Michael Stackpole - The New World

And damned he shall be.

Cyron might well have thought he had completely neutralized Pelut, but the Prince never really understood the complexities of running a bureaucracy. Part of it was finding things for people to do, and not always meaningful things. By keeping them working, but not allowing them to see the overall picture, you maintained power. And that power could be unleashed as needed.

Wood had been assembled in the square before the broad and tall Temple of the Dragon, creating a pyre. Logs had been stacked in a cube that rose eighteen feet high. White silk banners had been tied to the crosspieces. Simple prayers for Pyrust had been drawn on each one. And there, visible beneath the platform, were thousands of other written prayers that had been folded up and tossed amid all the kindling. The prayers would burn along with Pyrust, and Wentoki would read them before beseeching Grija to admit Pyrust to Heaven.

Cyron had been content to allow Pelut to handle the production of those prayers. The silken ones asked the gods to be fair and just in their judgment of Pyrust. His clerks had used some of the more archaic symbols to express this message because it was appropriate to the gravity of the ceremony. He doubted Cyron could read but half of them, yet had the Prince had them translated, he would have seen nothing duplicitous in the messages.

The folded prayers-which had been produced by a cadre of young ministers-were slightly different. They implored Wentoki to forget Desei atrocities, while describing them in great detail. After reading countless messages about the evil Pyrust had done, the gods would have no choice but to interpret “justice” in his case as sending him into the most hideous of the Nine Hells.

The procession spread into the square, and Pelut clenched fists hidden in voluminous sleeves. First came the cart bearing the body. It wore an empty saddle that had been draped with white. The body, which had been wrapped in white silk, lay buried beneath a blanket of flowers and paper strips from the street. As it drew up, four strong priests of the Dragon moved in to convey the body to the platform atop the pyre.

Behind that wagon came a simple carriage carrying two women. The Empress wore white, including a porcelain mask.

Pyrust’s widow rode beside her, likewise in white. She did not hide behind a mask, but her face had been made up in white and her hair bleached. Save for the dancing of a wisp of hair and the red-rimmed icy blue eyes, she might have been a marble statue. Her robes hid the signs of her pregnancy, but there was not a person present who did not know her womb nurtured the dead man’s child.

Jasai’s presence galled Pelut. Was there anyone in the city who did not know that Jasai had loathed her husband and was escaping his realm when she arrived in Moriande? Pelut gladly spread rumors that the child she carried was not Pyrust’s, but that of Keles Anturasi. While Jasai’s attendance at the funeral-and her apparent distress at her husband’s death-thrilled the romantics in the city, it would be her undoing.

Pelut would see to it.

After that came another carriage, with Prince Cyron and Virine Count Derael. The latter looked little better than the corpse, and Cyron was not much healthier. Their hats tapered to abrupt points and, had there been a following breeze, were wide enough to propel the wagon.

The men’s presence was meant to inspire the people. In Pelut it inspired hatred. How could the people take heart in these men? Two cripples were Moriande’s defense? Already, people were grumbling that Nelesquin had killed one cripple, so throwing two more at him would mean nothing.

Pelut encouraged that effort, and was pleased at how little he had to spend manufacturing fear.

Once the four priests had placed Pyrust high on the pyre, they carried Count Derael to the broad landing halfway up the steps to the temple. Cyron slowly mounted the steps as the troops who had marched behind the procession filled the square. The Desei troops had painted their shields white and had added the clipped feathers back to the hawk on their crests. Virine and Naleni troops had white silk strips dangling from their helmets. The company of misfit xidantzu had relaced half their armor with white cords.

Standing a step below the Empress, Prince Cyron raised his arms-emphasizing his deformity. Pelut did not doubt the Prince had planned the gesture to make some other sort of point, but it was moot. The lot of them looked like the ghosts they would be soon.

“People of Moriande, Nalenyr, Deseirion, Helosunde, and Erumvirine-people of the True Empire-today we release the spirit and soul of Prince Pyrust of Deseirion. Prince Pyrust’s greatest wish was the re-creation of the Empire sundered so long ago. The Jaeshi Dynasty came closer than any other to accomplishing this task. Just over a month ago he arrived here, ready and able to add Nalenyr to his realm. I would have been slain by his hand. His vision of the future would have prevailed.”

Cyron half turned toward the Empress. “The Empress revealed her presence to the both of us-I had no more knowledge of her identity than he did-and drafted us both into her service. We both gladly agreed. Pyrust’s dream had come true, and he accepted the charge to be her warlord. His goal was to preserve the Empire and this he fought to do against an evil so ancient and potent, even Death could not contain it.”

Cyron faced the pyre again and lowered his arms. “There is no one within the sound of my voice who did not, in some way, fear Prince Pyrust. I did. When he came to kill me, I saw the fire in his eyes, the steel in his spine, the strength of his dream. He came to unite Deseirion, Helosunde, and Nalenyr, not only to reestablish the Empire, but to face a greater threat. He never intended to be defeated by it, or to surrender to it, but to destroy it. That his effort did not bring success is not a failing on his part but a mark of the cunning of our enemy. Prince Pyrust killed many of them. He bought us time that will guarantee our victory.”

Pelut dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from falling asleep. Of course Cyron had to deify Pyrust. That would appease the cowardly Desei troops who let their prince die. It might even convince them to die for Nalenyr-Cyron all but ceded it to Pyrust in his eulogy. And the rest of the people learned that while Pyrust had been bad, Nelesquin was worse. The message was clear: all the energy you’d have put into resisting Pyrust must be redoubled to resist Nelesquin.

But the people had done nothing to resist Pyrust. The Lords of the West had allied themselves with him against their own ruler. Cyron should have ceded the westrons to Nelesquin outright, since they’d cause nothing but trouble. And, ultimately, Cyron was telling everyone that things would be fine since he was in charge of things-he and a whore, plus the man who lost Tsatol Deraelkun. He might be speaking from Wentoki’s Temple, but those words wouldn’t inspire courage.

Cyron finished speaking and accepted a torch from the hand of Wentoki’s high priest. He descended the steps slowly-thwarting Pelut’s desire that he trip-and respectfully approached the pyre. He, at least, spared the crowd the maudlin display of looking upward and uttering unheard words that thousands of wags would be happy to invent.

In fact…

Pelut turned to a notoriously gossipy minister standing next to him. “What do you think it was that Prince Cyron just said to Prince Pyrust?”

The light of crackling flames illuminated the surprise on the man’s face. “I do not believe, Grand Minister, I heard him say anything.”

“No, of course you didn’t. He spoke too softly.” Pelut glanced at the pyre and the thick, white smoke rising from all the burning prayers. “But just before he lit the pyre, he looked up and said something. I couldn’t hear, but his expression, it wasn’t…”