Ciras slid his sword from the scabbard. Black sigils writhed over it. “He created this sword and the changing words?”

Vlay smiled. “He did. He was quite proud of it. He said the sword would be the bard to tell his tale.”

Ciras frowned. “I have been given to understand that Prince Nelesquin and the Turasynd struck a bargain.”

“True. Empress Cyrsa sent Virisken Soshir forth with a contingent to destroy the vanyesh.” He looked around at Tolwreen. “Apparently they did not succeed, but hurt them significantly.”

“When they showed us Nelesquin’s skeleton, there were no more than eighty-one remaining.” Ciras returned the blade to the scabbard. “I had an unusual experience the first time I used that blade. It was here, in Ixyll. I was working through the forms and as I imagined foes, they came at me. Turasynd, all of them save one. Why would Yirxan fight with the Turasynd if he was of the vanyesh and they were allies?”

Vlay’s eyes tightened. “As I said, I did not know him well, but I heard things of him even after he joined the vanyesh. I was told he retained his loyalties to the Empress. He was her agent among them. Through him, we learned of the alliance. No doubt the Turasynd would have taken a disliking to his show of allegiance.”

“And the Turasynd could not have reported back if they were all slaughtered.” Ciras nodded, thinking back to the exhilaration he recalled from that exercise. Jogot Yirxan had been exultant in his destruction of the Turasynd. He had likewise been magnificent, facing them fairly, striking them down.

“If this is true, I have to wonder at another thing I saw.”

“What was that?”

“Yirxan struck down a swordsman. He attacked him from behind, wounding him terribly.” Ciras closed his eyes. “I did not see the face of the man he struck, but the crest, it was of a black tiger hunting.”

“A black tiger hunting?”

The surprise in Vlay’s voice prompted Ciras to open his eyes, but he caught no emotion on the man’s face. “You know who that was? I ask because my master, Moraven Tolo, wore that crest. He also had a scar on his chest that corresponded to that cut.”

“You’re certain?”

“As best I can be.”

Vlay pursed his lips for a moment. “The black tiger hunting was worn by the Empress’ lover, the leader of the Imperial Bodyguards. You say his name is Moraven Tolo?”

“I can describe him for you, if you wish.”

The other man shook his head. “No need. If Nelesquin has survived, it stands to reason Virisken Soshir has as well. They were both men of great ambitions-the sort which you are wise to fear, Master Dejote.”

“But that makes no sense.” Ciras frowned. “My master was anything but ambitious. He was xidantzu, and though he was known to Princes, he had no pretensions or wild desires. He did not even want me as an apprentice, but his master insisted.”

“Perhaps I am mistaken, and the matter of crests is merely a coincidence.”

“But the mystery remains. If, as you say, Yirxan was loyal to the Empress, what reason would he have to attack her lover?”

Vlay smiled. “No mystery at all. Soshir was ambitious. The Empress was a means to destroy Nelesquin, his rival. If she made him Prince-consort, Soshir could become the Emperor in all but name. To rise to such heights from so lowly a start would have been remarkable. And yet, he could have risen higher. She ascended, after all, when she killed her own husband. Soshir could kill her, setting to rights the balance, restoring royal blood to the Celestial Throne. That was how Soshir would think.”

“So she sent him out on a mission against Nelesquin that should have killed them both, and when Soshir failed to die…”

“…She had him killed by a man she knew could be trusted.” Vlay shook his head. “Ambition can often counteract ambition, but to be caught in the middle of such a struggle is a lethal proposition.”

“So it appears.”

“Do not dwell on it, Master Dejote.” Vlay smiled and headed off to finish loading the wagons. “Just find a way to avoid it.”

Ciras nodded, but his thoughts were already racing. If his master was indeed Virisken Soshir, then would he be as much of a danger now as he had been? And if he was, could Ciras kill him? He would never strike his master from behind, and he was not sure he could defeat him in an even fight.

More important, his loyalty was for Moraven Tolo, not an Empress he’d never met. He’d known of her as a courtesan. She and his master knew each other, but did Moraven know who she was? Did Moraven know who he was? Was his choice of names a window on his intentions, or a blind meant to hide them?

Many warriors changed their names. Some did so on a whim. Others did so to honor a master or a patron. Often a warrior did so to commemorate a great deed. Ciras had not because he was proud of his name and wished to honor his family.

Moraven Tolo, when written out, could be read one of several ways. Sleeping dragon would be the most common reading. Another would be courage unfolding. The darkest reading, however, was victory of desire, which did not seem in keeping with his master, as it hinted at hidden ambitions.

Ciras growled to himself. “You’re playing children’s games. You know your master. You know his character. His ambition is to keep his sword in the scabbard.”

But his mind would not be turned from consideration so easily. Jogot Yirxan likewise could be read many ways. Steadfastly loyal came easiest, and yet what Vlay had said about Yirxan put the lie to that from the vanyesh point of view. Midnight justice also worked. As Vlay had said, justice can oppose ambition, and Yirxan must have done just that.

Perhaps I can do both things. Ciras rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I am heir to a sword, but not the circumstances that drove it through my master.”

With the last of the wagons loaded and groaning under the weight of Borosan’s loot from Tolwreen, the Voraxan expedition headed out again. And Ciras admitted that the new mounts could appear almost lifelike-but he refrained from calling them beasts or horses. They carried the riders smoothly along, almost as if they were floating on a river.

They passed swiftly through a series of valleys. Ciras recognized none of them. Forests of silver trees sprouted leaves that tarnished into dust before they could spiral to the ground. A carpet of red flowers looked innocent enough, but when one of the thanatons scurried into the valley ahead of the riders, serpentine warriors slithered from the ground, each with red blossoms atop antennae. They sought to wrestle the thanaton to a stop, but the gyanrigot pulled away and Voraxani arrows cut down the pursuit.

They skirted that valley, which made their journey longer. The valley curled around to the south and extended across their line of march. The riders increased their speed because the serpent-men didn’t move very quickly, but in doing so almost raced into disaster.

They crested a line of hills and started down into a wide and dusty bowl. Ciras rode in the lead and found the place refreshingly benign until, up ahead, he saw riders riding hard toward them. Before he could suggest they slow down, he recognized the lead rider as himself, growing larger as if he were riding into a mirror. Uncertain if it was a mirage or something more malevolent, Ciras drew his sword and touched a switch on his mount’s neck, snapping armor and spikes into place.

A heartbeat before the Voraxani ran into the mirror, Turasynd horsemen burst through the illusory curtain. They let fly with a volley of arrows. The missiles sped across the narrowing divide, intended to sweep the Empress’ riders from their mounts.

Arrows bounced from Ciras’ mount. Curved metal plates had slid out to protect his shins and thighs. The mount’s mane stiffened into a coarse line that then split like butterfly wings to either side of the neck. Missiles glanced from the mane or snapped harmlessly against the mount’s broad breast.