Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

Junel looked down at the ground. His ministry patron had given him one view of the events in Helosunde that downplayed the reality. Based on inquiries for information from the rest of the Desei network in Moriande, Junel was able to figure out what must truly be happening. While Vroan would be alarmed by the news from the ministry, he wouldn’t be alarmed enough for Junel’s purpose. Vroan had to move quickly and boldly to effect the ends that would most benefit Deseirion.

“The news has not circulated far at all, but a week and a half ago Prince Pyrust crushed a Helosundian army. He’s cut off all communication to the south and has advanced on Vallitsi. He is laying siege to it, and will take it by the end of the month. He then intends to move south and, in the month of the Hawk, he will attack Nalenyr.”

Count Vroan stared at him for a moment, then set his cup of wine down. “How reliable is this information?”

“I would stake my life on it. You know my relations with the Desei court are less than cordial. Had I not come here, I would have been tying up my business in Moriande and heading south to Erumvirine.”

Vroan pursed his lips and nodded ever so slightly. “And Prince Cyron is not a war leader.”

“No, my lord, he is not. I would expect he will call up more troops, westron troops, and ask you to lead them against the Desei. The mountain passes can be held, but the fighting will be bloody. It’s your people who will preserve his realm. The Komyr have relied on you to deal with Pyrust in the past, and they shall do so now.”

“No. No, that cannot be allowed to happen. If Komyr blood is so weak it cannot hold its realm, it must give up the Dragon Throne.”

“I would agree, my lord. The question is, how does one craft the most favorable approach?”

Vroan watched him carefully. “I’m not certain I follow.”

“It is simple, my lord. An assassin is the best solution to the problem of Prince Cyron. He has no heir. With his death you can step forward and accept the mantle of the Prince to save your nation.” Junel raised a finger. “However, if the plot were to be discovered, you would be tainted and likely face a revolt in the east.”

“There is wisdom in what you say, but this still leaves Cyron on the throne.”

Junel nodded. “True, but Nerot Scior is the sort of schemer who likely could be convinced to press for an assassin. Regardless, he is the sort who could be positioned to accept the blame. Once the Prince is gone, you expose him, kill him, and step into that vacuum yourself. Until then, given your ties to Helosunde and your concern for Nalenyr, you can raise a force and be prepared to intervene in the coming war. Even if Cyron does not die, he comes to rely on you and you supplant him later with the blessing of a grateful nation.

“And then, my lord, if you have occasion to push north into Helosunde, you are simply doing so for your daughter. If you retake Helosunde, I can assure you, Deseirion will fall soon after.”

Vroan folded his arms over his chest. “How much of this do you think is truly possible?”

“Uniting three realms? I believe it will be done in my lifetime.” Junel shrugged. “Killing Cyron and getting Nerot to take blame for it will be simple. With proper coaching he could even stand up and proclaim his complicity, believing he has rid the nation of a tyrant.”

“True. He could be made to see how that would work to his advantage.” The westron lord smiled. “And you, Count Aerynnor, what would be to your benefit if events were to unfold as you describe them?”

“My lord, I am a modest man and not one given to ambition. I have learned to be thankful that I am alive. I should very much like to see the Desei Hawk with its wings broken, but that is the extent of my desire.”

“But you believe I would be grateful for your aid.”

“Your lordship has already showed me the hospitality of his house, the bounty of his cellars. My reward would be to be of continued help to you. You will rise to heights I can only dream of.”

Vroan snorted, then recovered his cup and drank. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t believe you are modest or that you lack ambition. I think you do want more than you say, and I know you’ll end up with it.”

“My lord is kind to say so.”

“I do, and I would be willing to guarantee it, provided we agree on one thing.”

“And that is, my lord?”

“That your advance is not at my expense.”

Junel lifted his cup. “Done and done, my lord.”

“Good.” Vroan refilled his cup and drank. “Now, let us plan how Nerot will murder Prince Cyron and pave the way for our ascent.”

34th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Maicana-netlyan (Lair of the Witch-King), Caxyan

Visiting the Amentzutl Witch-King was not as simple as visiting even the Naleni Prince. Jorim underwent a full week of purification rituals paralleling those he performed before beginning to learn magic. During that time he could converse with others, but was strictly forbidden to touch or be touched-which put Shimik and Nauana off-limits.

In those nine days, he did manage to scrub off all traces of dead skin and found that what lay beneath was healthy. In fact, it seemed healthier than he remembered. Though still quite young, the time he’d spent out under the sun, exploring the world, had begun to take its toll. He’d had dragon talons at the corners of his eyes, but now they’d vanished. Moreover, a number of the scars he’d picked up on his travels disappeared, as did an Ummummorari tribal tattoo on his right hip.

His hair and beard remained white, but did not have the brittle quality of an old man’s hair. Most unsettling were his eyes-and, try as he might, he could not get used to them. It was more the lozenge shape of his pupil than the fiery corona that bothered him. It reminded him too much of dragons and snakes, which reminded him he was supposed to be a god reborn.

He still fought that idea, because he’d seen the sort of naked power that might be at his command. If he was a god, he could do anything with it, provided he could control it. If he was just a deluded man, then control would be an illusion, and the probable result of his actions would be evil. Certainly, his first true use of such overwhelming power had been to destroy an enemy, but what would happen if people displeased him? I’ve been accused of being quick-tempered in the past. That’s not a good trait in a god.

He was still wrestling with the problem of who he was and how much he wanted to accept when he was packed up for the trip to Maicana-netlyan. The Witch-King lived in a mountain two days away to the southeast. Once the party arrived, Jorim would have one day to get cleaned up, then he, alone, would enter the Witch-King’s lair.

Anaeda Gryst had to restrain Shimik at Jorim’s leave-taking. The Fenn had gotten over any fear he had, and Jorim envied him being able to forget so quickly. He would have loved to take Shimik with him, but his only companions would be two of the eldest maicana sorcerers.

Anaeda nodded. “We’ll care for him and make certain he does not follow you.”

Jorim nodded. “Shimik, stay here. Guard Stormwolf. You.”

The Fenn stopped struggling in Anaeda’s arms. “Jrima, Shimik mourna sad.”

“Don’t be sad. Jrima return soon.” He winked at the creature. “I’ll teach you a magic trick when I get back.”

Shimik’s eyes widened. “Shimik guard good-good.”

“What I expect.” Jorim looked at Anaeda. “I hope he won’t be too much trouble.”

“Not likely, until you teach him how to make fire.”