A Secret Atlas (21 page)

hand, I will have to learn to survive the way he does and how to change quickly and adapt,

as fast or faster than the realm into which I wander. Not an easy job for either of us.”

“Indeed not.” Siatsi smiled, then kissed Keles’ brow. “Sleep. Heal. That is what you must

do now, if you are to stand any chance at success later.”

“Do you think I will succeed, mother?”

She nodded. “Beyond the ability of any of us to dream.”

6th day, Harvest Festival, Year of the Dog

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

162nd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

736th year since the Cataclysm

Kojaikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

“Sister, you worry too much.” Jorim Anturasi slowly shook his head as they passed

through a gantlet of Keru guardswomen to reach the large reception hall in Kojaikun. “The

least the healing could have done was cure you of that.”

Nirati quickly stuck her tongue out at him.

The sixth day of Festival was always given over to the honoring of heroes. To make a

point and annoy Prince Pyrust, Prince Cyron had chosen to hold it in the tower most

associated with Helosunde. Prince Pyrust had sent his regrets and the Helosundians

viewed that as a victory of sorts.

Nirati, wearing a green silk gown with yellow, red, and blue birds embroidered on it, gave

her younger brother a hard stare. “There is not a night of heroes I can recall when you did

not end up in some sort of fight.”

“Youthful indiscretions.”

“Would that a healing could cure you of those.” Her expression softened ever so slightly.

“Mother has entrusted us with the family honor, so please be careful.”

“Yes, Nirati, I will.” Jorim paused with her at the doorway to the long, rectangular hall. It

had been finished entirely in blond wood, with lighting coming through panels papered

over with ivory rice paper. The color of the wood reminded everyone of the Keru and their

dedication to the Prince’s service.

He surveyed the room and the gaily robed guests, then gave his sister a smile. “I see no

Viruk, so I doubt there will be trouble.”

Nirati’s green eyes became slits. “You remember what you were instructed to say about

that?”

Jorim sighed. “Keles is resting comfortably, full recovery expected, in no danger, won’t

even see the scars, looking forward to his journey—which he doesn’t even know about

unless he’s come awake in the last hour.”

“Jorim!”

“I
know,
Nirati. I will not say what I should not.”

“And you won’t get into trouble.”

He gave her a hard stare, but she had learned well from their mother.
And I have always

been her younger brother, which gives her an advantage I cannot undo.
While she might

be hard on him, she was also protective, and that was something he was reluctant to

surrender no matter the cause.

“I won’t get into trouble.”

“Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Now, go have fun.”

“As if that’s possible. I’m going, I’m going.” He smiled into her reproving glare, then moved

into the hall and let himself drift. Not for the first time he studied the gathering the way he viewed savage peoples. He didn’t do it with a sense of superiority, only curiosity.

I bet even they don’t know what they reveal about themselves, they are so busy playing

their games.
To Jorim, a great deal was obvious just from a casual glance. The most

important people had taken up positions around the room where they could be seen

easily, but not cut off. Rarely was anyone with true power in a corner, though several

people who wished to be perceived as having power had taken up positions there.

Lesser personages usually had someone with them—someone of a higher social station—

to lend them some sort of legitimacy. Had Jorim chosen to extend an invitation to various

women of his acquaintance, he, too, could have had someone on his arm. Women would

have fought for the honor—not to be seen with him per se, but to be seen by older men

who might take them as mistresses, or dowagers who were looking for someone to bear

grandchildren for them. As he watched, that very scenario played itself out a dozen times

or more.

Politics and politicians ran a circuit through the room. Likewise the social pressures

caused currents, and gossip of both varieties raced. Courtiers and sycophants jockeyed

for position awaiting the arrival of the Prince, in hopes they would be able to get a word

with him, or at least be noticed.

While friends did meet friends at the gathering, the greetings were brief and fulfilled the

minimum demands of social intercourse. There would be time for true friends later in

Festival, after the day of Mourning and before the glory of the Prince would be celebrated.

On the night of heroes, all those gathered wished to be seen as heroes, so acted in a way

they thought full of mythic import.

Jorim didn’t see himself as a hero, though he hoped some people did—and he

acknowledged that as a paradox springing from self-deception the moment it occurred to

him. He had gone places, seen and done things that few in the room could match. While

many of them would thrill to his exploits and claim that someday they would like to do the

same thing, they preferred the safety of their homes and stable lives. He couldn’t blame

them for that, and he didn’t despise them for it.

He just knew it wasn’t for him.

There were those who would claim that it was hatred or fear of his grandfather that

prompted him to go so far away, but they were wrong. First off, they didn’t understand that

his journeys required him to be very close to his grandfather. The skill for cartography ran

strong in the Anturasi bloodline, and with that came the ability—through training and

study—for both Jorim and Keles to enter a sort of mental communion with their

grandfather. By concentrating very hard and holding information in their minds for a time,

they could share basic data with him. He would immediately add it to his maps of the

world. Sketching in vast vistas had to wait for their return; but distances traveled, the

height of mountains, and other such information could be transmitted over the miles.

Keles was much better at it than Jorim, primarily because he had worked so hard to train

his twin. In Nirati’s case the training had been for nothing, since she did not possess that

skill. That was not all bad. It meant Qiro did not see her as a threat and, therefore, saw no

reason to put her in danger. Jorim, while being able to send information to his grandfather,

was not as precise as Keles, and whenever he returned to Moriande, he braced himself

for discipline.

No, Jorim went out into the world not to escape his grandfather, but because he loved

experiencing the variety of things out there. He allowed his curiosity to govern him, and

trusted in his luck to keep him safe. No matter how close he had come to death, his desire

to see more and do more had not been squelched.

And now I get the
Stormwolf. The ship’s keel had been laid before he went on his last

expedition. Jorim had fully expected that Keles would be given the honor of that trip, and

that had made him jealous. That was why he’d mentioned the Gryst device to Qiro, in the

slender hope it might win him a berth on the ship, too.

Jorim was at once elated and apprehensive about the trip. It would allow him to sate his

curiosity. They would be going into a part of the world no one knew existed outside fable

and legend, from the Mountains of Ice to whatever lay beyond the Eastern Sea. He would

be able to discover things, bring back samples, and add to the world—shaping and

defining it with every mile traveled. What was rumor would become fact, what was legend

would be proved true or false, and whatever was unknown would become known. He

would be there to make all that happen, to the greater glory of his nation and his family.

At the same time Jorim had hoped Qiro would keep Keles close and train him to take over.

He’d looked forward to actually communicating data to his brother instead of his

grandfather, for he was certain the bond would be tighter and allow for a faster exchange

of more information. And speed in the race to discover the world could not be

underestimated.

Keles’ journey into the wastelands scared Jorim, for he’d gotten far enough into the wilds

to see places where the Cataclysm had changed things, albeit centuries ago. The wild

magic unleashed when the Empress’s troops had met the Turasynd hordes had exploded

out of Ixyll and washed over half the known world. Skies had darkened, and black snows

had fallen early and deep. The histories told of years without summer, which is when the

die-off of peoples began. Before the Cataclysm, the Empire had boasted tens of millions

of people. Within a decade, the Principalities had been reduced to maybe hundreds of

thousands. Most of them clustered in the central river valleys of the three largest

Principalities, while others clung to existence however they were able.

Unpredictable weather, coming from the northwest where titanic magical storms raged,

had battered the Principalities for another century, with the nine days of the Harvest

Festival being the closest approximation to summer. Imperial civilization all but collapsed,

and chaos would have reigned had the bureaucrats not maintained order. While the

histories of those hard times praised the ministers and functionaries, Jorim realized they

must have been much like their modern counterparts. While annoying, they had served a

purpose, and that purpose kept people alive long enough to begin a slow recovery.

Jorim knew his dismissal of their efforts was overly harsh, and based on discussions he’d

had with Keles when they were younger. Keles had said that just maintaining order and

organizing shipments of food was a heroic effort. Jorim had replied that the ministers had

been too complacent, seeking order above all else, thereby smothering the sort of

ambition that might have allowed the Principalities to recover faster. Each brother had to

allow that the other might be right; but with no way to prove their arguments, it became a

difference of opinion they both acknowledged and somehow found comforting.

Jorim got himself a small cup of wine and sipped it as he moved through the crowd. He

looked for others who, like him, remained detached. A few, by their dress, were foreigners

who knew no one. Others were famous or infamous, depending upon how one chose to

view them. He found the Lady of Jet and Jade along a narrow wall, protected by several of

her protégés.

He hid a smile behind his cup. She was still gorgeous despite her years. He’d heard

stories suggesting she had been the concubine to princes even before the Komyr dynasty

was founded. He wondered if that were true, or if the woman presiding over the House of

Jade Pleasure inherited the title and assumed a role as part of a legend. He was not

certain why she would be considered a hero, but many were the heroes who visited her

house of entertainment.

I wonder if the Prince will send me to her when the
Stormwolf
comes back
? He considered approaching her and introducing himself, but her aides seemed very selective. So he kept

his distance and saved himself the humiliation of being turned away.

Wandering further, he noticed two men in the crowd, the younger one holding a cup of

wine but not drinking, the older one watching with restless eyes. The younger one’s belt

had been knotted with a swordsman’s knot, but neither of them wore swords. No one

would be allowed to do so in the Prince’s presence, so this came as no surprise, but the

younger man looked uneasy. Even with that discomfort, however, he did seem more

accustomed to such grand surroundings than his companion.

Jorim looked through the crowd again and discovered a couple more individuals who

looked equally like swordsmen, but they stood with their employers. None was as watchful

as the older man, but he put that down to a familiarity with such gatherings and their

confidence that nothing untoward would unfold. Anyone mad enough to start trouble there

would find it ended by the Keru.

No one in this city is that insane, save perhaps Kaerinus.
Jorim, as with every child in Nalenyr, had grown up fearing the last of the
vanyesh
. He’d once asked Keles why the

sorcerer had been allowed to live, if everyone feared him so, and his brother just gave him

a hard stare. Then he lowered his voice, and said, “If they
could
kill him, don’t you think they would have? He can’t die.”

This had made him more terrifying, and Nirati’s description of him hadn’t eased Jorim’s

mind at all. The official story, which people told but did not believe, was that he had

returned from the west with his mind shattered, reduced to that of a child. While incredibly

powerful, he wished only to heal and do good things.
If that were true, however, why

would the Naleni princes keep him captive in Xingnakun?

Not for the first time, the parallel between Kaerinus’ fate and that of his grandfather struck

Jorim. The sorcerer had been imprisoned because of the harm he might do, and Qiro’s

freedom might be similarly harmful. Were his charts to fall into the hands of the Virine or