Michael Stackpole: Chartomancy

“I didn’t.” Grija’s nostrils flared. “Something happened. Someone else defied me and escaped, and Nessagafel slipped out as well. Now he seeks to regain his power and when he does, he will kill all of us.”

Jorim nodded slowly. “How do we stop him?”

“Nessagafel is yet anchored in my realm, so the one who escaped me is the key. She is dead, but she is not dead. When she is mine again, the portal will close and he will be trapped. However, she is beyond my reach, but not yours.”

“Who is it?”

“Your human sister, Nirati.” The god of Death smiled coldly. “Kill her again, Wentiko, or everything that is known will perish.”

3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut

Erumvirine

The door to my chamber slid open. I barely heard the gasp, more because Pasuram Derael kept his voice politely hushed than a problem with the ear that had been sewn back on. I turned slowly toward the door and gave him and his father an abbreviated bow.

The count, whose pale and painfully slender body could have benefited from shadows to cloak it, regarded me carefully. “The physician said you would not be out of bed for days.”

Urardsa finished rewrapping a loop of bandage around my chest. “His thread is slender, but still strong.”

I glanced at the Gloon. “And still a tangle?”

“In places.”

I shook my head, then turned to my host. “You know what I am. Mystics are blessed or cursed with life beyond our years. We tend to heal more quickly than others.” I coughed and winced, but they were polite enough to let that escape notice.

Pasuram guided his father’s wheeled chair into my chamber. This task was not easy since the young man had taken an arrow through his thigh and his father had a long, thick, leather-wrapped package lying across his lap. I did not offer to help the son, as I would not have dishonored him in front of his father. All three of us men were locked in mutual denial of our weakness and, truth be told, Pasuram was the strongest of us.

The Gloon just crouched in a corner and watched.

The count waited in the center of the chamber while his son fetched both of us chairs. Pasuram sat beside his father, with his left leg stretched out, and I sat facing the older man. Pasuram had placed the chair close enough that I could hear, and I nodded thanks, since it would be my severed ear and not his father’s soft whisper which would make listening difficult.

“Jaecaiserr Moraven Tolo, I have known you since I was very young. I anticipated having this talk with you many times, for once I heard the story I will tell you, I knew it was for you that this package was meant. There could be no other, but my instructions were very specific, and until yesterday I could not be faithful to the duty charged me.”

I considered his words carefully, nodding slowly, and allowed him to catch his breath.

“What I will tell you now has been handed down through the Derael family for two hundred seventy years, parent to child, husband to wife, in a duty considered as sacred as warding this pass. What I have here in my lap has lain in the museum for that time, save twice when danger threatened and we could not chance it being taken as plunder.”

The count’s grey eyes flicked toward his son. “I recently told Pasuram what you will hear and he, too, thought immediately of you.”

I bowed my head toward the both of them. “What you are telling me is an honor. To be held in such high regard is more than most xidantzu can imagine.”

“But you are more than most xidantzu, Master Tolo.” The count smiled and the effort taxed him mightily. “Long ago a man came to Deraelkun. He appeared here, just appeared, without having been admitted, and he bore this package. He called himself Ryn Anturasi and begged of my ancestor a favor which, he promised, would be returned. ‘Grant this, and Tsatol Deraelkun will not fall.’ I believe the favor has been repaid through your action yesterday.”

I shook my head. “You know the kwajiin will be back, this time with far more warriors and a far smarter general. Deraelkun may yet fall.”

Jarys Derael coughed. “We have ever known it would, jaecaiserr. We merely sought to prolong the time until then.”

“For your enemies, the time to take it shall seem an eternity.”

The count hazarded a nod and I almost thought he would not be able to raise his head again. He did, but needed to rest. We waited and doubtless all benefited from the sweet scent of the healing unguents with which our various wounds had been slathered.

“I wish I had the strength to hand this package to you. We will tell many it is a gift from Deraelkun, from our history, for it has been here in the museum. It has been kept with an ancient suit of armor, one from before the Cataclysm. That armor was left here by an Imperial bastard who humiliated a Crown Prince in a military exercise, much as you did the kwajiin yesterday.”

Pasuram slid the package from beneath his father’s hands and brought it to me. I let it rest on my thighs. I could still feel the warmth of the count’s hands, but far too little of it to believe the man would live much longer.

I looked Jarys in the eye. “What was said?”

“We were told that someday a man would come to Deraelkun. He would be young, but very old-the old formulation for designating someone a Mystic. He would be a wise man who could be daringly foolish.”

I laughed at that latter bit of description.

The count did not. “And we were told he would laugh when he heard himself described thus.”

A chill puckered my flesh. “What else?”

“We were told he would not be of Derael blood and that anyone who claimed this package as being meant for him would not be the man for whom it truly was meant.” The count lifted a trembling finger. “Open it.”

I untied the braided purple cord that secured the package. Even before I began to remove the leather sheet, I knew what the package contained. Of course, being jaecaiserr, feeling the presence of swords even within thick leather presented little challenge.

And fine blades these were. From hilt to point they were five feet long. The wooden scabbards were scarlet washed in black, with gold decorations and covered in a clear lacquer. The pattern on them matched the interwoven cords wrapping the hilts-the hilts and scabbards were boldly tiger-striped. Beneath the cords on each hilt, a stalking tiger charm of bronze had been bound, linking the warrior using them to Chado, and marking him a Morythian.

The disk-shaped handguards revealed more about the swords even before I drew one. The Zodiac rimmed each disk, but Chado did not occupy the spot of honor atop the blade. That had been given to a dragon, the Imperial dragon. The blades dated from well before the Cataclysm. The handguards and the weaving on the hilt also indicated the swords belonged to a member of the Imperial bodyguard.

I stood slowly and bared a blade with my left hand. The silvered steel came free easily, not just the way a fine weapon would be expected to do, but as something meant for my hand alone. Perfectly balanced, the sword felt like an extension of my arm. With that blade in my left hand and its mate filling my right, I would not know defeat.

Save through treachery.

Thoughts and memories exploded in my head. I remembered the day before, but a day in a different time when I faced a man, tall and dark, wearing a crowned-bear crest. We fought on that same island before Tsatol Deraelkun for hours, trading blows, never drawing blood-but refraining because we had no desire to hurt each other. Even so, we came so close and closer, daring each other to trim a lock here, bare a patch on an arm or leg there. It was a dangerous game we played, but one we had to play.