Pyrust frowned. “He’s to be assassinated?”
“Yes. Does this not please you?”
The Prince crossed his arms over his chest. “It does simplify things a great deal.”
Vroan set the half-eaten piece of cheese back on the table. “But you are disappointed.”
“I am.” Pyrust smiled slightly. “I had wanted to kill him myself.”
Vroan returned the smile. “I understand the sentiment. I would love to throttle him.”
“No, a thrust to the heart. Simple and quick but slow enough for him to look at the sword, then to look up at me.” Pyrust closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “That is how I saw it in a dream. That one, I see, was not of the future.”
“No, perhaps not.” Vroan drank again. “Nerot Scior has hired the assassin. Blame can be fixed to him, and you arrive to avenge the murder of a brother Prince. I side with you, the dissidents are pacified, and we force the invaders from Erumvirine. Once you take Kelewan, I would imagine the Five Princes will join or fall as you desire.”
“I hope the gods accept and bless your plan.”
“Grija certainly will.”
A thrill ran down Pyrust’s spine. Why did he mention Grija? “I hope so, even though our negotiation here has prevented many from entering his realm.”
The Naleni set his empty cup on the table and stood. “Delayed, my lord, not prevented. We all enter his realm eventually.”
“A point well taken.” Pyrust narrowed his eyes. “It would have been interesting to fight you. I would have met you at Tsaxun with twelve thousand.”
“And I would have defended with five. You might have prevailed, but there would have been no one left to bury the dead.” Vroan bowed deeply and held it, then came up slowly. “It is better to fight at your side.”
Pyrust bowed low, matching the depth, but cheating a bit on the duration. “You are quite right, my lord. This choice is an ill omen for the invaders. Please give my best wishes to your daughter.”
“I will. Would you have me meet you in Moriande with my house troops?”
“A regiment would be appropriate.”
“And if Scior comes to me for sanctuary?”
“Treason is punishable by death.” Pyrust nodded. “I’ll want his head to display from the gate of Wentokikun.”
“As you desire. Moriande, within the week.”
The Naleni noble withdrew and Pyrust refilled his own wine goblet. He glanced at the empty kitchen doorway, then drank. When he lowered his cup again, the Mother of Shadows filled the doorway.
She glanced at the Inn’s door. “For one come so reluctantly to treason, he seems very comfortable with it.”
“You didn’t know they were going to assassinate Prince Cyron?”
She shrugged. “There has never been a time when someone or other was not going to kill him. We do not know if they will be effective this time or not. His cabal has failed once already.”
“I recall.” Pyrust frowned. “He can’t be trusted, clearly. If he would plot to kill Cyron, he would certainly do the same to me. Still, he’ll be valuable in the field against the invaders. We’ll wait to see how successful he is. I want someone in position to kill him in the wake of his greatest glory.”
“You could let him liberate Kelewan.”
“His glory should not be that great. He has committed treason. He’ll win a battle, then die.”
“Yes, my lord.” She bowed her head solemnly, then looked up. “Something else troubles you.”
“Yes, the party we have not heard from. Twice the westrons will have hired assassins to kill Cyron. They cannot do that without compliance by a minister.”
“The ministers are ever operating against their Princes.”
“True, but we need them in the coming war.” Pyrust drained his cup. “If they are not with us, the effort will founder and we all shall die. And the difficulty with the ministers is that they won’t mind, just as long as it is all done in an orderly manner.”
Chapter Fifty-one
2nd 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
Nemehyan, Caxyan
Though the Witch-King’s continued absence worried Jorim a little, he really didn’t mind the solitude. His ordeal had exhausted him to the point where something as simple as wandering into the rain forest to harvest fruit left him staggering back to the chambers. For every two hours awake and active, he required six hours of sleep, and that sleep was far from restful.
Accepting the fact that he was a god took a lot of adjustment-even though Nauana’s unwavering conviction had certainly pointed him in the right direction. It struck Jorim as rather ironic that he’d not been at all devout earlier in life. While he had worshipped Wentiko, it was more because the Dragon was the state deity of Nalenyr than due to any true belief.
In fact, his grandfather had been part of the movement away from religion. Qiro had stressed veneration of ancestors-clearly because he wanted that tradition continued after he passed away. Actually, he saw himself as a god, so none of us had to leave our home to worship. Perhaps that had been the root of his problem with Qiro: here he was a god incarnate, dealing with a human who believed himself a god.
But, as fascinating an idea as that was, Jorim knew that wasn’t the whole of the truth. Qiro brooked no insubordination because he had a need to be dominant. Jorim had no idea what he might have been afraid of, but that need to make all acknowledge him as supreme was one of the consistent notes in the man’s life. When his son and grandsons rebelled, he sent them all off on expeditions meant to kill them.
But Keles is not dead. Jorim concentrated and tried to reach his brother. He would have known if Keles had died, and he did get a dim sense of him, but there was no contact. Keles was concentrating on something else, and all Jorim got were fleeting glimpses of nightmare images. He tried to send a calming message to his brother, but had no idea if it got through before the contact faded.
Dreams interrupted Jorim’s sleep, and he awoke multiple times, his head bursting with images. Some of them seemed hauntingly familiar, and others had obviously been drawn from stories he’d heard about the Heavens and Hells. He recognized gods and goddesses, but they would shift in his vision. Sisvoc, the beautiful goddess of love, would flow from being a woman wearing a robe with eagle embroidery to an Amentzutl woman in a loincloth and gold pectoral, each of them worked with eagle symbology. And then she would change again and again into other shapes he barely recognized, but could guess at belonging to the Viruk, Ansatl, and Soth.
Most disturbing of all were dreams that paralleled stories about the gods. He’d always listened to them as mythology, but now he was living them, remembering them. He would live through bits and pieces of stories that had been lost or-more likely-edited out to tailor the story to whatever moral the teacher wished to emphasize.
In some cases, the omissions reversed the lessons that might have been learned. The omissions also limited the gods, because the gods drew life from the nature of their people’s beliefs. If the gods were reduced to one aspect and revered for that aspect only, they would slowly grow into that shape. Tetcomchoa and Wentiko, because they had worshippers from two cultures that revered them for a multitude of aspects and virtues, became more than simple abstracts.
And what must it be like to be Grija, worshipped and hated because he would sort good from bad, consigning the evil to his Hells and sending the good on to the Heavens? Jorim shivered. The gods may well have created the mortal races, but they found themselves in the same trap as parents who produce children, then become dependent upon those children for sustenance in their later years. They become powerless to govern their own beings, and are at the mercy of whatever charity their children give them. If a family were to tell its patriarch that he would only be fed if he wore a mask and sang songs before supper, the old man would become a masked singer.