Michael Stackpole: Chartomancy

When he had been in the Dragon Tower before, he had come as a visitor, swathed in formal robes that restricted his strides. He’d shuffled his way down the long corridor to the throne room, having to study the murals depicting Naleni dominance over its neighbors, including Deseirion. Now the Desei murals had been covered by tapestries that showed older scenes, when Desei and Naleni heroes had united against the Turasynd or an ambitious Helosundian prince.

The presence of those tapestries told him that though Cyron might be gravely injured, he was far from dead. Pyrust quickened his pace, stalking down the hallway to the Naleni throne room. He passed around the wooden screening wall, then paused in the doorway. His gaze followed the line of the red carpet to the Dragon Throne.

He struggled to control his reaction to the man seated there.

Cyron had been dressed in armor, but wore neither helmet nor face mask. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump, which was still leaking. He sat as straight as he could, his face grey and wet with perspiration. A sheathed sword sat across the arms of his throne and his right hand rested on the hilt.

Pyrust removed his own helmet and face mask, setting them down by the door. He bowed, then approached slowly. He checked himself, for his gait had gone from that of a conqueror to that of someone entering a sickroom. He considered for a moment, then continued forward sedately, stopping nine feet from the foot of the throne.

Cyron swallowed hard, then licked at dry lips. “I was urged to meet you in robes of state. I would have, but as much as I hate wearing them, I do like the colors. Blood would spoil them.”

“Your robes are magnificent, much like your city and your nation.”

“Hardly mine anymore.” Cyron’s expression tightened. “I wanted to meet you in armor. You’ll kill me, and we needn’t have it said I cowered or you murdered me.”

“Armor or robes, those things will be said regardless.” Pyrust rested his left hand on the hilt of his sword. “How bad are things to the south?”

Cyron smiled weakly. “I tried to keep that from you.”

“You were right to. I have stripped my nation of those capable of fighting. I have united the Helosundians. We are heading south to fight the invaders.”

“Vroan is with you?”

“For as long as he is useful.”

The Naleni Prince nodded. “Destroy the westrons.”

“I’ll let the invaders do that.” Pyrust paused and looked around the room, at the golden wood and simple artistry of the Dragon Throne. “I can understand how you became complacent.”

“If that is what you understand, brother, then you understand nothing.” Cyron winced, then struggled to sit forward. “You see the Nine as an empire that needs reuniting.”

“As you did.”

“But I saw it as more. United as a people, in contact with the rest of the world, we could learn and teach. We could make life better.” Cyron slowly sagged back into the throne. “War can only destroy, not build.”

Pyrust pointed to the south. “We did not choose the war.”

“No, but you will use it. Only do not destroy so much that you cannot build again.”

Pyrust paused for a moment, allowing Cyron’s words to sink in. He would not have expected Cyron to beg for his own life, and was pleased that the Prince did not. It surprised him, on the other hand, that Cyron would offer advice. He has accepted his own death, but wishes his dream to live on.

Cyron’s dream surprised Pyrust. He’d seen bits and pieces of it and, as recently as the ride to the tower, had dismissed it as weakness. The fact was that Cyron’s looking beyond empire mocked Pyrust’s shortsightedness. He had always looked to empire for the sake of empire.

But what use is it for me to have my name on monuments that will be crushed if the Empire is not sustained? Growth is all that can sustain it. Soldiers may be able to guard and preserve, but war cannot advance a culture into a peaceful future.

The Desei Prince slowly nodded. “I will treat your request with the sincerity and thought it merits.”

Cyron nodded slowly. “Thank you.” He shifted his right arm, so the sword tipped forward and down. The scabbard half slid off, then he shook it the rest of the way clear. It clattered down the dais steps and lay halfway between them.

Pyrust drew his own sword. “I would keep you alive for the value of your ideas, brother, but you will become a rallying point for opposition. Even after I kill you and mount your head on a spear at the gate, there will be those who say I only killed an impostor. You’ll be reported in the east or west, the Helos Mountains; you’ll be in the company of Keru who are bearing your children. I’ll never be rid of the Komyr curse.”

“Shall I lift my chin so you can make the cut clean?” Cyron laughed. “I trust your blade will be sharper than the assassin’s. I’d not want to live through the first stroke.”

“It will be quick.” Pyrust took a step forward, bringing his blade back, but a rustling at the doorway caused him to turn.

A slender, dark-haired woman in a robe of jade, trimmed with jet, stood on the carpet. “Do not kill him.”

Pyrust lowered his sword and glanced at Cyron. “Are these the liberties you allow courtesans? She treads where only nobles may walk, and gives orders to princes?”

“Do not kill him.”

Pyrust stared at her. “You order me? Who do you think you are?”

The Lady of Jet and Jade looked at him with ageless eyes. “This is my Empire, Prince Pyrust. I am Cyrsa, and when I give you an order, you will obey.”