But that didn’t really surprise him. He’d been in pain and had been traveling swiftly, neither of which gave him the time to get to know much about the places they were passing through. More important, however, he’d shut himself off to such learning because it reminded him of Tyressa; and to think of her was to have his heart feel as if it were sliding into the plant with Cort.

Tyressa had saved his life several times over, and when he was sick in Opaslynoti, she had tended to his needs. She was always honest with him, willing to hurt his feelings if it awakened him to realities he had to deal with.

And now she is dead.

Tyressa had been pulling herself out of a crack in the earth when Cort had shot her. She had gasped loudly, then slipped from sight. The last glimpse he had of her was the flash of her golden hair.

Numbly he remounted the horse and followed Dalen as the Desei sought a new path south. Tyressa had confused Keles, because most of the time she had been brusque and gruff. That had been part of her Keru discipline. Being that tough, she had lived up to the Keru legend-implacable, unapproachable, and incorruptible.

By just being strong and beautiful, the Keru-a select cadre of Helosundian women who served the Naleni royal house as bodyguards-had long been the object of fantasy for many a Naleni youth. Everyone had heard tales of liaisons between Keru and nobles or heroes-young Keru had to come from somewhere, after all. Boys dreamed of a Keru falling for them, or even just using them; but such things were fantasy alone.

And yet, for Keles, Tyressa had shown some tenderness. It wasn’t a melting of her resolve, but as if their association had disarmed her heart. At the last, even as they crawled through the cavern and muck to reach the place where he’d been taken captive, they’d joked companionably, as if she were his friend.

Keles refused to consider the possibility that he loved her. He had great affection for her, but if he admitted to love, then the grief he was holding at bay would consume him. But as determined as he was to deny love, he couldn’t deny the possibility that it might have grown into love; and having lost that was just as bad.

Keles frowned and swallowed past a lump in his throat while his horse plodded along in Dalen’s wake. The sun would be setting soon, and what little warmth it had created would be stolen away.

It occurred to him, as Dalen signaled a stop for the night in a hollow that would shelter them from the wind, that he could have pitched himself into the plant. But, no, that would never have done. His suicide would dishonor Tyressa’s sacrifice, and he would not write that epitaph to her life. She deserved more, and he would see to it that she got it.

And suicide would have prevented one other thing. Prince Pyrust, the half-handed tyrant, had caused her death. He’d once offered Keles a new home, and the cartographer had refused. Pyrust, clearly, had not accepted his refusal. He wanted Keles’ service, and no price was too great to pay for it.

He’ll find that’s not true. Keles would travel to Deseirion and give Pyrust all the help he wanted. All the help he needs… to put his nation into the grave

10th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Though Grand Minister Pelut Vniel appeared quite calm as he delivered his reports, something about his manner set Prince Cyron on edge. Pelut’s predecessor had always insisted on a formal setting for their discussions, so Cyron had taken it as a good sign that his new Grand Minister was willing to join him in his private chambers. Pelut did evidence some lingering traces of stiffness in the Prince’s presence, but that seemed to be largely affected.

Which means he is using it to hide something. Cyron’s shoulders sagged slightly as a great weariness washed over him. He remembered well how sitting on that same throne had aged his father so quickly. And Father ruled during a time of prosperity, with no enemies actively seeking his destruction.

Muted light glowed gold from the room’s wooden floor and Pelut’s shaved head. “Because of the relatively mild winter, my lord, we anticipate both a bountiful harvest of winter crops and an early planting season. We have no sign of drought and no reason to expect anything less than the abundant harvest with which we were favored last year.”

Cyron nodded, an unruly lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. “This may be true of crops, but if the winter is mild, both the Helosundians and Desei will be free to campaign early. Prince Pyrust would take great delight in attacking during the month of the Hawk.”

“Your Highness’ perception of the political climate is, as always, stunning.”

Cyron held up a hand. “You have no need to gild gold with me, Minister. Your predecessor raised empty praise to an art form, which is why I found dealing with him rather tedious.”

“I understand, my lord.” Pelut bowed low enough to touch his forehead to the floor. His golden silk robe, trimmed in yellow with small red dragons embroidered on it, shimmered and shifted. It allowed Cyron to imagine that his minister was not human at all, but some nightmare creature sent to torment him.

Cyron narrowed his light blue eyes. “You have been monitoring the shipments of rice to Deseirion. For every quor we send north, how much actually reaches Deseirion?”

Pelut straightened. “Minister Kan Hisatal is overseeing the shipments, Highness, and he has been most efficient. He reports to me that ninety-five percent of what we send to Deseirion reaches its intended destination.”

“Really?” Cyron leaned forward, not quite menacingly. “We were going to send a million quor north, so this would mean nine hundred fifty thousand quor will make it. And yet, you told me that forty thousand quor were destroyed in a warehouse fire in Rui.”

“That is true, Highness.”

“You might wonder why I mention this fire. Prince Eiran had ridden to Rui, to meet with other Helosundians and urge them to forestall provoking the Desei in the spring. I had a note from him in which he said he admired our people for their industriousness. He could not believe how quickly they had rebuilt Rui, after the fire.”

Pelut blinked, but Cyron could feel it was forced. “Highness, the destruction was confined to a warehouse.”

“Your informant on that matter was incorrect, Minister.” Cyron rose from his chair and began to pace crisply. His heels clicked sharply with each step and his robe-black, trimmed with gold, embroidered with brightly colored dragons at breast and back-whispered ominously. “A single quor is enough rice to keep a man alive for a year. It occupies roughly six and a third cubic feet. It would take a warehouse one hundred sixty feet on a side, rising to ten stories, to hold it all. Rui may have grown in the past nine years, Minister, but it hasn’t a building over four stories. The fire that consumed that much rice would have consumed the whole of the town.”

“I can see that, Highness.”

“But can your man, Hisatal? Does he think we are blind and stupid? Knowing Eiran would be going to Rui, I asked him to look for fire damage. I had already done the math.”

“Highness, you should have brought your concern to me. You did not need to send Prince Eiran as your personal spy.”

Cyron stopped and glared at Pelut. “My personal spy?”

Pelut’s face tightened, then he bowed to the floor again. “Forgive me, Highness.”

“No, Minister, this bears discussing. Have I not the right to information about my nation? You are the chief of all my ministers, from the grandest to the lowliest clerk. Shouldn’t any information I want come through you?”