A few of the riders looked away, embarrassed. Ieral raised a hand to silence murmuring. “The world has changed, Eiran, and better you were dead than see it. We are Helosundian and are stronger for our unity with Deseirion. The Prince wants us to take custody of his wife and the Anturasi.”
“So, it is Pyrust’s bidding you do. The Council no longer even pretends to be Helosundian. What did he tell you? That you were riding after criminals? That you were stopping a Desei invasion? He dared not tell you the truth. No true son of Helosunde would join him in this foul task were the truth known.”
Ieral slipped from his saddle and drew his sword. “I take offense at your words.”
“I take offense at your actions.”
“Very well, then we shall settle this here and now-provided you wish your sister to see you die. I am a swordsman of Serrian Tsuxai. I am of the eighth rank.”
Eiran tightened his grip on his sword. “I claim no sword school.”
“Then why do this?”
“Because I shall fight in his stead.” Tyressa moved forward. “I am Keru.”
“Keru? I am not afraid of you.” Ieral waved her forward. “If you wish a spear, I will provide you one.”
Eiran grabbed his aunt’s shoulder. “You’re not taking my place.”
Jasai spurred her horse past both of them. “And neither of you acts as my champion.” Her head held high, she reined up short of the ministers’ man. “What price safe conduct for my companions? They mean nothing to you. I am the prize.”
Ieral shrugged. “In exchange for you, the Desei can return home. The Anturasi, the Keru, they come with us. That is the only bargain that can be struck.”
“And my brother?”
Ieral shook his head. “The Council has ordered his death.”
“Why?”
The question caught Ieral off guard. “It is not my place to question their orders.”
“But you know the answer, don’t you?” Jasai shook her head. “Prince Pyrust pulls their strings, and they pull yours.” She reined her horse around, showing him her back. “I withdraw my offer. I surrender to no puppet.”
Eiran looked up at Ieral’s men. “You allow him to pull your strings?”
“I don’t pull strings, I cut them.” Ieral Scoan flowed forward through the shadows. His sword rose and flashed liquid lightning. It swept down, passing in an arc beneath Eiran’s parry. The blade came back up as Ieral spun. The leaping-dog crest on the back of his robe grew taut, then the blade fell again in a cut that trimmed a light brown lock of Eiran’s hair.
The cut would have taken the Prince’s head off, save that he’d stumbled forward with the momentum of his failed parry. His robe’s sash, neatly cut across the knot, fluttered to the ground. The Prince pitched face forward onto the road. His sword bounced once, then spun, tracing curved lines in the dirt.
A booted foot stopped it.
Ieral shifted his stance and leveled his sword at the newcomer. “Who are you?”
The interloper hooked a toe beneath the hilt and kicked the sword into the air. Firelight gleamed from the lazily spinning blade. A hand plucked the sword from the air. He whipped it around, then snapped it forward with such force that the blade quivered.
He smiled. “This will do.”
Keles’ jaw dropped. It can’t be…
“ Xidantzu? ” Ieral raised his head. “Begone, wanderer. You want no part of this.”
“I am late of Serrian Foachin. I have apprenticed with Moraven Tolo.” Ciras Dejote stepped from the shadow of the mechanical horse at the woods’ edge and the Viruk standing beside it. “I have just seen a man claiming to be serrcai cut down a man who claimed no rank at all. This offends me.”
“Your presence offends me.” Ieral stepped back to allow Ciras onto the road. “Come, if you are so quick to embrace death.”
“Draw a circle.”
Even in the wan light of torches, there was no mistaking how the blood drained from Ieral’s face. “You are jaecaiserr?”
“Is the circle done yet?”
“But this is not fair.”
Ciras pointed the sword at Eiran. “You reap what you sow. The circle. Now.”
Ieral lowered his sword. “I will not.”
Keles dropped from his saddle and sank to one knee. He pressed his hand to the ground. The earth rippled. Pebbles danced. Stones erupted through the roadway and rolled into place. They formed a perfect circle, encompassing both swordsmen and the Prince.
Ieral pointed his sword at Keles. “There, swordsman, there is what you should kill. Xingnadin. Jaecaixingna.”
Ciras bowed his head. “Thank you, Keles.”
The Helosundian swordsman’s shoulders slumped for a moment, then he raised his blade again. “At least I shall die with honor.”
Ciras shook his head. “The time for that is well past.”
Chapter Twenty-one
2nd day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Kelewan, Erumvirine
Prince Pyrust could not blame the people of the Illustrated City for lining the streets to jeer at him. The carnage surrounding the city, the ruin of the gates, and the hollow expressions on their faces marked them as defeated. While the Virine had never been particularly martial, they had not been useless either. Proud beyond reasoning, perhaps, but they claimed an Imperial legacy that every other of the Nine wished for itself.
Pyrust had never been favored in Erumvirine. Spies had reported that the Princes and populace feared him. He read that fear in their eyes now along with anger. Had I come as a liberator, they would have welcomed me with flowers.
He trudged along with others of his command. Count Vroan and his surviving Ixunites had entered the city triumphantly. Trampled flowers marked their passage. Vroan had pledged his fealty to the kwajiin quickly, and the Ixunites had even guarded the Desei fighters for Nelesquin’s troops.
It would appear, Cyron, that someone else will have to rid you of that traitor.
The heavy chains linking Pyrust’s wrists and ankles clanked with each step. It was not their weight that slowed him, but the short length of chain from wrist to ankles forcing him to shuffle stooped and subservient.
I am forced to walk as if conquered.
Pyrust felt anything but conquered. Exhausted, certainly, and bruised. Three horses had died beneath him in that battle. He’d gone down only after his sword had broken and the ax he’d appropriated got lodged so deeply in a kwajiin chest that he could not pull it free. He’d certainly been defeated, but conquered?
No.
“Not so proud now, are you?” A madwoman, with one eye wide and the other squeezed shut, broke through the edge of the crowd. She grabbed his chains and yanked. Spittle flecked her lips as she screamed. “We’ve an emperor here! You’re a fool to defy him.”
Pyrust shoved her away. “Then your duty is to the Empire, isn’t it? Get out of my sight.”
More of the crowd cheered her and jeered him. Virine warriors-old men, mostly-wearing blue sashes on their robes, forced the woman back. Someone in the crowd threw a rotten piece of fruit. Handfuls of mud, stones, and night soil followed, pelting Pyrust and the eighty warriors who were being paraded through the streets.
They have no idea what they are doing. Mud and feces missed the intended targets and instead splashed against the city’s walls. The beautiful murals that had given the city its name added new stains to the blood that had dripped over them. They destroyed out of fear, and from that fear there was no recovering.
Pyrust raised his head. Cyron had warned him against destroying too much. Pyrust had not thought that possible. Kelewan showed him that it was. Out of fear the people cursed those who would have freed them. Men collaborated with their conquerors. Pyrust did not doubt that any armies marching north to lay siege to Moriande would have units drawn from the Virine and the Five Princes. Fear would unman the greatest of heroes, and surrendering to fear, in some ways, was the greatest of sins.