A Secret Atlas (20 page)

through his left eye. A small bolt pinned his tongue to his lower jaw, and yet another

emasculated him. Ulan crumpled the same way the chart crumpled in Qiro’s hands.

She looked up at her grandfather, tears forming in her eyes. She bent to pick up the map

and smooth it, but Qiro took it from her hands and threw it away. He smiled at her, turning

her from Ulan, and led her deeper into the gardens. Flowers poured from his mouth,

though they were ghosts of those blooming around her.

And around her heart slid an armored sleeve. She did not say it then—she had not known

the words to say it then—but now she knew.
I determined then I would never let him hurt

me as he did Uncle Ulan. I am not without talent. I hid from my talent.

That knowledge exploded in her. Everything she had tried to do had been a failure. She

had worked diligently at it, but never had connected with anything.
I’d not let myself

connect. I did not want a talent. I did not want to be judged, to be skewered and crumpled.

Perhaps I never needed healing.

Her vision returned to her and there, in a grey sea, she saw the purple light burning in the

arena’s heart. Kaerinus had risen high enough that the fog could fill the dome and touch

everyone.
Is that it? Did I never need the healing, or was this the healing I needed?

She felt his awareness sweep past her, but she got no reply. Instead, she felt herself

beginning to drift upward. She glanced down and saw her body. Around her, as if

phantoms, she saw Dunos and Moraven, even Majiata. Of others she became only dimly

aware. When she looked up again, Kaerinus had become a black pearl with purple fire

swirling around its middle. It rotated down as if an eye, with a fiery purple pupil mirroring

what had become the corona. It saw her. It saw her and she saw herself reflected and

distorted in the orb’s dark surface.

She reached a hand out and traced a finger over the sphere. She felt something ancient in

there, and knew she should fear it, but she did not. She caressed it again, and the illusion

of a smooth surface vanished. Tiny glass teeth tore at her flesh. Violet lightning lashed

her. She yanked her hand away, screaming as she severed contact.

Her eyes snapped open as Moraven and Dunos both crouched beside her. She started

trembling, then bit her lower lip. “W-what happened?”

Moraven smiled uneasily. “I suspect it was different for each of us. One moment we were

locked in the magic. In the next, it and Kaerinus were gone.”

Nirati let them help her into a sitting position. She looked toward where Majiata had fallen.

“What of that woman?”

“She wandered out, dazed.”

Dunos nodded and lifted her robe in his right hand. “She forgot this.”

Nirati half smiled, but stopped quickly. Dunos’ arm remained withered. She glanced at

Moraven and saw the end of his scar. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, Mistress?”

“You still have your scar, and Dunos . . .”

The boy frowned and tears glistened in his eyes, but none rolled down his cheeks. “It’s

okay.”

Moraven leaned across Nirati and caressed Dunos’ left arm. “Have you forgotten what I

said on the road, Dunos?”

“You said I would be healed.” His lower lip trembled. “You can’t always be right, Master.”

“I was not wrong, Dunos.” The man’s voice, though soft, carried confidence. “The magic

promised only to heal us, not give us what we want. It gave us what we need.”

“But I wanted to be a swordsman.”

“And you may yet be.” Moraven smiled, then tapped the boy on the head. “First, though,

you have to find out what was healed. That will tell you your true destiny.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you.”

Nirati looked at Moraven. “Have you been given what you need?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“That doesn’t sound very definite.”

Moraven smiled, stood, and helped her to her feet. “Healing is always a process, magical

or not. It will take time for me to figure out what has changed. The same for Dunos. Do

you know, Mistress, or will you need time as well?”

“I think I
will
need time.” Nirati paused for a moment, then nodded. “Time to heal, then time to discover what it is my healing will allow me to do.”

“Best fortune in your search.” The swordsman shrugged his robe back on. “You’re

embarked on a journey most never realize they need to take. If that realization were the

only thing you got today, you would have been the most fortunate of us all.”

6th 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

When Keles awoke again he found himself in a larger bed within a dim room. The sheets

were fresh—likewise the straw in the mattress. He could smell the poultice and other

herbs. Their scents did not make him want to gag. He felt stronger somehow, and though

he noticed the pain in his back, the tightness of the flesh across the wounds superseded

it.

He turned his head and found his mother sitting in a chair beside the bed, concentrating

on embroidering an emblem on cloth. She looked up as the rustle of bedclothes betrayed

his movement. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.”

She poured him a small cup of water, then held his head, raising the cup to his lips and

only allowing him tiny sips. He wanted to suck it down greedily, but knew it would come

right back up, so he settled for allowing a cool trickle down his throat. He drank as much

as he could, then nodded, and she withdrew the nearly empty cup.

“How long have I slept?”

“A long time, which is good. It’s the Festival’s sixth day.”

Keles concentrated. “The Prince’s ball is tonight.”

Siatsi laughed lightly and brushed hair back from his forehead. “Your brother and sister

will represent us well.”

“You should have gone, Mother.”

She shook her head. “And have every crone in the nation asking me how you were, what I

thought of what happened? No, that would not do. You
are
the talk of Festival, Keles, but I need not be the one doing that talking.”

Keles nodded, or thought he had. He did hear the rustle of pillowcase against his cheek. “I

remember the ambassador. What happened?”

Siatsi sighed. “I’m certain your brother has told you of frogs and toads in Ummummorar

that exude a poison. Wildmen use it to hunt with, but it protects the creatures from

predators.”

Keles nodded.

“The Viruk apparently have a similar thing. Just as our sweat becomes acrid when we are

nervous, so their personal humors change. When the warrior cut you, his claws poisoned

you. Mildly, of course, but you were poisoned nonetheless. The ambassador’s magic was

able to deal with the more virulent aspects of the venom, but some things will take time to

work out. It could be a year or more. Until then even the scent of a Viruk could make you

sick.”

“Luckily there will be no Viruk on the
Stormwolf
.”

“Lucky for some, Keles, but not for you.” In quiet tones Siatsi told him what had happened

that night and of his grandfather’s pronouncement. Keles’ skin puckered as she spoke. He

did not so much fear the trip as he did his grandfather’s wrath. The
Stormwolf
’s

voyage
might
have been meant to kill him, but a trip into the depths of Ixyll surely would.

Even in the dim light he could see how his mother had paled, and her fingers quivered as

she stroked his hair. “I have spoken with Qiro, but he is adamant. I cannot shift him, no

matter how I try.”

“Give it time, Mother.”

“Dear boy, there is not that much time in the world.” She frowned. “I could tell you all the

ways in which he felt compelled to act, but the simple fact was that he made that

pronouncement at his birthday celebration. Princes heard him. For him to relent now

would be a dishonor. It would suggest one or both of you are weak, and he will tolerate

neither.”

“Do you think he wants me dead?”

“He is capable of it.”

“Did he want my father dead?”

Siatsi frowned for a moment, then sighed. “The years and rumors have made it easy to

accept the simple answer, but Qiro and Ryn were more complex. Your father pushed his

father hard. Your father had a gift, one greater than Qiro’s, if you can believe it, and Qiro

realized that Ryn would be able to cement the Anturasi place in history if he would focus

that gift. But your father was not patient. Like your brother, he had other interests. Qiro

tried to focus your father on cartography. That led to the last voyage.

“Part of him probably
did
want your father dead, for they fought furiously. And part of him mourned piteously when your father died. He grieves still.”

“Does he want me dead?”

“No. He wants you to return after doing your work.” She smiled. “Your grandfather is not

entirely heartless.”

Keles frowned. “He has condemned me to a journey of over two thousand miles as the

hawks fly. I will be traveling through lands where wild magic has held sway and heroes

refuse to go. The only people who venture into the realm of Ixyll are the insane, or

the
gyanridin,
who
act
insane. I will have to cross the Dark Sea, risking storms and pirates, and I’ll be passing close enough to Irusviruk to see many more warriors. Some will

be kin to those Jorim killed, and all of them will make me ill. Grandfather may not be

coldhearted, as you say, but he is showing me little of his warmth.”

She laughed.

“I did not think I was being funny.”

“No, Keles, I know that.”

“Well?”

Siatsi smiled. “Rumor had it that Majiata had described your journey similarly, but without

regret.”

“She did?” His heart ached slightly. “You didn’t tell me if the Prince had her lashed.”

“He did. She fainted and bears naught but a tiny scar on her back. Your sister saw it when

she went to the healing ceremony.”

Keles blinked. “Nirati went? You let her go?”

“It was important to her to go.” His mother sighed. “Nirati’s been here by your side a lot,

Keles. She does all she can to help, and she has been a great help, but she feels her lack

of talent. She watches me mix herbs and roots for your poultices and would give anything

to be able to do that. She went hoping she would find her talent. “

“I keep telling her she’s like Empress Cyrsa. She
will
find her talent.”

“I know, Keles. I agree, but Cyrsa’s story is one that salves the wound for children.”

“How did it turn out for her?”

His mother shrugged. “She said it was good, but talked more about a little boy from the

south. You talk to her, see what you can learn.”

“I will. So there was no change?”

“There might have been, but she said it might take time. You know your sister. She’s no

more patient than your brother in most things.” Siatsi smiled. “In fact, she is impatient in

everything save dealing with your grandfather.”

“That’s true, but I would rather she followed your footsteps than his.”

“So would I, but she would gladly be a cartographer. You’ll have to be kind to her. I think

had she found a talent for mapmaking, she would have offered to go in your place.”

“If anyone is less suited to go than I am, it would be Nirati.”

His mother smiled. “I agree, but your brother didn’t.”

“No?”

“He said you were equally ill suited to it. He said if it didn’t kill you or maim you, the

journey would drive you insane. Then he said he would give anything to be going in your

place.”

Keles managed a chuckle. “He would, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, but he knew you’d not let him—though he did advance a plan where you could trade

identities.”

“Wouldn’t work. As I send information to Grandfather he would know of the deception.”

“Jorim agreed that was true, but thought if the deception were maintained, only the family

need know.”

“No. Too many others would know, from the crew of the
Stormwolf
to whoever

accompanies me.” Keles sighed. “Unless Qiro changes his mind, or the Prince issues

orders to the contrary, I shall be bound for Ixyll.”

His mother nodded solemnly. “Jorim said you would feel honor-bound to go.”

“He knows me well.”
But does he know me well enough? He doesn’t think I can

even
survive.
Is he right?

Keles had made journeys for years, and had conducted surveys, but always close to or

within Nalenyr. It had not been because anyone thought he could not have gone further,

but because things like the survey of the upper reaches of the Gold River were vital, and

Keles remained focused on the task at hand. Being able to focus like that had made him

successful, but he had to wonder how useful that skill would be on a trip into places where

magic could and often
did
warp the landscape.

He laughed. Even wondering about
that
showed his focus—and the problem with it. The

wild magic out there warped
everything
—plants, animals, relics—and yet he was

concerned about the geography. It was not going to be a mountain becoming a plain that

would kill him, but the weirder, less predictable curiosities in that land.

He smiled at his mother. “Jorim will take a trip that will test his skills to the utmost, for he will have to do what I do well and what he does well, both at the same time. On the other