Scented with jasmine.
Cyron would have been happy to cast his robe into a violet puddle, scoop her up, and carry her to his bed, but doing so would desecrate the aura of peace she’d fostered. In his absence, she had even rearranged the furnishings. His antechamber had always been spare, so she would not have needed much help, and he knew her to be stronger than she appeared. Ultimately it was less what she moved than how and where she moved it.
He, by preference, had kept table and chair edges parallel to walls and the line of the floorboards. She twisted them. The sword stand had been moved from beside the bedchamber door back toward the corner where a chair half hid it. The low table at which she knelt preparing tea had moved closer to the room’s center, but not quite there. The furnishings, which before had been positioned with an eye for maximum utility, now had become islands in an ocean teased by a jasmine breeze.
And on the table, in a slender vase, was a single branch from a jasmine shrub with three blossoms remaining on it. The white petals from the other blossoms had been scattered haphazardly from window to table, as if the branch had floated in all by itself. And while the scattering appeared random, Cyron had no doubt the Lady of Jet and Jade had placed each petal deliberately. They were glyphs in a language he would never understand and yet, even like ballads sung in dialects he did not know, he found it beautiful.
Her silver eyes flicked in his direction, then she set the teapot down and bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Highness, I did not hear you arrive.”
“You are kind, for my tread on those stairs was as loud as a chariot’s wheels on cobblestones.” He approached the table and slid to his knees opposite her. As he did so, the jasmine branch lost a single petal, which fluttered to the tabletop. He did not know how she had managed that, but he knew she had. “I apologize for surprising you.”
“To their regret, there are many who find you surprising, no, my lord?”
Cyron smiled, then lifted the small ceramic cup. He let the tea’s steam caress his face and fill his nostrils. He drank and, for the time it took for the tea to warm his insides, he pushed the world away. A sense of peace washed over him and soothed his heart. He exhaled slowly, then drank again before setting his cup down.
“You were prescient in suggesting how Count Turcol would approach negotiations. He did rely on his honor, and Prince Eiran did all I asked of him. He flattered, then fell silent, so I was able to take over. I offered Turcol the dream gambit, and he replied with the nightmare comment. I thanked him for accepting the mission, then ended things. He was trapped.” Cyron studied her soft, seamless face. “Your reading of him was flawless.”
The Lady of Jet and Jade shook her head. “It was not my reading of him, for I have never spoken to him. I only know of him through others.”
“You have never watched him when he has been at the House of Jade Pleasure?”
She did not reply, but instead raised her own cup and drank. Her silver eyes flashed at him over the cup’s edge, and her fingertips caressed the gold dragon crest facing him. She lowered the cup slowly, then smiled. “The House of Jade Pleasure is discriminating in whom it allows within its precincts. Count Turcol has not been admitted.”
“No?” Cyron raised an eyebrow. “I imagine that has pinked his vanity.”
“Your Highness is most assuredly correct.” She fell silent, then poured more tea.
Cyron smiled. While the Lady of Jet and Jade presided over the House of Jade Pleasures, her apprentices were present in all strata of Naleni society. Some of her students became concubines as she was-and some had even left to form their own schools. Other of her students had come to her covertly, were trained, and returned to their lives feeling indebted to her. Cyron had no way of knowing how far her web of influence extended, but given that she had been in Moriande far longer than the Komyr had been on the throne, it could easily be vast. While he doubted it rivaled the bureaucratic tangles of the ministries, he had no doubt it might be more effective in gathering certain types of information.
“If I might ask…”
“Anything, lord.”
“Have you heard much from the Virine?”
Her eyes half closed. “Very little comes from the south these days. Warriors are heading east quietly so no alarm will spread, but the army is being mobilized. They seem to be moving so quickly that families and camp followers cannot keep up. Many have been warned to move west.”
He nodded slowly. “And of the east?”
She plucked the fallen petal from the table and brushed it against her cheek, then set it back down again. A single tear glistened there.
Worse than I could have imagined. He felt a sudden urge to tell her what little he knew of the invasion and his precautions against its spread. Given how she had suggested he deal with Count Turcol, she might well have guessed at some of what was going on. While everything had been kept very quiet, soldiers ordered to move south would have bid farewell to their loved ones, and doubtless that news had made its way back to her.
He looked at her and his fingertips tingled with the memory of how soft her flesh was beneath his touch. He nodded slowly, then smiled.
She returned the smile. “My lord?”
“I choose to trust you.”
“Is this wise, Highness?”
“Wise and necessary. You have eyes and ears where I do not, and you have a mind capable of understanding and communicating subtlety. I need you. Nalenyr needs you.”
“You do me great honor with this trust, Highness.”
“And I give to you a great burden.” In low tones, Cyron explained all he knew about the invasion. She, in her subtle way, provided him with more information. When he noted that the invaders had reached at least as far as Muronek, she gently corrected him. “I believe, your Highness, you meant to say ‘Talanite.’ ”
She took his recital of facts well and seemed no more alarmed than she would have been if he suggested it would rain that evening. When he finished, he looked at her and fell silent. He drained his cup and returned it to the table.
She refilled it. Setting the pot down again, she rested her hands on her thighs and faced south, as if she could see all the way to Kelewan.
“The Virine, Highness, have ever been secure in their history as the Empire’s capital province. They have more people, more crops, more of everything save the spirit which the Naleni possess. For a long while I resided there, in the Illustrated City, but I moved north seeking the future. Their complacency will be their undoing. They may already have been undone.”
Cyron’s stomach began to tighten. “Then the invasion will take us, too?”
“I am not a fortune-teller. Your precautions are wise. They must be taken in stealth, lest panic reign.” She slowly rotated her cup a handful of degrees. “There will come a point where the news will spread, and you must be positioned to respond. This is reminiscent of the Turasynd invasion: all must be called to service, and you must guarantee that no Cataclysm will follow.”
He blinked. “Is that a claim I can make?”
She shook her head. “No, but does it matter? The Cataclysm may kill, but the invaders will kill. The dead will not hold you to account, and the survivors will praise your name that things were not worse.”
“For someone who says she is not a fortune-teller, this is a dire prognostication.”
She fixed him with a stare that made him shiver. “A fortune can be ignored. My warning cannot. Accept that and act accordingly, or the Komyr Dynasty will not live out the year.”
Chapter Twenty-one
6th 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