Behind that wagon came a simple carriage carrying two women. The Empress wore white, including a porcelain mask.
Pyrust’s widow rode beside her, likewise in white. She did not hide behind a mask, but her face had been made up in white and her hair bleached. Save for the dancing of a wisp of hair and the red-rimmed icy blue eyes, she might have been a marble statue. Her robes hid the signs of her pregnancy, but there was not a person present who did not know her womb nurtured the dead man’s child.
Jasai’s presence galled Pelut. Was there anyone in the city who did not know that Jasai had loathed her husband and was escaping his realm when she arrived in Moriande? Pelut gladly spread rumors that the child she carried was not Pyrust’s, but that of Keles Anturasi. While Jasai’s attendance at the funeral-and her apparent distress at her husband’s death-thrilled the romantics in the city, it would be her undoing.
Pelut would see to it.
After that came another carriage, with Prince Cyron and Virine Count Derael. The latter looked little better than the corpse, and Cyron was not much healthier. Their hats tapered to abrupt points and, had there been a following breeze, were wide enough to propel the wagon.
The men’s presence was meant to inspire the people. In Pelut it inspired hatred. How could the people take heart in these men? Two cripples were Moriande’s defense? Already, people were grumbling that Nelesquin had killed one cripple, so throwing two more at him would mean nothing.
Pelut encouraged that effort, and was pleased at how little he had to spend manufacturing fear.
Once the four priests had placed Pyrust high on the pyre, they carried Count Derael to the broad landing halfway up the steps to the temple. Cyron slowly mounted the steps as the troops who had marched behind the procession filled the square. The Desei troops had painted their shields white and had added the clipped feathers back to the hawk on their crests. Virine and Naleni troops had white silk strips dangling from their helmets. The company of misfit xidantzu had relaced half their armor with white cords.
Standing a step below the Empress, Prince Cyron raised his arms-emphasizing his deformity. Pelut did not doubt the Prince had planned the gesture to make some other sort of point, but it was moot. The lot of them looked like the ghosts they would be soon.
“People of Moriande, Nalenyr, Deseirion, Helosunde, and Erumvirine-people of the True Empire-today we release the spirit and soul of Prince Pyrust of Deseirion. Prince Pyrust’s greatest wish was the re-creation of the Empire sundered so long ago. The Jaeshi Dynasty came closer than any other to accomplishing this task. Just over a month ago he arrived here, ready and able to add Nalenyr to his realm. I would have been slain by his hand. His vision of the future would have prevailed.”
Cyron half turned toward the Empress. “The Empress revealed her presence to the both of us-I had no more knowledge of her identity than he did-and drafted us both into her service. We both gladly agreed. Pyrust’s dream had come true, and he accepted the charge to be her warlord. His goal was to preserve the Empire and this he fought to do against an evil so ancient and potent, even Death could not contain it.”
Cyron faced the pyre again and lowered his arms. “There is no one within the sound of my voice who did not, in some way, fear Prince Pyrust. I did. When he came to kill me, I saw the fire in his eyes, the steel in his spine, the strength of his dream. He came to unite Deseirion, Helosunde, and Nalenyr, not only to reestablish the Empire, but to face a greater threat. He never intended to be defeated by it, or to surrender to it, but to destroy it. That his effort did not bring success is not a failing on his part but a mark of the cunning of our enemy. Prince Pyrust killed many of them. He bought us time that will guarantee our victory.”
Pelut dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from falling asleep. Of course Cyron had to deify Pyrust. That would appease the cowardly Desei troops who let their prince die. It might even convince them to die for Nalenyr-Cyron all but ceded it to Pyrust in his eulogy. And the rest of the people learned that while Pyrust had been bad, Nelesquin was worse. The message was clear: all the energy you’d have put into resisting Pyrust must be redoubled to resist Nelesquin.
But the people had done nothing to resist Pyrust. The Lords of the West had allied themselves with him against their own ruler. Cyron should have ceded the westrons to Nelesquin outright, since they’d cause nothing but trouble. And, ultimately, Cyron was telling everyone that things would be fine since he was in charge of things-he and a whore, plus the man who lost Tsatol Deraelkun. He might be speaking from Wentoki’s Temple, but those words wouldn’t inspire courage.
Cyron finished speaking and accepted a torch from the hand of Wentoki’s high priest. He descended the steps slowly-thwarting Pelut’s desire that he trip-and respectfully approached the pyre. He, at least, spared the crowd the maudlin display of looking upward and uttering unheard words that thousands of wags would be happy to invent.
In fact…
Pelut turned to a notoriously gossipy minister standing next to him. “What do you think it was that Prince Cyron just said to Prince Pyrust?”
The light of crackling flames illuminated the surprise on the man’s face. “I do not believe, Grand Minister, I heard him say anything.”
“No, of course you didn’t. He spoke too softly.” Pelut glanced at the pyre and the thick, white smoke rising from all the burning prayers. “But just before he lit the pyre, he looked up and said something. I couldn’t hear, but his expression, it wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Appropriate.” Pelut shook his head. “You must have seen that flash of jealousy. Maybe it was fear. What did you think it was?”
The man shuddered. “I don’t think I could say.”
“No, of course not, best for the morale of the people we forget it.” Pelut nodded conspiratorially. “It would not do for the people to know Cyron thinks all is lost.”
“No, Grand Minister, it would not.”
“Good. Be certain to squelch that rumor whenever you hear it.”
“Of course, Grand Minister.”
Pelut turned away, fighting to appear impassive. Whatever gains Cyron had made in the temple square would be eroded in the public houses. The mere act of correcting an impression would give it life. By the end of the day, that minister and any he talked to would remember seeing Cyron lift his face and say something to his vanquished foe. That would undercut the nobility of his sentiments and wither his support.
Never once did it occur to Pelut Vniel that weakening Cyron might hasten the fall of Moriande. The Grand Minister had already assumed Moriande would fall. The white city would be bathed in blood. But as long as it was Cyron’s blood and not his, both he and the ministries would survive.
And, he was certain, that was something of which both the gods and Emperor Nelesquin would approve.
Chapter Twenty-nine
14th 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
Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)
Nessagafel understood very little about his children. He forced Jorim to maintain full clarity of mind during torture. Every ant bite, every twist of the thorned ivy, each rake of a talon, remained stark in Jorim’s mind. He could catalog them and sort them, rank them and order them.
Nessagafel intended the torture to be unendurable. Clarity of mind provided a means for putting the tortures in context. The context was simple: the agony would endure until Jorim released Nessagafel.