Nirati rubbed at her shoulder. “Neither do I.”
“Ah, wait.” Nelesquin looked beyond her toward the hill they’d descended. “He doesn’t want you to go.”
Nirati turned. Her grandfather stood at the crest of the hill, holding Takwee’s hand. Nirati waved and both of them waved back. “Can he stop me from leaving?”
Nelesquin laughed. “He created Anturasixan, so it operates by rules only he can imagine. He created Kunjiqui as a sanctuary for you, to protect you from the world that hurt you. He may not know it, but he will not let you leave if he believes you can be hurt.”
Everything Nelesquin said made sense to Nirati, but she wasn’t certain he’d gotten to the core of things. Something else was happening to keep her in Kunjiqui. She didn’t want to dwell on it, but just knowing sent fear through her.
Nelesquin’s eyes hardened. “I understand his reasoning, for I would not have you hurt either. I will make the world a place that will never harm you.”
Nirati turned and looked at him. “You are still going?”
He nodded solemnly. “The events I read in the stones are a bit more dire than I told you. In them, I saw a glimmer of an old enemy returning to oppose me. He was the source of Gachin’s problem and, if he is not eliminated, he could be worrisome.”
“But you are in no danger?”
His booming laugh reassured her. “No, beloved. I long ago took steps to assure neither he nor anyone else could harm me.” He reached a hand through the barrier. “Because I love you, I am called away. I will come back for you, Nirati Anturasi. You are my empress, and I shall go become the emperor who is worthy of your love.”
She smiled bravely, took his hand, and drew him to her. “I know you will, beloved. I will be with you in spirit.”
“That shall not make me miss you less.” His arms enfolded her and pulled her tightly to him. He peered down into her eyes, then kissed her deeply.
Nirati clung to him, not because she wanted to prevent him from leaving, but because she knew she would never hold him again.
Nelesquin broke the kiss and slipped from her embrace.
She stepped forward and rested her hands against the barrier.
Nelesquin smiled, then bowed to her grandfather and her. “I go a prince; I return an emperor.”
“Go bravely, then.” Nirati smiled softly. The barrier is death, beloved. Go bravely, but remember, becoming an emperor does not make one immortal.
She hugged her arms around herself and waited there, watching until the ships had vanished over the horizon, and Takwee came to guide her home.
Chapter Sixty-one
4th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Wentokikun, Moriande
Nalenyr
Even low grey clouds and rain could not diminish the magnificence of Moriande. Rain pattered against Prince Pyrust’s cloak, and his horse splashed through puddles as he rode toward the Dragon Tower. Count Vroan’s Ixunite troops had manned Northgate, and the Shadow Hawks had cleared the streets. It had nominally been agreed that Pyrust was entering the capital to pay his respects to Prince Cyron, and the Keru busied themselves with a hunt for Duke Scior.
The appearance of a Desei host on the hills north of the city had rendered the idea of resistance ridiculous, and there were those nobles who allowed that Nalenyr’s fall had been the product of Cyron’s pride. While he looked overseas for trade to strengthen his nation, he had not paid attention to more dire threats closer to home. Pyrust had no doubt that the perceived wisdom would become Cyron’s historical epitaph, and that few would ever look at the true facts surrounding his fall to see how shortsighted a judgment that truly was.
It did not surprise Pyrust to hear that Cyron had survived the assassination attempt, though stories differed about how he had fared. The Mother of Shadows had scoffed at the ineptitude of Helosundian assassins, but Pyrust felt something more was at play. Grija had promised him great glory, and very great would be the glory of ending the Komyr Dynasty. He had wanted to kill Cyron himself. The gods and circumstances had conspired to let him do so.
Pyrust looked up and around at the buildings lining the street and took heart in the flashes of eyes peeking out at him from doorways and behind shutters. Had a conqueror been riding through Felarati and the order had been given that no one was to look upon him, the Desei would have remained hidden within their homes until told they could emerge again. Learning to obey orders had been what preserved life in Deseirion, but here, in the south, spirit and initiative had created a more vibrant society.
He admired their spirit and, for the first time truly realized how difficult administering an empire would be. He did not let that problem overwhelm him because he still needed to fight the invaders. If they defeated him, all problems of empire would be nothing. Moreover, the bureaucracy would continue to function, keeping the Naleni state working as it should. He felt fairly certain that once he made the nature of the southern threat known to the bureaucracy, they would do all they could to facilitate his destroying the invaders.
It did concern him, however, that they had clearly condoned the assassination and usurpation that would have occurred under Duke Scior or Count Vroan. While bureaucrats often embraced their duty first, they could not be divorced from nationalistic sentiments. The ministers of Helosunde had directed their nation for years, and he had no doubts that Grand Minister Pelut Vniel would gladly seize power if Pyrust were to fall in battle.
The bureaucracy here has willingly played politics. He began to draw up a short list of individuals the Mother of Shadows would have to make disappear. Timed correctly, their deaths would not seem overly suspicious, yet would encourage obedience among other ministers. Similarly the deaths of certain Naleni nobles would disorganize any movement against him.
A tiny piece of him wondered if Cyron would have stooped to preemptive murder had he known the extent of the plotting against him. In general, he would not have put any man above it, but Cyron had been odd in that way. Pyrust never would have sent grain to Nalenyr. While he understood Cyron’s motivation, he still viewed it as weakness. He’d not shoved the knife in when he had the chance, and that was what allowed him to lose.
Not a mistake I shall make.
The gates to Wentokikun stood open. Pyrust rode through alone, then up the broad steps to the tower’s doors. There he dismounted and threw off his cloak. He entered through the open doors in rain-dappled armor of black, with the Desei hawk painted in gold. He wore a single sword and marveled how his footsteps echoed within the vast entryway.
When he had been in the Dragon Tower before, he had come as a visitor, swathed in formal robes that restricted his strides. He’d shuffled his way down the long corridor to the throne room, having to study the murals depicting Naleni dominance over its neighbors, including Deseirion. Now the Desei murals had been covered by tapestries that showed older scenes, when Desei and Naleni heroes had united against the Turasynd or an ambitious Helosundian prince.
The presence of those tapestries told him that though Cyron might be gravely injured, he was far from dead. Pyrust quickened his pace, stalking down the hallway to the Naleni throne room. He passed around the wooden screening wall, then paused in the doorway. His gaze followed the line of the red carpet to the Dragon Throne.
He struggled to control his reaction to the man seated there.
Cyron had been dressed in armor, but wore neither helmet nor face mask. His left arm ended in a bandaged stump, which was still leaking. He sat as straight as he could, his face grey and wet with perspiration. A sheathed sword sat across the arms of his throne and his right hand rested on the hilt.