Chartomancy

Chapter Twenty-six

14th 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

Disat Forest, West of Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron smiled. Though early in the year, the day had dawned bright and warm. He’d had ample sleep the night before and rose early to prepare for the day’s outing. He’d initially resisted the idea of joining Prince Eiran and Count Turcol, but going along was the expedient course. Turcol had the potential for being a very nasty thorn in his side, so whatever he could do to take care of the problem immediately was best.

Besides, the Disat Forest had always been a favorite haunt of his. In it, on a small hill, his grandfather had accepted the surrender and abdication of the previous dynasty’s last prince. This began the Komyr Dynasty and, contrary to rumors, he did not have the man slain on the spot. His rise to power had been tempered by mercy. To remind himself of his grandfather’s wisdom, Cyron liked to travel to the hill and meditate, especially on the anniversary of his rise.

His father had made the forests a royal reserve. Poachers knew they could suffer severe punishments if they were caught taking game, but some risked it because they believed that if they could elude the warders and make it to Memorial Hill, the Prince would grant them mercy. Cyron always did, once. If a man were caught more than once, he gave him exactly what his grandfather had given his predecessor.

The forest itself had a beauty and serenity that even a trailing troop of attendants could not spoil. Pines predominated in their eternal coats of green. Where other trees-oaks, elms, maples, and birches-peeked through, their bare branches already showed green buds. Spring would be coming early, and with it the birds would be winging their way north again.

Cyron longed for spring and hoped the Virine invasion would not stop the birds. He banished the thought that it might and lightened his expression for the benefit of his host. He tugged back on his reins, slowing his horse enough that Count Turcol and Prince Eiran could catch up with him.

Count Turcol had been inordinately gracious throughout the day. In celebration of his troops’ posting to the Helosunde border, he’d accepted a Helosundian title and informed his troops they were now the Helosundian Dragons. He proclaimed Prince Eiran to be his cocommander, gratefully distributed Helosundian pennants, and left his troops repainting their breastplates with dogs and dragons intertwined.

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.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade’s eyes sharpened. “If I told you that I made love with Prince Jarus Turcol on this spot, and was willing to have him because he was a prince, you would be driven to take the throne and have me here and many other places. You are not satisfied with your life, so you seek victories that are foolish and petty.”

The westron raised an eyebrow. “Am I that transparent, my lady?”

“Prince Jarus Turcol was. It’s in your blood.”

Turcol’s expression hardened. “And would I have to be a prince to enjoy your company?”

“It would be a step.”

Cyron laughed and stepped forward. “My lord, you don’t see her joking often, do you?”

“She was serious, Highness. And she was right.” Turcol planted two fingers in his mouth and whistled aloud. A dozen men and women emerged from the forest depths. Half of them carried bows with arrows fitted to them already. The others had clubs, save for two with swords. They spread out in a semicircle, with two of the archers mounting the stone slab.

Cyron stared hard at Turcol. “You will explain this, please.”

“Only because you have been so gracious in explaining your confidence in me, Highness.” Turcol rested his hands on his saddle-horn and leaned forward. “You’ve ruined our nation and left it open to threats from both north and south. You have beggared and humiliated the western counties. We now face a military crisis, and you are ill suited to deal with it. Were you any sort of warrior at all, you’d be out here with more than just a dagger.”

The Prince nodded. “And so you hired these bandits. You will explain how you fought them valiantly and while you were able to drive them off, it was not before we were slain, all three of us.”

“Not three; two.” He looked down at the Lady of Jet and Jade. “I will have you here and wherever else I desire. Unless, of course, you want to die.”

She shook her head and stepped away from Cyron. “Not for a long time. Forgive me, Highness.”

Cyron shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, my lady.” He looked up at Turcol. “You know it will have to be a convincing act. You can’t come away from it unscathed. Perhaps there, in your right shoulder, an arrow. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to convince many of your effort. My doctor, Geselkir, will take care of it.”

Turcol snorted. “Perhaps you’re right, Highness, but that’s a detail I can work out later.”

“Another thing a prince cannot do, Turcol, procrastinate.” Cyron pointed up at the westron. “His right shoulder. Shoot him now.”

The archer above the Prince drew and loosed in one easy motion. The black barbed arrow pierced Turcol’s shoulder and darkness began to seep into his midnight-blue robe. He looked from his shoulder to the archer and back again.

Turcol bit back any cry of pain, clenched his teeth, then looked up at the archers. “You idiots! I give the orders. Shoot him!”

Bows twanged in unison. Down the hill, the quartet of attendants fell, each stuck through the chest with an arrow.

Turcol blinked and slumped in his saddle. “This is not happening. This is not how it was planned.”

“Not how you planned it, Turcol.” Cyron shook his head. “Had you not made your approaches to Grand Minister Vniel quite so obvious, my Lord of Shadows would not have discovered what you were up to. Hiring assassins in Moriande was a second mistake. That is my realm, and loyalties to me run high.”

“Loyalties to you?” Turcol shook his head with disbelief. “They are assassins.”

“So they are. And I pay well each year to make certain they do not act against me. Surely you did not believe you were the first noble to think of killing me?”

The count started to answer, then closed his mouth. Moving slowly, he dismounted, then sank to his knees. “In the spirit of the day, the spirit of this place and tradition, I ask for mercy.”

Prince Eiran laughed aloud. “Are you insane? You’ve committed treason and you want mercy?”

Cyron held up a hand. “Just a moment, Prince Eiran. I am not deaf to your appeal, Count Turcol. In the spirit of this place, you wish what my grandfather gave his predecessor? Is this it? Nothing less will satisfy you?”

“That’s what I want, my lord.”

“I can grant you that.” Cyron folded his arms over his chest. “The legend is true. My grandfather spared his predecessor’s life; but his predecessor was much like you. Bold, brash, ambitious. He was a man who did not know when he was beaten. He planned, even as you do now, of returning to power and returning his dynasty to the throne.

“And he was like you in one other regard. He had no children.”

Turcol nodded, puzzled.

“My grandfather didn’t kill him, he gelded him. Then he sent him to live in a monastery on the coast of the Dark Sea. So, I’ll give you what you say you desire.”

Turcol’s shoulders sagged with resignation, then he launched himself at the Prince. He reached his feet in a heartbeat and drew his dagger in the next. As he raised it, two arrows narrowly missed him. Fury burning in his grey eyes, he rushed forward.

And might have reached Cyron, save for the Lady of Jet and Jade, who stuck a foot out and tripped him. Turcol went down heavily, the arrow’s shaft breaking. Eiran delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head, and he remained down.

Cyron bowed deeply to the concubine, then to the Helosundian Prince. “You are both yet more dear to me for saving my life.”

They returned the bows, but said nothing.

Cyron turned to the nearest swordsman and gave him the slightest shake of his head. In commanding his master assassin to supplant those Turcol had hired, he also asked that Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade be left free to act. He’d informed neither of them of what would happen, and in the unlikely event either proved a coconspirator, they would have died as Turcol had.

The Prince pulled back the left sleeve of his robe. “We will tell everyone what Turcol intended to say. Bandits found us out here and sought to rob us, not realizing who we were. Turcol and his men fought them valiantly, driving them off, but not before the count and his men died of their wounds.

“Eiran, because the count so graciously made you his cocommander, you will lead the Helosundian Dragons north and watch over them. Tell them we think the bandits were truly Desei assassins who intended to kill Turcol, so much does Pyrust fear him and his men on the border. That will put steel in their spines.”

Eiran bowed his head. “As you will it, Highness.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade regarded him openly. “Orders for me, Highness?”

“Yes. Please avert your eyes.” Cyron waited until she had turned away, then nodded to his Lord of Shadows and lifted his bared arm. The assassin drew a dagger and held it high.

Cyron sighed and nodded. “It has to be believable, our story, and so it shall be.”

The blade fell.