The Killing Moon

28

Yanya-iyan’s audience chamber was nearly empty when Charris entered through its bronze doors. The dais at the far end, a mounting series of steps leading up to the throne, was normally thronged with courtiers and worshippers. Now it held only the Prince, who stood with arms extended as two of his attendants dressed him in the full-torso armor that was the Sunset’s traditional wartime garb. A third servant held the Aureole in place behind him, shifting it as he turned. “Ah, Charris. Please report.”

Charris knelt at the foot of the steps. “No word from the south yet, my lord. The attack would only have occurred yesterday evening. It would take time for the troops to return and send a bird or runner.”

“Hmm. Well, whether the woman is dead or not, she may have sent a message. We shall have to assume the Kisuati forewarned.” He turned, the bronze scales of his breastplate gleaming, his arms still held out from his sides. “Do I look suitably martial, Charris? Not military-caste, of course, but acceptable?”

“More than acceptable, my lord. You will inspire our soldiers to fight to their utmost.”

“Spoken like a true highcaste.” The Prince lowered his arms, gave himself one final look before the mirror that a fourth attendant held, and nodded in satisfaction. Dismissed, the servants quickly left the chamber, save the Aureole-holder. “I have no need of flattery, Charris. Niyes understood that. In time I hope you will as well.”

Charris took a deep breath to school his churning emotions. “Yes, my lord.”

“Of course, there are benefits to having a general like you, too, Charris. You ask no awkward questions, give me no disapproving looks. I suppose that’s refreshing.” Walking down the steps with the Aureole-holder in tow, the Prince gave a curt signal for Charris to rise and follow. They passed through the back of the hall, Charris nodding to the Sunset Guardsmen who fell in behind them as the Prince left the chamber.

“In the end, loyalty is what matters most,” the Prince continued. “Take our mad, murderous friend, who is currently chained and resting in the catacombs beneath the palace. He doesn’t think—not anymore. He doesn’t act unless I tell him to, or unless he’s hungry and prey comes near. In many ways this limits his usefulness, but at the same time I never need fear his betrayal. There are kings who struggle all their lives to earn that kind of loyalty, and here I have created it at will.” He chuckled. “True power, Charris. My father and all the Princes before me never had it, but I shall.”

The audience chamber was on the highest story of Yanya-iyan. When the Prince led him onto the royal family’s private balcony, Charris caught his breath at the sight of the whole city spread before them, the ground so far below that the people milling in the market plaza seemed small as dolls. To the west was the river and the fertile greenlands, source of Gujaareh’s prosperity. Northward, Charris could even see the river delta and the coastal edge of the Sea of Glory. It was the whole of the Prince’s kingdom, laid out as far as the eye could see.

Then he looked to the east, and stiffened.

“You must forgive me for not telling you about this,” the Prince said. Charris could feel the Prince’s eyes on his face, drinking in his reaction. “Admiral Akolil scorns the landed military, and I generally try to keep him appeased. But the time has come for you to know.”

Ships, Charris thought in a daze. From their vantage he could see the eastern port, which opened to the Narrow Sea and allowed Gujaareh to trade down the continental coast as far as Kisua. The port was full of ships—warships—crowding in to reach the loading docks. Beyond that, he could see the expanse of the Narrow Sea spreading from Gujaareh’s coast all the way to the horizon. And there he saw more ships, neatly anchored rows of them. Hundreds of them. They dotted the water like a pox.

“The shipbuilding five years ago on the Sea of Glory,” Charris whispered. “The provisioning levies for more troops than we actually have.”

“Indeed.” Charris heard pride in the Prince’s voice. “With aid from our allies, these ships have all made the long journey ’round the northern continent, through oceans of floating ice and other hazards too fantastic to name. We lost many, but more survived. And now nearly every one has arrived with a bellyful of fierce barbarian warriors. The Kisuati will be most surprised.”

Charris struggled to make his mouth work. “When?”

“They set sail tomorrow. I’m having their resupply rushed as much as possible. Akolil assures me they can make the Iyete Straits in a single day, and be at Kisua’s northeastern coast in an eightday, or perhaps a few days beyond. Much earlier than I’d intended, of course, thanks to Niyes and Kinja and lovely, treacherous Sunandi. And I’d meant to have twenty thousand troops instead of just ten; the rest won’t arrive for weeks or months. But ten should be sufficient for the first wave. Kisua isn’t ready either, after all.”

Charris turned to stare at him, too stunned to censor himself as he normally did. “You really intend to do it. Kisua is twice our size—”

“But we have twice the wealth. And Kisua’s isolationism has earned her enemies among the northern tribes, who resent the way Kisua hoards trade to the south. The northerners became eager to fight once I promised them control of that trade.” The Prince smiled, turning to gaze eastward. “Though I’m not sure I’ll hold to that agreement. All of their troops are going to die, after all. It will be Gujaareh’s swords which ultimately subdue the Kisuati beast.”

“Going to die?” Charris blurted it, trying to think through the numbness of his thoughts. War. On such a scale, war to engulf the whole eastern half of the continent and the northlands as well. Only an eightday away.

“Of course. Our mad friend has developed even faster than I expected, which is fortunate as my hand’s been forced early. Everything hinges on the Reaper.”

And then, suddenly, Charris knew what the Prince was going to do.

He must have gasped, because the Prince gave him a sharp look. Then smiled at his horror.

“Dreamblood,” said the Prince. He clapped Charris on the shoulder, companionably. “In the end, it all comes down to that. No longer will my lineage be slave to the Hetawa. And no longer will Gujaareh be a mere crossroads for trade. We can become the center of a civilization that spans continents, bringing peace and prosperity to all. And I shall give the people a living god, one of flesh and not mere dreams, to worship. Do you understand?”

Charris did. And for an eternal instant as he stood there, Niyes’s treachery paled before his own hunger to draw his sword and strike the Prince down.

But then the urge passed. He was zhinha, a true son of Gujaareh, and the Prince was the Avatar of Hananja. To attack him was more than treason; it was blasphemy. And so he knelt, raising his arms in proper manuflection.

“I understand, my Prince,” he said. “My life is yours.”

“As it has always been,” said the Prince. He turned back, then, to admire the view.