Michael Stackpole - The New World

The scent of one flower, paryssa, conjured memories that carried me further away. I smiled and drifted deeper into the sanctuary. Lost in memories, I saw little of it. Wrapped in enchantment, I really didn’t care.

I first saw Cyrsa in Kelewan, at an elegant brothel called the House of the Jade Maiden. The big, rectangular building possessed an interior courtyard garden very like the Prince’s sanctuary. I’d spent the night with a woman Nelesquin had recommended-his taste in women had always been exquisite. I had awakened and stepped into the garden very early, before the sun had evaporated the dew. From deeper within I heard girlish giggles and the clacking of sticks.

The garden path opened onto a crushed marble circle. Two young women played at sword-fighting. Paryssa had red hair back then, and her silver eyes flashed brightly. She circled the other girl, stalking her, then struck quickly.

Her foe shrieked, then ran past me, sucking on her fingers. I could only smile, amazed, as Paryssa saw me, bowed, then struck a pose meant to be fourth Tiger. How odd it seemed, her being trained for pleasure when she could fight skillfully.

I had been taken with her immediately. In free moments I would school Paryssa in the way of the sword, indulging her, praising her. She incorporated what I taught into a dance, which delighted warriors. They, like me, came to enjoy her company in all ways.

And then, at Nelesquin’s urging, I bought her and gave her to our father, the Emperor, as a gift.

I entered a marble-strewn clearing and my guts tightened. She stood still, her back to me, bearing a willow switch. I allowed the stones to crunch beneath my feet, but she did not turn. Her head sank just a little, then she looked back shyly-again the young girl even though we had known each other for eons.

“Do you think, Master Soshir, you can come to love me again?”

I bowed to her deeply, as befitted the Empress, and remained low as befitted the one who had long since captured my heart. I slowly straightened.

“Your question presumes I stopped loving you.”

She turned to face me. She wore a white robe trimmed in green. Black thread had been used to embroider crowns on the breast, back, and sleeves. The same thread tiger-striped the hem, and worked hunting tigers onto the ends of her sash. Her open gaze searched my face. The slight narrowing of her eyes betrayed concern.

I waited, not reacting, leaving myself open to examination. I had no idea what she was looking for, but she seemed not to find it. She smiled and idly twirled the switch in her hand, then turned away from me and began to walk deeper into the sanctuary.

A twitch of the willow branch invited me to follow.

“How shall I address you, Highness? Do you answer to the name my father gave you, or…”

“Or have I taken to changing my name as you warriors often do?” She spun and lashed me playfully with the switch. “Here you may address me as you wish, but formality shall be observed at court. And how shall I call you?”

“I think a return to Virisken Soshir will most discomfit our enemy.”

“Then it is Nelesquin?”

“I saw him at Tsatol Deraelkun.”

“Has the grave taught him anything?”

I caught the switch on its next pass and tickled her nose with the tip. “He is as ever he was: arrogant and confident. He also appears to be somewhat wiser. Years in the grave have made him more dangerous.”

Again she studied me for a heartbeat, but the smile did not leave her face. “We prevailed against him once.”

“And we shall again.”

I offered her my hand. She dropped the switch and took it. I drew her to me and luxuriated in her warmth. “Prince Cyron said you feared I would hate you. Is that because you knew who I was but never told me?”

She laid her head against my breast. “I knew who you had been. Who are you now? Virisken Soshir?”

“It’s a name.” I frowned. “It’s one of the people I’ve been. Who am I? I don’t know. By the time this is over, I certainly hope I will have found out.”

She kissed my throat and said something softly, but the raucous cry of a creature flying overhead stole her words. A large, cold shadow passed over us.

I thrust her behind me and filled my left hand with steel.

One of Nelesquin’s flying beasts, stinking of carrion, landed heavily in the stone circle. A kwajiin rode at the base of its neck. Behind him sat a mad artist’s conception of a human-Viruk hybrid, rendered as a silver skeleton. Two tentacles unwrapped a canvas-shrouded package and unceremoniously tossed it clear of the beast’s furling wings.

“There is your general, dead by Prince Nelesquin’s hand.”

I recognized the voice. “Pravak Helos. You’ve looked better.”

“Virisken Soshir.” The metal man threw his head back and laughed-a haunting sound that elicited angry growls from the sanctuary’s other animals. “I’m glad you’re alive. Had I leave from my master, I’d harvest your head.”

“Step down. We have a nice little circle here.”

“You dishonor yourself, tendering an offer you know I must refuse.”

“Another time, then, after the puppet master has cut your strings.”

The monster’s silver face closed. “Is that the little whore who led us to ruin hiding behind you?”

The Empress stepped from my shadow. “You followed Nelesquin into ruin. It’s an error you compound.”

“We will undo what you did.” The vanyesh tapped the kwajiin beastmaster on the shoulder. “We shall meet again, Master Soshir, and I will kill you.”

“And I, Master Helos, will melt your bones and give the silver to beggars.” I bowed respectfully.

He did not.

The beast spread its wings and beat skyward. The blast of air staggered us. I slipped an arm around Cyrsa as the creature faded into a dark spot against the sky.

She snorted. “Some of the vanyesh have survived.”

“Nelesquin wants us to fear their return.”

“I do.”

“Wise woman.” I hugged her close. “There is no good to come of it.”

6th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Helosunde

Ciras Dejote laughed happily. “When Rekarafi found us, he told us you were alive. I scarcely believed he was able to find you, but I never should have doubted.”

“He tracked me from Ixyll to Felarati.” Keles coughed. “Such as it is, I am alive. Barely. My travels have not been kind.”

The swordsman nodded, keeping his true feeling hidden. When they first met, Keles Anturasi had been a quiet man. He had endured the hardships of traveling in the Wastes without complaint. He’d even accepted a bit of sword training from Ciras, despite the slender likelihood of ever needing it. The expedition had toughened Keles up some, but he had still been soft.

No more. Where there had once been hints of fat, bones were easily visible. His hands were not healing quickly. His body bore bruises. Wrinkles radiated from the corners of his bloodshot eyes. The cough, though dry, never really stopped. Where his flesh was not purple, brown, or yellow, it was grey. Strands of white shot through his brown hair.

Even Prince Eiran looks better than he does.

Scoan had wounded the Prince, but not mortally. The blade had to slice through the Prince’s knotted silk sash, his silk robe, and the garment beneath. Only the tip had caught flesh. The wound had been a handbreadth long, but had not run deep. No internal organs had been damaged. The wound had been stitched and, against his protests, Prince Eiran had been forced to travel on a stretcher borne by two of Borosan’s gyanrigot soldiers.