Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

This means he is too smart. Vniel let his smile spread. He would use him, then discard him, but he would do so carefully. As long as it would benefit Vniel and himself, Aerynnor would continue to play the intelligent servant. Once he thought Vniel could no longer be of use, he would find a way to betray.

I should just kill him now. It would end all risk.

“My friend, please arrange for the Helosundian intervention we discussed. A day or two, three at the most. This is very important.”

“Do I let Count Vroan know this operation is in progress?”

“You’ve heard rumors and want to know if you should act to stop it.”

Aerynnor’s eyes widened for a moment. “Very good, Minister. Deniability for all.”

“It is good to know many things, including those you choose not to remember.”

“I shall remember that.” The Desei noble nodded. “And Nerot Scior?”

“Were he any sort of a man, he would have slain the Prince himself, not hired it done.”

“My thoughts exactly. He is here in the city, so I shall arrange incriminating evidence to be found, if needed.”

“Very good.” Vniel smiled. “And please know your suit for the hand of Jarana Vroan will meet with approval at very high levels.”

“Thank you.”

If Aerynnor said anything more than that, Pelut Vniel did not hear. He’d slipped through the false panel in the wall and into a tight corridor. He felt his way along, pushed on a broken brick, and another doorway opened. He wormed his way into it, then closed and barred the door behind him. He stepped away from that door, then rested against the wall, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

He smiled as his heart slowed and stopped pounding in his ears. Negotiating with exiles to commit treason was something to sour the stomach. He hunched over, feeling as if he wanted to vomit, but nothing came up.

He steadied himself against the corridor’s narrow walls. He would have preferred any other choice but the one he’d been given. Killing a prince and fixing the blame on others was not an easy thing, but it had to be done.

Not for the good of the nation, or even for his own good.

For the good of the ministry.

For order.

No higher cause could be served.

8th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Tsatol Deraelkun, County of Faeut

Erumvirine

Scouts from the Derael family had been watching us for several days, but we took no action against them. Tsatol Deraelkun had a special place in Virine history because it had held the pass in the Central Virine mountains since before the Empire had been sundered. During the Time of Black Ice and the oddities that wild magic had spawned, it had been heavily damaged by monstrous armies and all but razed several times. Regardless, the Derael family had not let the enemies get into the Virine heartland, and had made their home stronger every time they rebuilt it.

And as I had known since we left Kelewan, it would be at Tsatol Deraelkun that we would make a stand.

While many passes through the mountains existed, most could handle little more than wandering shepherds, their flocks, and smugglers. Emperor Dailon IV, who got seasick at hearing the cry of a gull, went to great expense to establish the Imperial Road running from Felarati to Kelewan. Cutting a road through the Virine range had not been easy, but it was done, and the first Deraelkun had been built astride the road as an Imperial way station.

Down through the eons it had changed a great deal, and by the time of the sundering, it had become a massive fortress with three circles of walls, and secondary fortresses linked by tunnels and redoubts carved so artfully from the native stone that they remained undetected until one was right on top of them. Moraven had passed through the area a number of times and occasionally been a guest of the Derael family.

I recognized the colors and arms of the soldiers blocking the Imperial Road, and assumed that for every dozen I saw before me, five times that number lurked in the woods and ravines. Their armor had been tied with alternating cords of black, red, and yellow, making one mindful of poisonous snakes. The family crest featured a bear rampant and still fighting, though stuck with two spears and four arrows. Each wound indicated a time they’d rebuilt Deraelkun, and the bear seemed eager for the next assault.

Two riders left the center of their formation and approached me. I left my lines alone and rode toward them. I still wore the Morythian armor, but had set aside my mask. Having them recognize me would not hurt, nor would letting them mistake me for the Moraven of their acquaintance.

The woman held up a hand and her son reined back. She came forward another couple of feet, then stopped her horse. Both of them were tall, and she quite uncharacteristically. Strands of white worked through her long black hair. She could have hidden them as many women would, but many women her age wouldn’t have donned armor and come out to meet an armed force. She wore a sword, but I knew she’d never use it. The bow and quiver on her saddle, and the jade thumbring on her right hand, reminded me of her skill.

I bowed my head to her. “Countess Derael, it is a pleasure.”

Her hazel eyes studied me closely. “You look like someone I know, but he’s never showed an inclination toward displays of nationality.”

“Change is necessary.” I looked back toward the south. “You’ve seen enough refugees come through to know what is happening.”

She shook her head. “Those who get this far are traveling on rumor. I hope you have solid information.”

I turned back and nodded. “We do. We also have Prince Iekariwynal with us.”

Her son, Pasuram, nodded grimly. “Kelewan has fallen?”

“If not, it’s only by a miracle.” I looked at both of them openly. “Are you going to allow us to join you in Deraelkun, or shall we die here contesting the road?”

“Fighting us or those chasing you?”

I smiled at her question. “Them, preferably.”

She nodded. “Come. The count will welcome you and will listen eagerly to what you have to say.”

“How is he?”

“Better.” The countess allowed herself a small smile. “News of the disaster in the south has enlivened him.”

Moraven had first met Count Jarys Derael when the count was just a young boy. I’d seen him in the years since grow up, grow older and, in the last few years, watched a wasting disease slowly destroy his life. Luckily for him, he had married very well, and his children had inherited the strength of their parents, as well as a deep pride in the family tradition.

We reached Deraelkun after only two hours’ ride. My troops were given billets in the lower circle, while I rode on to the main keep with the Prince and a handful of Derael vassals. The nobles were sent to clean up, while the countess took me directly to the count’s chambers. The warning look in her eyes prepared me for what I would see, although keeping my reaction from my face was not an easy matter.

Jarys Derael had always been quite vital. Very tall and slender, he favored the spear to the sword, and had learned from some of the best naicai in the Nine. He’d used his reach and speed to great advantage and had he not been called to duty after his father’s premature death, he might well have become jaecainai.

Not that his being a Mystic would have necessarily saved him from disease. I had no idea what it was, but his body had begun to atrophy and he had lost control of his large muscles. I found him still quite quick of mind, but for someone so strong to fall victim to such weakness was a curse that can devour the spirit. In recent years, he had become a recluse within the family tower, and I was the first person who was not blood kin or a close friend of long standing to be admitted to his presence.