A Secret Atlas (5 page)

“Geias, there is no reason you will mention this to your mother.”

The youth nodded.

The old man smiled and rubbed his hands together as Moraven produced a bottle,

uncorked it, and poured an amber liquid into two small cups. “Eron’s wife takes good care

of him and the other students, but she
fusses
over me.”

“I seem to recall other Mistresses of House Jatan who fussed similarly.” Moraven handed

him one of the cups. “I have no complaint, for without being fussed over, I would not have

recovered.”

Jatan sniffed at the liquor, then tossed it off in one gulp. His eyes screwed shut for a

moment, then he swallowed hard. He coughed again, but only lightly, then spoke in a

harsh whisper. “You underestimate your vitality.”

“No, Master, I am aware of my mortality.”

Moraven Tolo had first met Phoyn Jatan in Moriande, awakening on a sleeping mat in the

Soshir Estate. He’d been lying there facedown, his chest swathed in bandages. He had no

recollection of who he was or whence he had come. Things around him felt strangely

familiar, but also quite alien, as if a hundred rice-paper paintings had been chopped into

pieces and fitted together with no particular scheme.

The only thing he knew about himself was that he had been horribly wounded with a

sword. The slash had taken him on the left side, stopping a handwidth shy of his spine. An

inch or two of the scar remained visible on his chest and a finger of it along the flank. The

blow should have killed him; but he was left alive to wonder if he had been struck in the

back because he was a coward running from battle, or if enemies he now could not recall

had genuinely intended to kill him.

Phoyn Jatan and his wife of the time, Chyrynal, had nursed him to health. Jatan built the

sword school around him in his old Master’s estate—which Moriande’s growth had since

overtaken. It became apparent that whoever he had been, he had been a swordsman of

no mean skill. This spoke against the idea of cowardice, but Moraven worked hard to

ensure this charge would never be leveled against him again. It was the reason the

bandits had been slain on the road to Moriande eighty-one years previously, and

countless others had died beneath his blade before then.

“Mortality, Moraven, is a concern for all of us.” Jatan held the cup out for a refill. “Once I

knew a man claiming to be a student of mine was here, I sent students out to seek a

swordsman of skill. Do you know of a young man who calls himself Desheil Tolo, and

claims to be your cousin? He wears the leopard hunting as a crest and speaks the

southern dialect.”

“No, but there was the business down in Erumvirine that might have caused him to choose

that name.” Moraven poured more of the grain alcohol for his Master. “Did he take it in my

honor, or shall I be required to strip him of it?”

“Eron is making inquiries.” Jatan sipped at the liquor this time. “The boy you sent, tell me

his story.”

“I did not send him.”

“Moraven, please.” The old man shook his head. “My Master told the tale of flying a hawk

against forest doves. His hawk stooped and knocked one from the sky, which fell and hit a

peasant’s cook pot, spilling thin broth on a fire. The peasant demanded payment for his

supper, since it was Master Virisken’s hawk that began the loss. Your sending the boy to

Macyl’s family began this chain.”

Moraven frowned, then drank and let the liquid burn its way down his throat. “As I recall,

Master,
your
Master paid the peasant, then demanded the money back from him in

payment for the dove, which the peasant’s family were then roasting. When the peasant

said the dove was from the gods and refused to pay, Master Virisken slew him for

blasphemy.”

“True, true, but the Empire had not been divided into the Nine at that time, so things were

different. And your attempt to evade
my
question was bold but in vain.”

“There is not much to tell. They come from the south, a day’s walk from Erumvirine, and

are millers. The boy had ventured up the millstream and found a place where the bank

had been eroded. It opened into a little hole and he crawled in. Something was shining

there, glowing with a blue light. The boy reached for it with his left hand.” Moraven

shrugged. “He remembers nothing else. His father found him floating down the stream and

thought he was dead, but only his arm was withered.”

The old man’s brows furrowed. “Do they suspect how it changed him?”

“I think they saw nothing beyond the withered arm. They say they tried to find the place

where he was hurt, but there were rains, the stream flooded, and all signs were gone. Still,

the site was a mile upstream and they credit the gods with the miracle that he did not

drown. They really did not want to speak of any of it, and only told me what had happened

after they learned what I am.”

“They alone would associate with you once your status was revealed?”

Moraven nodded. “Hardly a surprise.”

“No, memories of the Time of Black Ice remain sharp, even in the minds of those who did

not live through them.” Jatan beckoned for more
wyrlu
and his hand quaked as Moraven

refilled his cup. “In some ways, I bear my Master anger. He rode with his best warriors to

join Empress Cyrsa in the Turasynd Campaign. It was even his idea to take the Imperial

treasury in the wagons and travel northwest, along the Spice Route, to draw the

barbarians away from civilized lands. He and the others went off to die, but me he left

behind to protect Nalenyr. I do not think he knew what they would unleash.”

Moraven nodded slowly. The Empire’s best warriors had traveled with the Empress to

prevent the barbarians of the Turca Wastes from destroying the Empire. Warriors of

sufficient skill—such as he, Master Jatan, and Virisken Soshir—could reach the state

of
jaedunto
. Their skill connected them with
jaedun
—the magic that flowed like a river through everything. When they fought, especially against other
jaecai,
excess magic

leaked out. Many were the circles outside villages where duels were fought to contain the

magic, and odd were the effects therein. Snow might never melt despite the hottest

summer, or rain might always fall there without a cloud in the sky. Men bred horses and

dogs in those circles, hoping the wild magic would create a superior beast; but they

always did it in the dead of the night, lest their neighbors learned they were playing with

magic.

The Turasynd, living in the northern desert, cared little about the consequences of magic.

It could do little harm to their barren homeland, and great good if it made their herds fertile or crops bountiful. When their population grew too big, a shaman bound the tribes

together and invaded the Empire. The Empress lured them north and west, away from the

centers of civilization, then engaged them in a grand battle the likes of which had never

been seen before or since.

Jatan’s eyes focused distantly. “The wild magic came in towering clouds that cloaked the

sky and hid the sun. Snows came—foul black snow carried on savage winds that could

peel the flesh from man and beast. Better that death, though, than what would happen if

the magic in those storms touched you. The boy traded a withered arm perhaps for the

ability to breathe water, or to need no breath at all, but that’s because the magic is weak

now.”

He glanced at Geias. “Back then, villages vanished in blizzards and glaciers scraped the

earth down to bedrock. There are yet places in the mountains where you can see a village

made of ice—houses, people, wagons, animals, all there, frozen in place as they were

when a storm caught them.”

Moraven nodded. “I’ve seen it, Master, though much is melted now. The wild magic does

gather and play sometimes, but seldom in the Nine. It’s just in the Wastes now—Dolosan

and Ixyll, or so I am told.”

“But fear of it remains—and that, Geias, is why you study hard.” Jatan coughed once

more, but did not drink. “Back in the days of Empire, men grew careless. We studied

swordsmanship to reach
jaedunto,
but others wanted the magic faster. Prince Nelesquin

and his
vanyesh
studied
xingna
to master it, to master
jaedun
. Once they had the magic, they found ways to use it to enhance their skills. They sought the simple way, and it was

their folly that caused the Cataclysm.”

Moraven nodded, more out of respect for his Master than belief. Master Jatan had been

one of the few
jaecai
left in the Nine—the Nine Principalities the Empress had divided the Empire into for safekeeping. He had been instrumental in convincing the Naleni Prince

that the
vanyesh
had to be destroyed. Moreover, the study of magic had to be eliminated.

In his view, the Imperial warriors could have contained their magic and prevented the

Cataclysm, but the undisciplined
vanyesh
could not.

But this is because Prince Nelesquin and your Master hated each other. You are my

Master, but I see how their hatred has tainted you.

In the wake of the Cataclysm, with magic storms raging, years of no summer and

countless people dying of starvation or worse, the system of schools for teaching various

skills was reinforced. The common folk distrusted magic, but were assured that anyone

who had learned enough to access it could be trusted. And it was true that few achieved

such mastery. Even now, with the population approaching pre-Cataclysm levels, this

remained constant. Still, the fear had power, and were it not for Dunos and his family,

Moraven would have traveled the last two days to Moriande alone.

The school system—at least the martial schools—had also begun the
xidantzu
tradition.

The best warriors were to travel the Nine and even beyond, fighting injustice and cruelty,

without regard to nationality or politics. No lord could command them and, while many

good students ended up in garrisons and militias, the very best relished their freedom. The

creation of the
xidantzu
meant no lord could gather an army akin to that of the Empress, so the chances of a pitched battle triggering another Cataclysm became miniscule.

“It is folly, Moraven, that caused me to ask for this audience.”

“Yes, Master?”

“What happened to the boy could happen to the Nine.” Jatan sat forward and a pillow

slipped down to prop him up. “As you have said, the wild magic has retreated. And, for

some, so has the fear of what caused it. There are those who go into the Wastes. They

seek weapons of antiquity, looting graves new and old, searching for those things that will

build them an army.”

Moraven frowned. Weapons and relics of those who had skill would not confer that skill on

others—though they might be steeped in the magic of the one who had used them. They

would, however, allow one to be more easily trained. He had asked after Macyl’s sword

because the blade itself had been in that family for generations and was very powerful.

Macyl had worked hard to attain his skill and had not allowed the blade to bring him along

faster than he could have gone otherwise, but he was rare.

“Master, have you seen evidence of these relics in Moriande?”

“A few, sold as curiosities and antiques, but they were very fine specimens. One or two

bore signs of having been on the Turasynd Campaign.” His eyes sharpened. “It is

supposed that somewhere, out in Ixyll, there is the battlefield where so many died. The

weapons there would be full of magic and might make someone think he could be

Emperor again.”

Moraven arched an eyebrow. “Not Prince Cyron. His older brother might have striven for

such, but the gods had other plans for him. Prince Pyrust?”

“Pyrust, of course. Deseirion wishes to consolidate the conquest of Helosunde, then take

Nalenyr. There are others, though, who might wish a new dynasty in Moriande.” Jatan

shrugged. “I wish only that the graves of my comrades and Master lie undisturbed, but I

am too old to venture into the Wastes to ensure this. So I wish you to do it in my stead.”

“Go to Ixyll?” Dread poured through Moraven. Ixyll had ever been a distant land warped by

the wild magic. He believed nothing he heard of it, but also endeavored to hear little. If he

ever thought of it unbidden, he exiled his thoughts to far Ixyll itself and felt well rid of them.

“Will you do this for me, Moraven Tolo?”

“Master, I would lay siege to the Nine Hells for you. I shall leave immediately.”

Jatan raised an empty hand, then extended his cup once more. “If you leave now, you will

not see me during the Festival. Nor will we finish your fine
wyrlu
. This duty I charge you with
is
grave, but even the men involved in it will celebrate the Festival. So shall you.”

“My Master is most kind.”

“No, Moraven, far from it.” He raised the cup, then sipped. “I am sending you to save the

world. Enjoy the Festival and remember the world at its best. It will not make you work

harder, but it may bring you comfort when the task becomes impossible.”

36th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty