Turcol answered quietly. “Of course, Highness.”

“I have looked at those who might be able to replace me, were Pyrust to send assassins after me. I believe you are the man with the most potential. But I would ask you a question first.”

“Please.”

“Were you in my place, and you learned of an invasion of a southern neighbor-say Erumvirine-which threatened to destroy that nation, what would you do?”

Turcol sat up straight and his horse slowed, allowing Prince Eiran to ride forward. “I’d find out how much of a threat it was. I would want to know who the invaders were. Is it a fight for the Virine throne, or is it something larger that threatens Nalenyr?”

“That is a good place to start, Count Turcol.” Cyron frowned. “Suppose all you know is that the defenders have been forced back, and that very few refugees have fled-not because they are content with the invaders, but because they’ve all been slain. Moreover, assume the Virine Prince is too slow in answering the challenge, and that even the professional spies are not reporting back. What would you do?”

“In that case, the indications are obvious. I’d shift my best troops south to guard against an invasion, and I would shore up my northern defenses by calling…” Turcol’s head came up as his eyes grew wide. “Is this why you demanded troops from the west, Highness? Is there a threat from Erumvirine?”

“It would be dreadful if that rumor were spread about. It might cause a panic, don’t you think? Better to start a rumor that troops have become weak and need to be rotated away for training and discipline. And best to start calling up troops who will be needed if the invasion is more than the Keru can handle.”

Turcol reached out and caught his arm with a hand. “Is that possible?”

“That is the problem with being a prince, my lord. A prince hasn’t the luxury of asking if something is possible. He must just plan for what he will do when it happens.” Cyron smiled and pointed ahead. “There it is, Memorial Hill. Let’s not have any more dour talk, shall we?”

Turcol looked up, then nodded. “No, Highness. You honor me with your thoughts and your confidence. I wish to assure that if I were to replace you, I should keep our nation safe.”

“It pleases me to hear that.” Cyron nodded. “Now I can die reassured.”

They rode on. Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade reached the hill first. They dismounted and hitched their horses to some bushes. Cyron joined them, and the three walked up to the hilltop together. Cyron strode to the center where a trio of stones had been placed. Two smaller ones held up a large grey granite slab, forming a rough lean-to.

Resting a hand on one of the support stones, he turned to the other two. “I had these stones raised thus. The slab is my grandfather, the two supports are my father and brother. Perhaps when I am gone my successor will dig up another stone from the hill and place it here for me. The hill once was an old Imperial fort, Tsatol Disat. It had wonderful command of the countryside.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled as she slowly spun in a circle, taking in the view. Though not the highest point in the forest, it provided an unobstructed view to the north and east. In the distance Moriande was visible. Forest claimed the hill’s western side and the dark trees contrasted beautifully with the stones.

“I understand why you come here, Highness. It is very beautiful and peaceful.”

The Helosundian Prince nodded. “I shall find such a spot in Helosunde. It gives you perspective.”

“Perspective, yes, but do not underestimate the value of peace.” Cyron looked back down the hill to where Turcol, still mounted, was speaking with the attendants. He waved to him, and shouted, “Come join us, Count Turcol.”

The count waved back, but fell into conversation again.

The Lady of Jet and Jade came to Cyron’s side. “I think it is my fault, Highness. I do not think he likes me.”

Cyron laughed. “I think he doesn’t like the fact that you don’t like him. You’ve seen how he watches you.”

“Does he? I care not for how anyone watches me.”

The sincerity of her remark surprised Cyron. “You’re quite serious about that.”

“Completely, Highness.” She laughed lightly and faced both men. “I am a concubine, and a Mystic. As with other Mystics, I have seen more years than you would suppose. One of the things I have learned over the years is that it matters not at all how people look at me. It is how I look at them, and how I reach them, that matters. The external will fade unless one is blessed, but how you present yourself, and how you engage others, is what attracts them to you or not.”

She waved a hand toward Prince Cyron. “My saying what follows will not matter to you at all, but the good count would find it cause to react. You see, I could tell you that on this very spot, I made love with your grandfather after he was made Prince. With you, no reaction, no desire to do what your grandfather had done, no sense of competition with the past. You, Prince Cyron, require other things to excite you. If the count heard me say that…”

“Say what, my lady?” Turcol reined his horse back and looked down at her. “Do continue.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade’s eyes sharpened. “If I told you that I made love with Prince Jarus Turcol on this spot, and was willing to have him because he was a prince, you would be driven to take the throne and have me here and many other places. You are not satisfied with your life, so you seek victories that are foolish and petty.”

The westron raised an eyebrow. “Am I that transparent, my lady?”

“Prince Jarus Turcol was. It’s in your blood.”

Turcol’s expression hardened. “And would I have to be a prince to enjoy your company?”

“It would be a step.”

Cyron laughed and stepped forward. “My lord, you don’t see her joking often, do you?”

“She was serious, Highness. And she was right.” Turcol planted two fingers in his mouth and whistled aloud. A dozen men and women emerged from the forest depths. Half of them carried bows with arrows fitted to them already. The others had clubs, save for two with swords. They spread out in a semicircle, with two of the archers mounting the stone slab.

Cyron stared hard at Turcol. “You will explain this, please.”

“Only because you have been so gracious in explaining your confidence in me, Highness.” Turcol rested his hands on his saddle-horn and leaned forward. “You’ve ruined our nation and left it open to threats from both north and south. You have beggared and humiliated the western counties. We now face a military crisis, and you are ill suited to deal with it. Were you any sort of warrior at all, you’d be out here with more than just a dagger.”

The Prince nodded. “And so you hired these bandits. You will explain how you fought them valiantly and while you were able to drive them off, it was not before we were slain, all three of us.”

“Not three; two.” He looked down at the Lady of Jet and Jade. “I will have you here and wherever else I desire. Unless, of course, you want to die.”

She shook her head and stepped away from Cyron. “Not for a long time. Forgive me, Highness.”

Cyron shook his head. “Nothing to forgive, my lady.” He looked up at Turcol. “You know it will have to be a convincing act. You can’t come away from it unscathed. Perhaps there, in your right shoulder, an arrow. Not life-threatening, but serious enough to convince many of your effort. My doctor, Geselkir, will take care of it.”

Turcol snorted. “Perhaps you’re right, Highness, but that’s a detail I can work out later.”

“Another thing a prince cannot do, Turcol, procrastinate.” Cyron pointed up at the westron. “His right shoulder. Shoot him now.”

The archer above the Prince drew and loosed in one easy motion. The black barbed arrow pierced Turcol’s shoulder and darkness began to seep into his midnight-blue robe. He looked from his shoulder to the archer and back again.