Keles hurried the last of his cousins out of the tower, then shut and locked the golden gate. Tyressa found him there, her armor on and spear in hand. “We have to get going, Keles.”
“Have you seen my mother? She was going to get xunling root for one of the maps. She thought she had it in her workshop or might have to dig it up from the garden.”
“I haven’t seen her.” Tyressa pointed to the stairs. “Go. Check the garden. I’ll check her workshop.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“No, keep going. I’ll catch up. Kojai Bridge. If you get over it, go to Shirikun. You’ll see your mother there again, I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to it.” He reached a hand toward her face.
She stiffened, then smiled. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Get going. Hurry.”
Keles took the stairs two at a time, then leaped to the landing. He raced out into the garden, bursting through a green tangle of tzaden vines. He fought through, but a few still clung to him.
He stopped. “Mother?”
At the base of the garden steps, a silver skeletal monster held his mother’s broken body. One tentacle wrapped her throat, the other encircled her thighs. Her neck was bent unnaturally.
Behind him a large leathery-winged creature nibbled fruit from a naranji tree.
The monster let his mother’s body spin to the ground. “She wouldn’t tell me where you were. Now it doesn’t matter.” The creature stalked forward and slid a scabbarded sword free of the harness on its back.
“Prince Nelesquin sends his regards, Keles Anturasi. He begs you to come visit him.” The monster grinned. “He has a conflict with your grandfather, and believes you to be the solution to that particular problem.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
30th 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
Moriande, Nalenyr
I glanced left. “Dunos, escort that woman and her children north.”
“No, Master, I am staying with you.”
“Dunos, do as I ask.”
Count Vroan waved dismissively. “Go, child, you will be safe. I shall send a runner with you.”
Dunos thrust out his chin defiantly. “I’m not a coward.”
“So says the blood dripping from your weapons.” The count bowed briefly in his direction. “But you must obey your master. Go.”
I nodded. “Yes, Dunos, go. We must all obey our masters. The count obeys his, and will pay a fearful price for it.”
“Then may I hope, Moraven Tolo, that you will obey your master.”
The voice came softly, yet surprisingly strong, from a small, ancient man huddled beneath an old blanket and a conical straw hat. He moved slowly, supporting himself on an oaken staff taller than he was. He could have been any old man out wandering, save that gauntlets encased his hands.
I started toward him. “Master!”
Vroan laughed. “ This is your master? If you learned to fight from this thing, Prince Nelesquin has no reason to fear you.”
Phoyn Jatan laughed with that dry rattle so common among the ancient. “Has my lord never understood that looks can be deceiving?”
“How am I deceived? You are three. I have many. You might think me deceived, but I have no fear of your killing me.”
My master, small and shrunken, shook his head. “You are not deceived, for I did not come to kill you.” He pointed his staff at the wooden gyanrigot. “I came to kill them.”
I reached his side. “Master, you don’t need to do this.”
He looked up and his hat slipped back. He smiled, his eyes youthful despite his craggy face. “Will you tell me to obey my master?”
“You have none, Phoyn Jatan.”
“But I acknowledge one. You denied me a chance to fight for our empress long ago. Will you do so now?”
A lump caught in my throat. I shook my head.
He unlaced his hat and handed it to me, then shrugged off his blanket. Beneath he wore brilliant golden robes with a coiled dragon in black. Below it rested the Imperial crown. A side from the gauntlets, however, he wore no armor, and he bore no swords.
“You cannot go into combat without arms and armor.”
He raised his voice, directing his comment at the enemy. “Were I fighting Men, I would be dressed as a warrior. These are wooden soldiers, thus I shall be a woodcutter.”
Count Vroan raised a hand, forestalling the gyanrigot advance. “You realize your valor will not save your student?”
“I have no fear for the welfare of my students.” Phoyn smiled at me. “Do you think this courtyard enough of a circle?”
“Yes, Master.” I backed away. A few of Vroan’s men likewise moved back. Word spread through the army, and they withdrew to the courtyard’s edge. They all wanted to watch a Mystic battle the war machines, but none wanted to be caught in the magic.
I handed the hat and blanket to Dunos. “Keep the women and children close. You’ll guide them to the bridge when the time comes.”
“I won’t leave you.”
“I’ll be right behind you, I promise.”
Phoyn Jatan kept the fountain at his back. One of the wooden mantises came forward to oppose him. My master did him the honor of assuming the fourth mantis position, raising the staff to shoulder height and grasping it in both hands.
The wooden machine dwarfed him, mandibles clacking. Its arms ended in the insect’s crushing claws. Limbs had been sharpened and festooned with spikes that could easily impale a man.
Phoyn Jatan remained undaunted. He bowed to his foe, took a mandible-clack as a suitable reply, and began slowly spinning the staff. The motion began clumsily, as one would expect of an old man with stiff joints and atrophied muscles, but as the staff moved more quickly, the motion became fluid. The golden-hued staff blurred into a circle. The air hummed. A golden nimbus surrounded my master. Jaedun surged.
The mantis drew back a half step, almost crushing a hapless Ixunite, then stabbed a claw forward. Phoyn shifted the spin, angling the staff up, as if to parry. The idea that he could succeed defied logic-the staff was a twig deflecting a battering ram. Staff struck claw with a terrible crack. Splinters flew. Two huge chunks of claw bounced past me. My master stood unaffected as the small sawdust cloud settled in a open circle around him.
The mantis pulled back and examined its arm. The ragged stump gave the warrior pause for a heartbeat, then it struck again. It raised the stump as a club and swung hard, intending to pound my master into paste.
Cobblestones shattered under the assault. Count Vroan fell. I went to a knee. Master Jatan did not falter. He leaped forward. The staff whirled left, then shot out to its full length. The knob hit the mantis’ elbow.
Gold fire surged. The limb exploded like a lightning-struck tree. Ixunite warriors reeled away, bristling with splinters. The forearm bounced free, crushing two others.
Master Jatan stepped forward, moving almost too swiftly. Golden flame wreathed him. The staff lashed out to the right, then left. The mantis’ legs disintegrated. More lethal splinters flew.
The mantis, unbalanced and broken, flopped onto its belly. The impact knocked me flying. Its left arm flicked out, crushing the fountain’s basin. Water gushed like blood.
Master Jatan whirled and raised his staff for an overhand blow. He smashed the stick down, catching the mantis at the base of its spine.
The crack came as crisp as that of a well-seasoned log caught beneath a woodsman’s ax. The wood parted just as easily, splitting from pelvis to crown. What had previously been a seamless wooden construct collapsed into a collection of boards and pegs.