“But don’t you hate the idea of having to live the rest of your life here, trapped? Won’t that kill you?”
Keles shook his head. “It won’t kill me, Jorim.” But it would kill you, little brother.
Jorim frowned heavily. “You’ll be as good as dead. You’ll be the person who creates the maps that allow others to go further than anyone before, and yet you will be limited to this little scrap of Moriande.”
Keles felt a hand squeeze his heart. Being trapped in the family tower did frighten him. Certainly it brought with it security, but security without freedom was useless. To never again look upon a sunset in the mountains, or see gaily plumed birds winging through rain forests . . .
“I guess you’ll just have to bring the world to me, Jorim. It is what I will be called upon to do. If we are lucky, you and I, we will become jaecaikyr and live a good long time. Perhaps the Prince will let us take turns here, being each other’s eyes and ears elsewhere, bringing back the world. If that is not the case, then I will have to depend upon you, your children, my children, and perhaps Nirati’s children, to do that for me. It is an eventuality I am willing to accept, for the good of our family and our nation.”
“Protecting me again, brother?” Jorim smiled, then waved a hand toward the door of his chamber. “I know that’s what you were doing in the map room. That’s what you’ve always done. Nirati distracts Grandfather, and you appeal to reason. It drives me utterly mad, but I know I benefit from it.”
Keles reached out and tugged on a braid. “You benefit from it, and you make us work very hard, you know that?”
“That’s what little brothers are for. It says so in all the stories.”
“And here I thought you preferred being unique.” Keles preceded him from the room. “One thing, tonight. Please, no fighting. There’s still blood in your eye, and that bruise is not quite in keeping with the color scheme.”
“Yeah, the purple isn’t quite Imperial, and the yellow edges are just not the right shade of gold.” Jorim’s hand landed heavily on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Fear not, brother, I will be on my best behavior. If what you have told me is true, I don’t wish to give Grandfather any cause to change his mind.”
“Good.” Keles let himself exhale loudly. “This is his night. We let him have his way, and things will be perfect.”
Chapter Eight
2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Anturasikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Nirati found she was having difficulty breathing, and it was not just because of the corset into which she had been laced. She was a slender woman already, and the corset had been used to shrink her waist to an impossibly tiny circumference. Her handmaiden had pulled it tight, admonishing, “Lass like you, Mistress, don’t need to be breathing, since all the men will think you’re breathless because of them.” Nirati had laughed at that, and the servant used the exhalation to tighten it just a bit more.
Nirati looked out through the tower’s Grand Ballroom, which was only half-full, and felt a bit dazzled. The evening’s colors were purple and gold—purple for the Prince and gold for the Anturasi family. She, her brothers, cousins, mother, and grandfather all wore predominantly golden robes, overshirts, and trousers, with purple ribbons as decoration. The Prince and his household would reverse that, and everyone in between would wear whatever struck their fancy, with gold and purple accents as befitted their ties to the family or Crown.
Or depending on what sort of impression they wished to make.
The Prince, though not yet in attendance, had already made a strong impression. He had allowed some of his Keru bodyguards to be stationed at the gate, front door, and the ballroom entrance. Drawn entirely from the women of the exile population of Helosundians, the Keru pledged themselves to the Naleni royal house, eschewing marriage and children, leading an ascetic life filled with training and guard duties. And odd rituals, if the whispered tales are true.
Without exception, the women wore their golden hair braided with a white ribbon, in mourning for their lost homeland. Though quite handsome, few among them would have been described as beautiful because their features were as strong as their bodies, and their hard-eyed stares lacked warmth. Each wore a sword and carried a spear, but was polite and respectful—although Nirati wondered if they would retain that demeanor when the Prince of Deseirion appeared.
The rectangular ballroom had a row of tall windows along the western wall that allowed a wonderful view of the night sky. Opposite them, to the left as one entered, tables had been set up and laden with all manner of viands. Merchants and traders who wished to curry favor with the Anturasi had gifted much in the way of wine, cheese, and other exotic foods. Her grandfather’s taste for heavily spiced food had also been represented at the centermost table, with cooks preparing and bringing out dishes that filled the air with delightful scents in much the way the musicians in the room’s southwest corner filled the air with sweet sounds.
As she surveyed the chamber, her eyes were naturally drawn to the catwalk running around the entire room a good fifteen feet above the floor. Six feet wide, save at the southeast corner where it became a triangular platform, its golden bars formed a lattice that separated anyone up there from those below. In the southeast corner stood a chair and small table, along with two Keru guards. The door in the east wall would be the one through which her grandfather entered and from which he would eventually announce the Stormwolf expedition.
She smiled slightly because she knew the posting would please Jorim beyond measure. Her only worry was that her grandfather, through preoccupation or deliberate action, might make the pronouncement in a way that would set Jorim off. While she loved her little brother dearly, he did have a temper, and her grandfather’s celebration was not the place to let it flare.
She shivered because a display of temper could do more than ruin the party. She could not remember her grandfather’s sixty-third birthday feast, but Qiro and Ryn Anturasi had gotten into a shouting match. From all she’d heard, Ryn had only been defending himself. The fact that he’d left on the Wavewolf the next day without ever exchanging a civil word with his father—and had then disappeared—kept rumors alive that Qiro had had him murdered.
Nirati looked over at her mother and smiled. Siatsi Anturasi wore a robe of gold, with broad white bands trimming it at the hem, sleeves, and edges, and a purple sash holding it closed. Taller than Nirati, though not as tall as any of the Keru, her mother had gone from being a slender girl to mature woman without any diminution of beauty. She wore her black hair up and secured with golden sticks. She’d powdered her face white, and used gold to add a sparkle of freckles over her cheeks and nose. Gold paint also emphasized her eyelids and lips, giving her the look of an alabaster statue come to life.
Her mother was an interesting woman, for she had managed to prosper within the framework of two families dominated by strong patriarchs. Her own family, the Isturkens, had been prosperous merchants who had married her off to Ryn Anturasi hoping to gain some sort of benefit from Qiro. They had continued to prosper until her father died and her elder brother, Eoarch, had taken over the business. His gambling habits extended beyond the gaming tables, and lost cargoes and ships drove the family to the brink of ruin.
When Ryn died it had been expected that Siatsi would function as Qiro’s hostess, but she declined and instead returned to her family and took over for Eoarch in all ways save for the trading company’s public face. She bargained with Qiro for maps in return for allowing his grandchildren to visit and be trained. Nirati had even heard it said that her mother had become one of Prince Araylis’ mistresses in return for favorable customs duties on certain shipments, but she had never asked after the veracity of those remarks.
She and her mother had worked hard preparing the celebration and smoothing
things over between Qiro and Jorim. They’d both agreed to act on Jorim’s behalf without consulting him. Jorim sometimes did not know what was good for him, and would eventually come around to their point of view.
Several gasps from near the entrance caused Nirati to turn. She did so slowly, not because her robe restricted her movement—there would be dancing later, after all—but because calm patience in the face of any emergency was the hallmark of a successful hostess. She braced herself for anything from a splash of spilled wine to Jorim’s entering awash in blood. Despite her preparation, her breath did catch in her throat.
The Keru at the door had stepped aside to admit the Viruk ambassador and her consort. Ierariach of Clan Nessagia likely would not have elicited the gasps herself. Her ebon eyes always attracted comment, as did the thick flow of her jet-black hair, which she wore unrestrained. Her pale green flesh, on the other hand, did make her inhuman nature apparent. Of average height, she had chosen to wear a gown of sea green that complemented her complexion. Her concession to the evening’s color scheme came in the form of a large amethyst set in gold that she wore as a spider-shaped pendant above her ample bosom.
But her consort was enough to take the breath away, and guarantee nightmares. Had he stood up straight, he would have topped eight feet easily, and Nirati suspected that his outstretched hand could touch the bottom of the catwalk. He wore only trousers and a sleeveless overshirt that let everyone see the bony plates on his long, slender arms. The hue of his flesh matched hers on throat, chest, belly, and the insides of his arms, though it deepened to a pine green over the rest of him, including his face. His black hair was as long as Jorim’s and could have benefited from similar braiding, though that would have entailed plaiting it down the length of his spine. His fingers and toes ended in sharp claws. The hooks on his elbows and the thorns on his head appeared not quite as sharp as the claws, but when he smiled, an ivory row of needle-sharp teeth reinforced the idea that while he carried no weapons, he was far from defenseless.
Nirati strode forward at a pace that would allow her to reach the Viruk at the same time as her mother. Siatsi stopped ten feet from them and bowed. Nirati matched her in depth and duration—which were both considerable given the Viruk relationship to Men. They straightened in unison and smiled.
“Dicairoun Nessagia, you honor us with your attendance.”
The ambassador smiled, but not without a little effort. “We were most pleased to receive the invitation to celebrate the life of the man who has recovered much of the world that was lost.”
Nirati kept her smile in place. Most of the people hearing those words would think the ambassador referred to the Cataclysm and the resulting loss of contact with the rest of the world, but Qiro’s granddaughter knew better. The Viruk had, millennia before, ruled over an empire that encompassed all Nine Principalities, their provinces and more. The men who lived there had been enslaved, along with other races, to serve the Viruk.
The Viruk capital, Virukadeen, had been located in what was now the heart of the Dark Sea, but had been destroyed in a cataclysm of Viruk manufacture. The Viruk who lived away from the capital, administering the provinces, suddenly no longer had the legions of Viruk warriors to secure their positions. Revolts followed, and Viruk rule was overthrown in places. Human freedom did not always last, but just over two thousand years ago, the True Bloods had come in a vast armada, invaded the Viruk Empire, and driven them out of what became the Principalities. Within the provinces, pockets of Viruk population still existed, though scattered and isolated. Far Irusviruk—the Viruk nation from which the ambassador had come—neither invited nor tolerated human interlopers. Peace between the races, for the most part, reigned—though did so uneasily the further one got from the Principalities.
Siatsi clearly had not missed the implications of the ambassador’s greeting. “The world is a vast place. Not all that was lost can be discovered, and some things discovered may never have been lost—such as the pleasure your presence brings to me. May your visit be blessed, and the peace of the Festival yours to enjoy.”
The consort bobbed his head and again flashed teeth. Nirati felt he was no more used to smiling than Ierariach was, but just enjoyed watching the human reaction to his grin. A shiver descended her spine as a thin ribbon of spittle began to roll down over his jaw. Fortunately, his thick black tongue licked it back before it could reach the floor.
The ambassador nodded. “We will enjoy your hospitality. Thank you.”
As they moved away, Siatsi took her daughter by the elbow. “Watch your brother when he gets here and keep him away from the Viruk. The story that Jorim slew two warriors while in Ummummorar is not unknown. I doubt anything will lead to violence this evening, but Jorim would offer a duel if challenged.”
“But the ambassador wouldn’t . . .”
Her mother shook her head. “The Viruk have a very strong caste system. Her consort, Rekarafi, is a warrior. And they will do anything to uphold the honor of the Viruk.”
“Why did Grandfather invite them?”
“Having the ancient ones here to venerate the anniversary of his birth feeds his ego.”
“But putting Jorim at risk . . .”
Siatsi raised a sculpted eyebrow. “It may not. It could be that Rekarafi would view the slain Viruk as provincial barbarians, much as we see the wildmen in the Wastes. If we are lucky, those slain were his enemies—but I do not wish to chance it. Remember, our Viruk guests are not only old enough to remember the coming of the True Bloods, they likely remember the fall of Virukadeen. Such long lives make them view us much as we would sand midges—something we could swat without a second thought. And I don’t want Jorim swatted.”
“Had you swatted him when he was a babe, he’d be less likely to cause trouble now.”
“And had I swatted you as a child, perhaps your tongue would not be so sharp.”
Nirati laughed. “I merely take after my mother.”
“And she will take after you if you do not perform this duty.” Siatsi sighed. “And be watchful for other deviltry. Your grandfather has been in a foul mood, and I would not put anything past him. Avert disaster where you see it.”
“Yes, Mother.” Nirati nodded toward the wine table. “Speaking of which, perhaps you wish to see to Uncle Eoarch. That’s his third cup of wine in an hour. If he’s heard the Viruk rumors, he’s likely to set up a duel just so he can wager on it.”
“Thank you.” Her mother kissed her softly on the cheek, then headed off to intercept her brother.
Nirati watched her go, then turned to study the next guests arriving. A young woman accompanied a man roughly twice her age and it took Nirati a moment to recognize her. She would have done it faster, but the woman’s handsome escort distracted her. When she saw who it was, she wished for a dozen more Viruk. Oh, Grandfather, you have been causing trouble.
Nirati moved to cut them off as they entered. She let her voice drop to a frosty tone. “I had not thought to see you here, Majiata. I would have thought you had some self-respect.”
Majiata began to answer, but her escort stopped her. “You will forgive me, please, for the fault is mine. I am newly come here. The invitation from your grandfather was unexpected, and it was suggested Lady Majiata might be free to attend.”
He spoke very precisely, and with a Desei accent. His purple silk overshirt had been trimmed in gold, though his shirt and trousers were midnight blue. The white sash belting his waist suggested mourning, but knotted the way it was it signaled his status as an exile. Which would make him . . .
Nirati bowed appropriately for one of his status, but held it longer than required out of deference. “Forgive me, Count Aerynnor, for being so rude. You are a most welcome guest. My grandfather will, no doubt, be pleased you took his suggestion to heart.”
The man returned the bow and tugged Majiata down with him. As he straightened up he smiled slowly, white teeth splitting his black beard and moustache. Light blue eyes sparkled in a handsome face.
The short scar over his right cheekbone only accentuated his good looks. That he had paled at her reaction to Majiata endeared him to Nirati, and she’d always found the Desei accent intriguing.
“Please, you will be calling me Junel. My title hardly pertains, as my family’s lands have been seized by the Crown.”
“I had heard stories to that effect, Junel.” Nirati smiled, liking how his name felt in her mouth. Majiata’s discomfort only helped accentuate Nirati’s satisfaction. “Are you aware Prince Pyrust has said he will attend?”
Junel frowned for a moment, then gave her a quick nod. “I had assumed so, since he is here in Moriande. Until you mentioned it, though, I had not considered how I felt. I will not cause you any difficulty in this matter. I thank you for the warning. It was most kind of you. If there is a service I can render you, you have but to ask.”
“Two services. Simple, both, but I ask you to indulge me.”
“As you are my hostess, I would offer you two services, even if both were complex.”
“Thank you.” Nirati smiled. “The first is that you keep Majiata away from my brothers, either or both of them.”
Junel looked at Majiata. She blushed, and he nodded. “And the second?”
Nirati looked straight into Majiata’s eyes. “Save the last dance of the evening for me, Junel.”
Chapter Nine
2nd day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
736th year since the Cataclysm
Anturasikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
The first two things that happened as he entered the Grand Ballroom did not surprise Keles Anturasi at all. The Keru guards had let him and his brother pass without notice, which made him share a secret smile with Jorim. The Keru, being tall, strong, and alluring, had long been the fantasy fodder for many a Naleni youth. While all of them knew the Keru did not engage in carnal adventuring, stories of illicit affairs abounded—always having happened to the friend of a friend, thus escaping verification because of the remove—so the adolescent dreams never died.