bowed and entered the circle.

The slender warrior stepped into it opposite him. He drew his sword and assumed the first Dragon form. “Your final test is to slay me.”

Ciras shook his head. He drew his vanyesh sword and scabbard from the red sash and laid it on the ground, then knelt and sat back on his heels. “I will not kill you. I will not fight you.”

Tsirin stalked forward to the center of the circle and dropped into third Wolf. “Your final test is to slay me.”

“I will not.” Ciras bowed deeply to the man and remained low. “When we entered Voraxan, you bid us the peace of the city. Dwelling here, I have only known peace. To strike you down would be to violate the peace of this place-meaning I should never be worthy of it.”

Tsirin’s feet appeared inches from his head. “Your final test is to slay me.”

Ciras came up and let his hands rest in his lap. The man towered over him, his blade raised and ready to fall. Part of Ciras knew that if he were to lean left and flick his right leg out, he could sweep Tsirin’s legs from beneath him. By the time the man hit the ground, Ciras could draw his sword and kill him, then resheathe the blade before blood spattered the onyx.

He simply shook his head. “May the peace of Voraxan be yours.”

The Imperial warrior retreated three steps and slid his blade home. He bowed deeply, then knelt. The other warriors strode down the steps and into the circle. From behind Ciras, Borosan and his thanatons came into the circle. The inventor, smiling, gave him a nod as he knelt.

The eldest of the examiners, Vlay Laedhze, stepped to the fore of his companions and bowed to the two travelers. “It has been a long time since any have come here. Through the years there have been some, though Ixyll has been harsh. Of those who do make it to Voraxan, very few pass this last test. I congratulate you.”

Ciras bowed his head. “Thank you, and thank you for the peace we have known. I am loath to shatter it, but I need to speak with the Empress. We must waken her.”

Vlay shook his shaved head. “I’m afraid that is quite impossible.”

“But we need her. The vanyesh and Turasynd are allied. The Nine are fighting, and the vanyesh say Nelesquin is returning. They are planning to bring to fruition the plans they made before the Cataclysm, and without the Empress’ help, there will be no chance of stopping them.”

“We understand this, Ciras Dejote, but complying with your request is impossible.”

“But is this not what you wait for?” Ciras opened his arms. “Everyone here, sleeping in Voraxan, dreaming of peace and those they love, of homes they’ve left and promised to defend, aren’t you all sworn to return to the Nine in a time of trouble?”

Tsirin shook his head. “We are sworn to answer the Empress’ call to action.”

“Yes, exactly.” Ciras pointed to the ruby tower. “If we do not waken her and explain the situation to her, how is it that she can issue that call? You must let me waken her so she can decide if the time to call you is now.”

Vlay frowned. “We have not made ourselves clear, Master Dejote. We await her call. We would gladly let you waken her so she could issue that call, but we cannot.”

“Why not?”

Vlay glanced at the ground. “We cannot because the Empress is no longer here.”

“What?” Ciras’ mouth hung open. “She’s not here? We came all this way, and she’s not here?”

“No, she is not.” Vlay’s grey-eyed gaze flicked up. “She departed many years ago, over five hundred by our reckoning. She said that when the time came, she would send word, and we were to come. So, here we wait.”

“I don’t…” Ciras scrubbed hands over his face. “I don’t know what to think.” He glanced at Borosan. “She’s not here. They’re waiting.”

“I know.” The inventor nodded solemnly, then looked at Vlay. “She said to tell you, ‘Unsheathe your claws, spread your wings, and answer the call you have waited so long to hear.’ Evil times have come to the Nine, and she bids you march with all haste.”