Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
Keles reached up and brushed the tear from his mother’s cheek. “She is alive, Mother. She is well. She is my twin; I would know if she was dead. I’ve seen Grandfather, too.”
“But . . . ”
Keles shook his head slowly. “I have a link with him. He is out there.” He hesitated for a moment, then concentrated. The same linkage of roots he had used to make the trees grow came back to him, and he felt his grandfather’s presence. “He has come closer than before. There is something wrong with him. Worse than before.”
“Keles, this can’t be.”
“Mother, it
has to be
. If it is not, then I am insane.” His hazel eyes widened. “Have they told you what I’ve done?”
She looked away. “I didn’t want to believe them.”
“It is
jaedun
, Mother, not
xingna
. It’s not evil.”
“I know.” Siatsi pulled the sheet up and wrapped it around him. “Come to the window.”
Keles got out of bed unsteadily and leaned heavily on her arm. “Uncle Ulan is quicker than I am.”
“Only for a little while.” She smiled and guided him to the window. She reached for the latch. “I had heard, but I did not want to believe. Then I had no choice.”
She unlatched the window and pushed the panel out and up. Or she tried to. Thick green vines tugged at the edges of the frame. The sweet scent of flowers came through the narrow opening. Keles even caught sight of a thick, green vegetable dangling from a vine.
He looked at her. “That’s
tzaden
. It doesn’t grow this high. And it can’t be flowering if it’s already borne fruit.”
“But it has, in the two days since you’ve been here. It only grew this high on this side of the tower. It bore fruit. It’s good for restoring health and building stamina.” She shook her head. “It is as if the plant itself wants to get to you.”
“But you are a
bhotridina
. You understand plants. You must have helped.”
“No, Keles. In fact, I cut some of it back.” She tugged to close the window. “I cannot explain this. Nor can I explain how you made the trees grow, or rebuilt the fortress or changed the people.”
Keles leaned against the wall and clutched the sheet around himself. “But there have to be stories of
jaecaibhot
who have made plants grow faster.”
“There
are
, but not at the rate you have.” She caressed his cheek. “And think what you are saying: that you have become a Mystic with plants, a Mystic at building, a Mystic at, what,
healing
? No one has ever mastered so many things.”
“No one outside the
vanyesh
.” He’d said it aloud. He’d admitted to himself what the Helosundians had feared. He’d become one of the monsters capable of destroying the world. The realization surprised him, but his reaction to it surprised him more.
Half of him expected a wave of evil to wash over him, as if acknowledgment of his power would instantly corrupt him. The other part of him wanted to protest his innocence, so his mother could look at him without suspicion or fear. For eons the
vanyesh
had been defined as evil incarnate; and his mother—like every other right-thinking person—was afraid of their return.
He levered himself off the wall and stood as straight as he could. “Mother, I am not
vanyesh
. I do touch magic; there is no denying that. But I begin to understand what I am doing. When you use your knowledge of plants to prepare a tincture or elixir, your goal is to help someone by restoring them to a normal state, yes?”
She nodded. “It takes many years to achieve mastery.”
“But when you started, how did you know what your talent would be?”
Siatsi frowned. “My mother was skilled with plants. I used to help her.”
“But didn’t you always tell us that there was a day when you were making a sleeping draft and added something extra because it felt right?”
“Keles, I may have said . . . ”
“No, listen, aren’t there times when you look at a formula and add something more or take something away?”
“Depending upon the season when a herb is harvested, or how long it has been since it was harvested, its strength varies.”
“Yes, and your sense of things tells you what is correct.”
His mother nodded. “I will grant that.”
“What if I tell you that, when you do that, you are touching magic, setting your formulation to what it is meant to be? What’s right for it.”
She shook her head. “I don’t . . . ”
Keles licked his lips. “The people were not turned into the warriors I needed. They became the warriors they would have been, or had been, or would become. The magic simply let them reach their proper potential. And, I think, because an attack was coming, it became easier to fit them into that role because that role was right for that place and time.”
Her eyes tightened. “Go on.”
“Out in the tea market, you can buy dozens of varieties, different preparations. They will always taste the same, but sometimes they taste
better
. On a cold, cold day, a smoky black tea will warm your bones. On a hot, muggy day, jasmine tea will refresh. When your stomach is upset,
pu-ehr
is perfect. They become right because of time, place, and circumstance.”
“But, Keles, who decides what the circumstance is? A dark alley might terrify someone approaching it, but a thief who knows he is the only threat therein will not feel fear. Who is right? Whose perception takes precedence?”
Keles scratched his head. “I don’t know. I guess it would be whoever has the strongest conception of what is real. I mean, the strong-willed often impose their will on those who are weaker. Grandfather was a prime . . . ”
Oh, by the gods . . .
He slumped back against the wall for a moment, then grabbed his mother’s shoulders. “You have to take me to Grandfather’s workshop.”
She took his elbows in her hands and guided him back toward bed. “You need to relax. You need more sleep.”
“No, now. I have to go now.”
She looked at him, then nodded. “Sit. I will get you a robe and some slippers.”
He started to protest, then looked down at the sheet tangled around his legs. “Very well.”
Siatsi returned quickly, and Tyressa with her. The look of concern on the Keru’s face brought a lump to Keles’ throat. She’d clearly not slept much, and was knotting her robe’s sash as she entered.
Keles smiled. “It’s good to see you, Tyressa.”
“And you, Master Anturasi.”
Siatsi shot her a glance. “You are not fooling me, Tyressa.”
The Keru looked surprised. “Mistress . . . ”
“Be quiet. Lift him up and help him on with this robe.”
Keles smiled. “Someone who gives orders better than you or your niece.”
“She is Mistress of the tower.”
Keles shot his arms through the robe’s sleeves. “Where is Jasai?”
Siatsi looped the sash around his waist and knotted it. “She is sleeping. The journey was hard on her and the baby. She had benefited from
tzaden
-flower tea, as shall you. In fact, let me go make you some . . . ”
“No, Mother, I must go to the workshop.”
Tyressa steadied him as he slid his feet into slippers. “Why the urgency, Keles?”
“I’ll tell you as we go.” He staggered toward the door. “Mother, perhaps you can bring that tea to the workshop?”
“I’ll get him there, Mistress.”
“And I will meet you quickly.”
“Well, at the rate I’m moving . . . ” Keles laughed and shuffled through the doorway. His mother slid past, hurrying off to her own workshop. Tyressa fell into step with him, moving at his pace, ready to catch him.
The stiffness eased with each step, but he’d grossly overestimated his condition. He kept one hand on the wall and slowed as he came to the first short set of steps.
“The rift in Helosunde wasn’t natural. I felt it.”
“You mumbled about that in your sleep.”
“My mother just asked whose perception would take precedence in a conflict. See, if you take two Mystic swordsmen, and they fight, they get the measure of each other. They learn who is better and who is worse.”
“You don’t have to be a Mystic to learn that.”
“No. It’s true in almost everything, but here’s what’s important. When two opponents agree that one is better and the other is worse, who will win?”
Tyressa reached the bottom of the stairs first and eased him down the last few steps. “Presumably the better swordsman.”
“Exactly. And he’s better because both of them agree on the circumstance—or the reality—that says he’s better.” Keles looked at her. “But skill is only one dimension. What if the lesser swordsman is
luckier
? And what if the better swordsman has seen omens that make him think it is not a good day for him? Could their shared perception of luck and omens change the circumstance and make the lesser swordsman the victor?”
“But reality isn’t subjective, Keles.”
“Isn’t it?” He paused for a moment and caught his breath. “When I was young, I worked for my grandfather and drew maps. Thousands of them. Sometimes I wanted to do other things, or I was having a bad day. I would draw a map and I would think it was horrible. I hated it. I was certain my grandfather would reject it and beat me. And then he’d take that map and praise it. He would use it as an example for all my cousins to show them what they should be able to do. And I would look at that map and it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. In fact, it would be pretty good.”
She looked hard at him as they started up the spiral ramp to the workshop floor. “You seem to be saying that your grandfather’s perception of the map changed it from being flawed to good.”
“I am.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Why?” Keles held his hands out. “I saw the ruins the way they should have been and rebuilt Tsatol Pelyn. Why couldn’t his looking at my map refine it to be the map he said it was?”
Tyressa frowned. “But that would mean that there is no bedrock reality.”
“No, I think there is. The same way there is a mattress, though sheets and blankets may hide it. Perhaps, after time, the weight of perception shifts reality, but it takes a long time and requires a lot of magic.”
They topped the ramp and came into a vast, circular chamber with high, vaulted ceilings. A dozen pillars supported the chamber’s dome, and a ring of windows below it allowed sunlight. Desks and drafting tables, cabinets, and shelves predominated, with young Anturasi men and women working so hard, that none of them noticed Keles’ arrival. A side from a hissed curse here and there, or the crackle of a map being scrolled open, the chamber remained quiet.
To the north, a pair of curtains had been used to slice a wedge out of the circle. With Tyressa’s help Keles pulled aside the first set of curtains and passed through.
“Beyond this is where my grandfather worked on his map of the world. He used to say that a place did not exist until he put it on the map. Right here, he told my brother, ‘I
am
the world!’ ” Keles shivered, remembering Qiro’s rage. “His is the strongest perception of the world, Tyressa, and I don’t like the implications of that.”
Keles drew aside the last curtain, and his heart sank. “Look, there, where the rift was.”
“It’s a channel linking ocean to sea. The coastal lowlands in eastern Helosunde are flooding.” She pointed. “You can see the blue expanding.”
“And no one but us knows about the rift, so no one could have put it on the map. This is Qiro’s world.” Keles shook his head. “And that, there, the continent where none ever existed before, that’s a piece Qiro added.”
“Looks like it was drawn in blood.”
“I have no doubt. His blood.” Keles’ shoulders slumped. “With a whim, he created a continent. And with malice aforethought, I believe he means to destroy another.”
Chapter 28
T
he only thing Pelut Vniel liked about the suffocating weight of the ceremonial white mourning robes was that others hated wearing them even more than he did. Sleeves, leggings, and hems had been so exaggerated that everyone looked like children wearing adult clothing. He’d not been required to march through the street with the wagon bearing Prince Pyrust’s body to the Temple of Wentoki. This was good, because his refusal to join the procession would have caused a stir.
Or should have
.
His objection to the whole funeral had excellent grounds based on tradition. Pyrust’s body should have been tossed onto the plains south of Moriande for carrion birds to pick apart. He failed to defend the Empress’ holdings, so he was hardly worthy of a state funeral. Moreover, the people of Nalenyr had lived in fear of him for years. Their sons and daughters—or at least their gold—had gone to opposing him. To grant him the long procession that wound through the streets had been absurd.
It had also been quite the spectacle. The buildings along the route had been whitewashed overnight. People wore white—or as close as they could get to it. Many people caked their faces with white cosmetics, or painted white tears on their cheeks. White ribbons hung from branches and fluttering strips of white paper drifted to the streets. Pelut had seen the reports. He knew the expense of it all. It was pure silliness.
Cyron had organized it. Pelut was certain that the Prince did so because he would never have gotten such a funeral had the assassin succeeded in killing him. His body would have been dragged through the streets and torn apart by dogs. It would have been a fittingly ignominious ending for someone who had all but destroyed the bureaucracy.
Pyrust served as his surrogate.
Cyron had gotten all the funeral’s details wrong as well. Pelut cast a sidelong glance at the procession and barely contained his anger. It was one thing to have Pyrust lie in state in Shirikun, but
six
days? Cyron’s own father had only been on display for three. True, six days was the correct amount for an Imperial Prince, but Pyrust wasn’t born of Imperial loins. Like the Komyr Dynasty, the Jaeshi had begun with bloody-handed bandits usurping a throne. Cyron decided to show Pyrust that honor to further the fiction of the Empress having returned—especially when everyone knew it was Nelesquin who was coming to reestablish the Empire.