Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron paused in front of the enclosure housing the clouded linsang. With the owl-moon just rising, the slender tan creature with black stripes and spots should have emerged. He caught a quick flash of tan at the hole, then saw two dark eyes peering out at him.

The Prince smiled and slowly raised the basket he held in his left hand. He plucked a small blue egg from it and extended it toward the linsang. The creature’s face appeared at the hole. His nose twitched, then he hid his face again.

Cyron, shaking his head, returned the egg to the basket and set it on the ground. The sanctuary staff would come by later and feed the creature.

The Prince turned to his companion. “Perhaps I should let you try to feed him.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade politely refused with a shake of her head. “Perhaps he is not hungry, Highness.”

“He’s hungry. My gamekeeper believes the linsangs have mated, and Jorim Anturasi’s notes indicated the male would be hunting more. He tucks the eggs into his cheeks and brings them back to the den.” Cyron sighed and glanced at his left arm. “Linsangs have sensitive noses. He smells the rot.”

“I would counsel against your taking this as an omen.”

“And you are doubtlessly right, but the fact of rot cannot be denied. My arm, everything else.”

The Prince’s wound had not healed well. The Lord of Shadows had stabbed all the way through his forearm, as the Prince had directed. Such was his skill that he avoided nerves, tendons, and blood vessels. It had hurt, but the Prince’s physician, Geselkir, had been confident it would not suppurate.

It did, however. The Prince had tried to ignore the pain, and had not summoned his physician to look at it in a timely manner. Then, in the middle of the night, the pain had been such that Cyron, hot with fever, had risen from bed to get water and to summon help. He fainted and fell on the arm, reopening the wound.

Geselkir had done what he could, cleaning the wound and packing it in poultices. The Viruk ambassador had even come in and offered to work magic to help. Others had suggested that the Prince send a message to Kaerinus to get him to effect a healing, but a half dozen messages to the vanyesh survivor had gone unanswered.

Which is an answer in and of itself.

The Lord of Shadows had offered to kill himself for what he had done, but the Prince had refused him. Geselkir worked very hard and was confident he had the infection under control. The Viruk had suggested sewing maggots into the wound to let them devour the dead flesh, but Cyron had refused that idea. I already feel dead inside. How would they know when to stop eating?

The Prince gestured gingerly with his left arm. “I don’t know which hurts more: the wound in my arm or the wound in my heart.”

She nodded solemnly. “Both are grievous, Highness. Do not feel you would burden me if you chose to speak your mind. You know that though your words will reach my ears, they will never reach my tongue.”

“I know.”

He reached down and gently grasped his left wrist. Earlier in the day he’d learned that Prince Eiran had gone missing from the Helosundian border. While neither the messenger, his Lord of Shadows, nor the Grand Minister could tell him if Eiran had been assassinated, there seemed little question. The Helosundian Minister of Foreign Relations-a man Cyron had no liking for at all-had been killed in Moriande. It seemed as if the Helosundians had not yet tired of killing each other.

“Here, in my sanctuary, barely three months ago, I shamed Eiran and challenged him. I thought he would break, but he rose to that challenge. He proved himself a loyal and valuable ally. Had I gotten to know him better, we would have become great friends.”

The courtesan smiled and slipped her hand through his good arm, leading him deeper into the sanctuary. “He stopped Count Turcol from reaching you, Highness.”

Cyron laughed lightly. “It was your foot that stopped Turcol.”

“And his that made certain the man did not rise again.” She gave his arm a slight squeeze. “Eiran was devoted to you. Had he lived, he would have been a strong ally.”

“And it was that possibility that killed him.” Cyron ducked beneath a tree branch laden with green buds. “As he grew stronger, his legitimacy as the Prince of Helosunde likewise increased. This made him a rival for the Council of Ministers. His sister’s marriage to Pyrust means that Eiran’s legitimacy would transfer to her children if he died without heir. It would seem someone killed him to cut her children off and bar Pyrust from any legitimate claim to Helosunde.”

He glanced at her. “My ministers say they hear nothing of Pyrust and his planning, but they’re lying. They dare not say what they’re hearing because they know I’ll have to act. They’re concealing bits of news from me, hoping clarifications will undercut their fears. The problem is that their very worst fear is that I will act.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade looked up at him. “You are certain Pyrust is ready to attack Helosunde again?”

“He already has. I can feel it.” Cyron hesitated, afraid to say anything more. Then the absurdity of it all struck him, and he laughed aloud.

“What amuses my lord?”

Cyron stopped and turned to face her. “Your beauty is ageless, which makes it easy for me to forget you have lived many lifetimes. I know you are jaecailyss. The times we have spent together in communion likely have not extended my lifetime, but have enriched it immeasurably. Your mastery of the art of love is, I am certain, unparalleled.”

“You are quite kind, Highness, but how does this bear on the point you were making?”

“You are also a remarkable judge of human nature. You knew how to read Turcol and acted so you could draw close enough to him to strike. Don’t deny it. I would not presume on your affections enough to assume you would have struck for me, but certainly against him.”

She glanced down. “You underestimate your charms, Highness.”

“And that comment eases some of my pain.” Cyron smiled. “The fact is that Pyrust has always been a wolf. I called him as much when we met here. I offered him grain to hold his forces at bay, but I knew that would be intolerable. He surprised me when he took Jasai to wife. I had expected him to marry a Virine princess, thereby creating a link between nations that would get him whatever he needed-including an ally with little love for Nalenyr.”

“Prince Pyrust is most dangerous, Highness, because he is capable of planning ahead and acting swiftly to seize an opportunity.”

“And I fear moving troops south may have seemed such an opportunity.” Cyron shook his head. “More so if he knows what is happening in Erumvirine.”

She nodded, her voice becoming a soft whisper. “And you have to assume that he does.”

“I have other choices, but each is more stupid than the preceding. If I assume he has remained north of the Black River, I won’t be able to stop him when he moves south. So, I have issued a call to the westron lords for troops, and I’ve gathered all those I can in the east. The latter I have sent south because I can trust them. The westrons, I can’t.”

Cyron sighed and sat on one of the sanctuary’s stone benches. The Lady of Jet and Jade, wearing a white silk gown trimmed in emerald and embroidered with black dragons, looked a vision of loveliness that eased his heart somewhat. She reached up and plucked a blue blossom from a tree branch and tucked it behind an ear. Her silver eyes flashed playfully and his heart leaped.

“Were my brother still alive, he would have a solution to this problem. He’d pull troops back from the passes in the Helos Mountains, luring Pyrust down.”