The count could not conceal a smile. The fact that his family had once been on the Dragon Throne clearly proved he had the bloodlines that could lay claim to it. And he is certain his bloodline’s promise has blossomed full in him.
“It has struck me, my lord, that to maintain stability and promote the future, we might be required to take extraordinary methods. It has been my thinking that a triumvirate made up of your father-in-law, Duchess Scior, and yourself would provide the proper mixture of wisdom, charisma, experience and, in your case, vitality to lead our nation into the future. The three of you would have to cooperate, of course, sharing power.”
“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Turcol’s curdled expression made his opinion clear. “Still, we would have to come down to one Prince if our nation was to maintain its legitimacy. While both of the others are wise and powerful, neither of their houses predates the Cataclysm. As with the Komyr, they have risen since the Time of Black Ice.”
“Their houses were not unknown before the creation of the Nine.”
“But they were not Imperial nobility.”
“Very true.” Pelut nodded solemnly. “The question for you, my lord, is how best the ministries would serve the ruling triumvirate?”
That comment gave Turcol pause, and his clenching fist did not escape Pelut’s notice. “I should think, Grand Minister, that the ministries would serve best to consolidate power in the hands of that one individual best qualified to lead the nation. The duchess, while wise-even if it is a fishwife’s cunning-and my father-in-law, are both too long in the tooth to provide the sort of continuity needed to carry Nalenyr into the future.”
“I should agree with you, my lord, save that both of them have progeny who can carry on. You could well be Count Vroan’s practical heir, but if you had heirs of your own, things would be even better.”
“True, but were my wife pregnant now, Count Vroan might designate my child his heir, and I would be reduced to a regency. I find this unacceptable, and you should as well.”
“I seek only that which is best for our nation.”
“And I believe the Grand Minister should see that I am Nalenyr’s future.”
“If the unthinkable happens.”
Turcol halted for barely a heartbeat. “Yes, of course, if the unthinkable were to happen. Bandits. It would be terrible.”
“So it would, my lord.” Pelut glanced down at his cup and the tiny bits of tea leaves gathered at the bottom. “Were that to happen, I think your guidance would be invaluable to our nation. You clearly have thought of this, and such foresight is a value that shall not be discounted.”
“And you, Grand Minister, have a clarity of vision, which will guarantee our future.”
“My lord is too kind.” Pelut bowed to him. “I should not take up more of my lord’s time, as I know he is busy. I shall speak with Prince Eiran myself. You will have his answer in a day.”
“And the Prince’s after that?”
“I believe you shall.”
Count Turcol bowed. “Your hospitality is appreciated, and your wisdom even more.”
“Be well, my lord. May the gods smile on your future.”
“My future is nothing, Minister; the future of my nation is everything.” Turcol slid a door panel open and withdrew. He did not close it after him, which Pelut found irritating; but this alone did not decide Turcol’s fate.
The Grand Minister drank until his cup was all but empty, then swirled the last of the golden liquor around. Quickly he inverted it and clapped it down on the small table. He lifted it away from the small puddle and set it down again in a dry spot.
The object of Turcol’s visit had been obvious. The Prince’s order to gather troops had been the only pretense he needed to consider open rebellion. Pelut had expected him to demand the ministers throw open the gates of Moriande and deliver the Prince to him-which would have been a grand show, to be sure. The assassination attempt was not something he’d expected, and clearly not something Turcol had spent too much time thinking out. His willingness to adopt the blind of bandits showed a flexibility that could be useful, but his comments about succession revealed the difference between flexibility and malleability.
Were he malleable, he would be far more useful. Clearly he desired to be Prince, and considered himself the obvious choice. Pelut had no doubt that Turcol entertained dreams of being welcomed openly by his adoring people-merchants opening their coffers to him, and women opening their thighs. During his reign, the fantasies about the Keru being the Prince’s harem would come true, or a Cyrsa would arise from among the Keru, with Turcol’s blood on her hands.
Which might not be a bad choice. Marry her to Eiran and we could join two realms.
Still, while that would be an interesting expedient, like as not Eiran would die at the same time as Cyron. While he doubted Turcol had approached the Helosundian ministers, they would seek him out as soon as word got out that he was leading troops on the border. Their need to have Eiran dead would lead Turcol into further plots.
While the prospect of Turcol being prince did not excite Pelut, the idea that he could be rid of Cyron did. He would have preferred a method with more refinement, but dead was dead and a bludgeon worked as well as poison. Cyron posed more of a threat to Nalenyr than Turcol did, and certainly a more immediate one. He had to be dealt with.
Pelut turned his cup back over and read the leaves. Their positions and shapes communicated omens for the future. While they were not as clear as he might have liked, they were sufficient.
The fate of Turcol’s effort had been decided.
And with it the fate of Nalenyr itself.
Chapter Twenty-five
12th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Blackshark, Caxyan
Any hopes Jorim had harbored of keeping the changed nature of his relationship with Nauana secret died very quickly. Shimik had always been happy to spend time with Nauana, but now he doted on her and defended her. He growled at anyone who got too close to her-save Jorim-and sailors bored with life onshore had no trouble figuring out the reason behind the Fennych’s behavior.
The Amentzutl accepted this change readily, and Tzihua, the gigantic warrior who had been raised to the maicana caste because of his skills in combat, confessed that they’d all expected it to happen. While the interaction of the gods with mortals was not common in their mythology-or history, as Jorim reminded himself-it wasn’t unknown. For the most part, everyone had just hoped Tetcomchoa would find his time with the Amentzutl pleasurable.
And Jorim did find it pleasurable. Nauana had been beautiful and exotic, and he’d felt attracted to her when he first saw her. His interaction with her had strengthened that attraction, but he had not thought she had any interest in him. The care with which he undertook his training amplified his feelings for her, and yet he did not read into her actions any emotion.
But reaching out to touch her essence and her willingness to open herself in return revealed all. It was as if he had known her all his life, and the reverse. Curiously, their likes and dislikes, their experiences-though all shaped through cultures that knew nothing of each other-meshed effortlessly. It felt as if they were each half of a coin that had been divided and now had come together again.
Jorim had been in love before-at least a dozen times and sometimes even longer than a month. He had allowed himself to believe that many of his relationships foundered because his familial obligations demanded he travel for long periods of time. But the simple fact was that the relationships had already foundered, and the trips were just a convenient excuse to let things die.
He didn’t bear any animosity for the women he’d known. Initial attraction led to discovery, and the dissatisfaction became mutual over time. Everyone is on best behavior when they first meet, then they learn what the other person is truly like. By four months, one knew whether or not a relationship could last.