Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

Turcol had even been quite pleasant to Prince Cyron-though it clearly took an effort. As they rode through the forest to Memorial Hill, the westron count repeatedly complimented the Prince and begged forgiveness for any past misunderstandings.

“I assure you, Count Turcol, I took no umbrage at anything you have said in my presence.” Cyron nodded toward him and Eiran beyond. “You are both strong men, and the future will demand strong men. I would hope, someday, that I will have an heir who can learn from the two of you. The courage you show in speaking frankly to me is to be lauded. As well you know, many courtiers only tell me what they believe I wish to hear, and a prince cannot rule if this is the case.”

Turcol smiled. “Your Highness is too kind. I know that you cannot rest easily with so many things on your mind. I had hoped this day of riding, hawking, and simple relaxation would provide you comfort-though I am certain you have many comforts.”

Cyron followed Turcol’s glance and smiled. The Lady of Jet and Jade had ridden out with them. Her horse had gotten forward of theirs, and the dark green of her robe nearly hid her against the pines. As if she had heard the remark, she looked back and smiled-but her smile was for Cyron alone.

He resisted the urge to turn quickly and catch Turcol’s reaction. He’d seen it a couple of times already. It clearly galled Turcol that this woman, the famed concubine, would not allow him to buy from her what other women so willingly gave him freely.

Cyron turned his head slowly, giving the westron ample time to control his expression. “Have you ever considered, my lord, what you would do were you in my place, on the throne?”

“Me, on the throne? Please, Highness, I do not think of such things.”

Cyron smiled. “Be honest with me, Count Turcol. Your family occupied the Dragon Throne well before mine did, and you come from Imperial nobility. You must have entertained the idea. I certainly hope you have, for, if not, you are not the man I imagined-and certainly not suited to what I have in mind for you.”

Turcol lifted a branch and ducked his head beneath it. “Perhaps I have thought of it, Highness. Never with avarice, but just as an intellectual exercise.”

“Good, this pleases me.” Cyron reined his horse in closer to Turcol, then looked back to see if the four Jomiri attendants were trailing at a respectful distance. He lowered his voice. “As you know, my lord, I have no heir. Until I can procure one, I have to plan for the future of our nation. May I speak frankly with you?”

Turcol answered quietly. “Of course, Highness.”

“I have looked at those who might be able to replace me, were Pyrust to send assassins after me. I believe you are the man with the most potential. But I would ask you a question first.”

“Please.”

“Were you in my place, and you learned of an invasion of a southern neighbor-say Erumvirine-which threatened to destroy that nation, what would you do?”

Turcol sat up straight and his horse slowed, allowing Prince Eiran to ride forward. “I’d find out how much of a threat it was. I would want to know who the invaders were. Is it a fight for the Virine throne, or is it something larger that threatens Nalenyr?”

“That is a good place to start, Count Turcol.” Cyron frowned. “Suppose all you know is that the defenders have been forced back, and that very few refugees have fled-not because they are content with the invaders, but because they’ve all been slain. Moreover, assume the Virine Prince is too slow in answering the challenge, and that even the professional spies are not reporting back. What would you do?”

“In that case, the indications are obvious. I’d shift my best troops south to guard against an invasion, and I would shore up my northern defenses by calling…” Turcol’s head came up as his eyes grew wide. “Is this why you demanded troops from the west, Highness? Is there a threat from Erumvirine?”

“It would be dreadful if that rumor were spread about. It might cause a panic, don’t you think? Better to start a rumor that troops have become weak and need to be rotated away for training and discipline. And best to start calling up troops who will be needed if the invasion is more than the Keru can handle.”

Turcol reached out and caught his arm with a hand. “Is that possible?”

“That is the problem with being a prince, my lord. A prince hasn’t the luxury of asking if something is possible. He must just plan for what he will do when it happens.” Cyron smiled and pointed ahead. “There it is, Memorial Hill. Let’s not have any more dour talk, shall we?”

Turcol looked up, then nodded. “No, Highness. You honor me with your thoughts and your confidence. I wish to assure that if I were to replace you, I should keep our nation safe.”

“It pleases me to hear that.” Cyron nodded. “Now I can die reassured.”

They rode on. Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade reached the hill first. They dismounted and hitched their horses to some bushes. Cyron joined them, and the three walked up to the hilltop together. Cyron strode to the center where a trio of stones had been placed. Two smaller ones held up a large grey granite slab, forming a rough lean-to.

Resting a hand on one of the support stones, he turned to the other two. “I had these stones raised thus. The slab is my grandfather, the two supports are my father and brother. Perhaps when I am gone my successor will dig up another stone from the hill and place it here for me. The hill once was an old Imperial fort, Tsatol Disat. It had wonderful command of the countryside.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled as she slowly spun in a circle, taking in the view. Though not the highest point in the forest, it provided an unobstructed view to the north and east. In the distance Moriande was visible. Forest claimed the hill’s western side and the dark trees contrasted beautifully with the stones.

“I understand why you come here, Highness. It is very beautiful and peaceful.”

The Helosundian Prince nodded. “I shall find such a spot in Helosunde. It gives you perspective.”

“Perspective, yes, but do not underestimate the value of peace.” Cyron looked back down the hill to where Turcol, still mounted, was speaking with the attendants. He waved to him, and shouted, “Come join us, Count Turcol.”

The count waved back, but fell into conversation again.

The Lady of Jet and Jade came to Cyron’s side. “I think it is my fault, Highness. I do not think he likes me.”

Cyron laughed. “I think he doesn’t like the fact that you don’t like him. You’ve seen how he watches you.”

“Does he? I care not for how anyone watches me.”

The sincerity of her remark surprised Cyron. “You’re quite serious about that.”

“Completely, Highness.” She laughed lightly and faced both men. “I am a concubine, and a Mystic. As with other Mystics, I have seen more years than you would suppose. One of the things I have learned over the years is that it matters not at all how people look at me. It is how I look at them, and how I reach them, that matters. The external will fade unless one is blessed, but how you present yourself, and how you engage others, is what attracts them to you or not.”

She waved a hand toward Prince Cyron. “My saying what follows will not matter to you at all, but the good count would find it cause to react. You see, I could tell you that on this very spot, I made love with your grandfather after he was made Prince. With you, no reaction, no desire to do what your grandfather had done, no sense of competition with the past. You, Prince Cyron, require other things to excite you. If the count heard me say that…”

“Say what, my lady?” Turcol reined his horse back and looked down at her. “Do continue.”