A Secret Atlas (13 page)

“Quite.” The Prince approached and smiled carefully. “Anturasikun is lovely. I dreamed I

was walking through it with my brother, Theyral. He would have been much taken with this

place.”

“I did not know you had a brother, Highness. Did he not come with you?”

“No, he is dead.” Pyrust raised his half hand. “I’ll thank you for your as-yet-unexpressed

sympathy. I feel his loss sometimes. And do not regret your not knowing him, for my family

is obscure. Your family, of course, is well-known outside Nalenyr, and your work is the

envy of cartographers everywhere. I see well why Prince Cyron guards you so jealously.”

“The Prince’s concern for our welfare is much appreciated.” Keles felt a bit uncomfortable.

“Would you like some wine, Highness? I would be honored to fetch some for you.”

“In a moment perhaps.” Pyrust stepped closer, his voice dropping, his hand resting on

Keles’ forearm. “I have heard of the work you did in your study of the Gold River. You

know the Black River runs through the heart of my nation?”

“Yes, my lord.” Keles agreed even though the Black River had long formed the boundary

between Deseirion and Helosunde. “It is one of the three great rivers.”

“You needn’t be polite, Keles Anturasi, for I can see your unease.”

“Forgive me, sire.”

“Perhaps I will have cause to at some point, but your unease is good. It is a measure of

your loyalty.” Pyrust’s hand came up, fingering one of the purple ribbons hanging from

Keles’ shoulder. “I have need of a survey of the Black River.”

“I am afraid, Highness, that I would be unable to undertake such a venture.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’d not ask that of you. I was hoping, by reputation, that you knew of

any cartographers, here or in my realm, whom you would trust with such a task.” Pyrust

gave the purple thread a tug, then let it go. “Of course, if ever you found Nalenyr a place

where you no longer felt you could live, accommodations could be made in my realm.”

“Your Highness is very kind. I understand Deseirion is a beautiful nation.”

“It has its charms, though you know well that the glaciers that clogged the Gold River

scraped portions of my realm down to bedrock. This is why the Desei are so tough—we

work very hard to grind out an existence. As such, we are most eager to improve our

situation. As I said, your help in the matter of the Black River would be greatly

appreciated. If you
were
to undertake the expedition, I’m certain your family’s knowledge of my realm would be increased. Perhaps you will discuss this with your grandfather?”

“As my lord wishes.”

“Very good, thank you. Now, I will take some of that wine, if you do not mind.”

Keles nodded and guided the Prince toward the wine tables. He steered him away from

his uncle Eoarch, to where the best wine waited. Keles himself took a cup filled with a

Desei vintage, though he often found them too dry and bitter. Pyrust chose one of the

sweet wines from Erumvirine, and they toasted each other’s health.

Several Naleni nobles approached and introduced themselves, freeing Keles from his

duties as host. He didn’t drift very far away, in case he was needed, but Majiata and her

escort stood just to his left. They conversed with another couple who looked vaguely

familiar, but Keles could not remember their names. Next to Majiata stood the Viruk

ambassador, her consort hulking beside her menacingly. His attention seemed drawn to

the dance floor, and Keles knew without looking—primarily because of the song being

played—that his brother was already entertaining some young woman.

Things happened very quickly from there, and while Keles had flashes of memories, it was

not until later conversations with his family that he was able to fully reconstruct the events.

Thinking back, he had tried to find any sense of foreboding. There was nothing—no

unease, no warning from the gods, nothing—so events unfolded without warning. And

very painfully.

Up above, in the room’s southeast corner, the Keru guards hammered the butts of their

spears against the floor. This heralded the arrival of his grandfather. Qiro would make his

appearance, be applauded and lauded. After that Prince Cyron would arrive, speeches

would be made, and the celebration would continue in earnest.

At the sound Majiata had turned and stepped back, looking up as she did so. She bumped

into the Viruk ambassador who, at that moment, had just raised her wine cup to her lips.

The collision poured the cup’s contents down over the Viruk’s bosom and robe, staining it

as if with blood. Ierariach hissed a curse in her native tongue which needed no translation.

Majiata’s own arm had been jostled with the impact, sloshing wine from her cup over her

own sleeve and gown. Outrage purpling her face, she heard the oath and turned. In a

quick explosion of anger and utterly without thought, she slapped the Viruk for her

insolence. Fury narrowed her eyes and she even began to demand an apology from the

ambassador.

But before a single word had left her mouth, the Viruk warrior pulled the ambassador back

behind him with one hand and raised the other. His claws hooked and the hand quivered,

high in the air. Keles remembered that clearly: the talons silhouetted against the ceiling.

Then the hand came down and around in a sweeping slash that was intended to rake

Majiata’s entrails from her body. So large was he in comparison to Majiata, the blow might

even have cut her cleanly in half.

The Desei count grabbed Majiata and spun her about. Wine sprayed like blood. He tried to

impose himself between her and the claws, but even his most valiant effort could not

succeed. Majiata, locked in her rage, resisted him, dooming herself.

Keles, seeing it all unfold as if he were a Soth Gloon and reading the future, reacted in an

instant. He dove and hit the Viruk in the flank with both hands. The impact shocked him,

snapping his wrists back. He’d have had an easier time toppling a stone obelisk, but his

effort was not wholly in vain. He did manage to knock the Viruk off-balance enough that

the swipe would have missed Majiata cleanly.

Unfortunately, his dive carried him within the circle of the Viruk’s blow. The heel of the

Viruk’s hand caught Keles square over the left shoulder blade, bowing his back. The

cartographer left his feet and flew into the crowd, scattering people before slamming down

hard. He landed on his chest and bounced once, then flipped over and skidded. He felt the

cold stone against his back, which meant the claws had ripped through overshirt, shirt,

and flesh. He looked back along his trail and saw blood smeared on the floor.

Oh, this is not good.
He tried to catch his breath but couldn’t. He attempted to sit up, but couldn’t do that, either. Mercifully, before panic completely possessed him, he blacked out

as the first silver agonies began to gnaw into his back.

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

Prince Cyron had been waiting with his entourage just outside the Grand Ballroom. He

would have been content to have gone in immediately, but his Minister of Protocol had

been very precise in explaining he should enter after Qiro Anturasi had been welcomed. In

that way, Qiro would be seen as being more important than Prince Pyrust, would be

acknowledged as host, and yet be seen as subordinate to the Crown.

While much of that struck Cyron as silliness, he abided by it. His father had seen his

impatience with such shows of manners, but pointed out that it was such manners that

were the ligaments and tendons of society.
If I ignore them, others will do so as well, and
so the whole of society will collapse.
He was not certain he entirely believed his father’s words, but during the high Festivals, observing convention did provide a certain amount of

ceremonial excitement.

Screams from within the ballroom suggested another kind of excitement. The two Keru

guards at the door bolted into the room and the Prince’s head came around fast enough

that he saw a limp body in gold on the downward part of an arc. The guards, snapping

orders and brandishing their spears, cleared a path to the origin point of that arc. Cyron

cut around to where the man had landed. The violence had stunned many of the crowd to

immobility, so the Prince’s path was not obstructed, and he reached the bleeding man’s

side quickly.

Keles Anturasi?
The Prince couldn’t have imagined what Keles could have done to have

been subjected to such an attack.
Jorim, certainly, but Keles?

He dropped to his knees on the man’s left side, while a young woman knelt at Keles’ right.

The Prince recognized her as Nirati and saw her gown had already grown red at the

knees. She was desperately trying to roll her brother over, and the Prince helped her

accomplish that task.

Four ragged slashes had been torn in Keles’ overshirt low on the left side of his back.

They ended before his spine and welled with blood. No blood spurted, which the Prince

knew was good. No artery had been severed, but the amount of blood soaking his clothes

and smeared along the floor left no doubt the wounds were deep.

Cyron pulled his own overshirt over his head, tugging it free of the sash, and laid it over

Keles’ back. He pressed his hands to the wounds and Nirati did likewise, despite the

paleness of her face and the quiver in her lower lip. Her mother slid through the crowd and

knelt at the Prince’s side.

“Thank you, Highness, but I will . . .”

“No, Mistress Anturasi, no.” Cyron lifted his head. “Where is my physician?
Geselkir!
Get over here, or you and your entire school will forever be barred from Crown service.”

A portly man wearing formal robes of purple that featured a lengthy train and impossibly

long sleeves appeared at the head of the blood trail. “Highness?”

“You have work to do,
now
.”

The man lifted his hands; the overlong sleeves hung limply to his knees. “But my robe!”

“It will be your shroud if Keles Anturasi dies.”

One of the Keru poked the physician in the backside with the butt of a spear. The man

waddled forward, his gown’s train sopping up a good deal of the blood. He struggled down

to his knees and took over from the Prince, then began issuing orders, commandeering

various guests into service.

The Prince got up and followed the Keru to where two others stood beside the Viruk

ambassador and her consort. The Keru whispered to him the story of what had happened

as they approached the Viruk. The warrior had his hands lifted, and blood stained the

claws on his left hand. The Prince also noticed the clear print of a hand on the

ambassador’s face and the wash of wine over the front of her gown. To their right he also

saw a young woman hiding her face against the breast of a tall man wearing the colors of

a Desei exile.

The ambassador bowed deeply and the warrior hung his head. “Prince Cyron, I profoundly

regret the difficulty my consort has caused. How is the young Anturasi?”

“Bleeding.” Cyron turned from her and looked at the Desei noble. “What is your woman’s

problem?”

“She was almost as the Anturasi is now.”

“Turn, girl. Look at me.”

The woman turned, never leaving the safety of the man’s arms, then bowed very low.

“Forgive me, Highness.”

“Forgive you what, child?”

“Someone jostled my arm, Highness, and wine spilled on my gown. It is ruined. I reacted.”

The girl started to straighten up again, but the Prince growled. “Keep your head low. This

is a celebration where you are a guest, not a hostess. You are far too young to be a

doyenne of etiquette, and certainly not sufficiently schooled in it to be disciplining those

who might have done something accidentally. You turned and you struck someone much

your superior. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Highness.”

He glanced at the ambassador again. “It falls to me to set a punishment that will be meted

out in the morning. I will accept your comments on it, Ierariach. I would sentence her to

five lashes with a whip for her slap and the offense it did you.”

The Viruk thought for a moment, and a moment longer when a whimper from the girl stole

the first opportunity to speak. “I would not have her back scarred when what she did to me

shall not leave scars.”

“You are most gracious, Ierariach. Your compassion does you credit.” Cyron looked at the

girl again. “Stand tall, girl.”

She came up from her bow, her face a ruin of eroded cosmetics. “Thank you, my lady.”

The Prince untied the loose sash around his waist and kicked it away. “She may be

gracious, but I am not so inclined. Your slap will not leave scars, but Keles Anturasi will

have four,
if
he lives. So, you will have four lashes in the morning, then four for every year of his life if he dies.”

The girl moaned and collapsed to her knees. “But that would be a hundred. I could die.”

The Prince squatted and took her chin in his left hand, raising her face. He lowered his

voice to a whisper. “No, child, I will see to it that you do
not
die. You will live a cripple, your back a mass of wormtrack scars. Do not doubt for an instant that I will order it done. I will