Doing what he should have done was not the work of a warrior. Cyron could have run that kind of a campaign. It would not have been a military victory, it would have been a victory of logistics. He would have been doing to the kwajiin what Cyron had tried to do to him. Pyrust would have controlled the invaders by denying them supplies-a shopkeeper’s war.

Victory was what they required of me, but I wanted a specific type of victory-a military victory. More the fool, I. Never buy with blood what can be won with words, time, or rice.

The parade of soldiers stopped at the Imperial Palace. Kwajiin warriors pulled Pyrust from the midst of his companions and forced him up the stairs. At the top they allowed him to turn and look back. The crowd of Virine dwarfed the soldiers. As miserable as his men looked-Desei, Naleni, and Virine combined-they possessed more nobility than all the residents of Kelewan.

As the warriors marched Pyrust into the palace, he could not help but smile. He’d never seen the place before, but it lived up to even the most fanciful of descriptions. Nelesquin’s new statue glared down at him, but did not inspire fear. In fact, Pyrust took heart in seeing it.

He filled that niche very quickly. The man clearly suffers from vanity.

The trek up the stairs and to the throne room confirmed Pyrust’s assumption. Already murals had been repainted, rewriting Virine history. Nelesquin’s face replaced those of legendary heroes-no matter that the events depicted occurred after the Cataclysm.

The guards stopped him at the throne room’s entrance. They unlocked his chains. They stripped off the soiled robe and replaced it with a plain red one. They looped a gold sash around his waist and even tucked a short dagger in a wooden scabbard at his right hip.

Then the doors opened. Along strip of red carpet edged with purple connected the entrance to the foot of the throne dais. Nelesquin sat in the Bear Throne, backed by a huge stone disk with all the signs of the Zodiac carved into the edge. It transformed the Bear Throne into an Imperial throne and its presence did not surprise Pyrust.

What did surprise him was the fact that the disk was taller than any door or window in the room. It had no seams. How did he get it into this room?

Tales of his vanyesh and their power tightened Pyrust’s guts. If his forces are backed by xingna, is there a strategy that will defeat them?

Pyrust lifted his chin and began the trek along the carpet. A side from Nelesquin and himself, only two others occupied the room. One, a slender man in an emerald-and-black cloak, stood to Nelesquin’s left. The other man knelt at his right, on the floor, with a golden chain connecting his collar to the foot of the throne.

Nelesquin stood. “Of you, Prince Pyrust, I have heard much. My field general praised you and your effort. As you can see with your brother, Prince Jekusmirwyn, I am not without mercy. A man of your skills and standing could be of use in my Empire.”

Nelesquin’s rich, warm tones filled the room. Jekusmirwyn twitched at the sound. The man’s eyes did not quite focus in the present. Pyrust had seen that look in the eyes of those Delasonsa had tortured. He understood the quality of Nelesquin’s mercy.

Pyrust stopped shy of the throne and chose not to bow. “It has not been my custom to subordinate myself to a prince.”

Nelesquin smiled slowly. “I am an emperor.”

“A pretender. Empress Cyrsa sits on the Dragon Throne in Moriande. Her claim predates yours and is stronger.”

The larger man’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a warrior, but you speak like a bureaucrat. Tell the truth. You chafe beneath her orders.”

Pyrust rubbed his raw wrists. “I would chafe beneath your orders as well.”

“Brilliant.” Nelesquin looked to his companion. “I told you, Kaerinus, there were men of this age that yet had steel in their spine. The worthy did not all die in Ixyll.”

The cloaked man said nothing.

Nelesquin stepped from the dais and waved Pyrust over to a window. He slid a panel open. Down below, in the square before the palace, the eighty men who had marched in chains with Pyrust stood surrounded. Visible from that height, eighty wooden crosses were being erected on the city walls.

“I have need to show mercy to the people of Kelewan. I will pardon eighty men and women to celebrate our victory, and have your men crucified in their place. It’s a most unpleasant way to die.”

Pyrust nodded and fingered the ring. “I am not a stranger to crucifixion.”

“Freeing the Virine will build loyalty, but I need them less than I need a man like you. If you join me, then Deseirion and Helosunde will come with you. This makes eliminating Nalenyr much easier. Cyrsa will be deposed and the rightful order can be re-established.” Nelesquin rested a hand on Pyrust’s shoulder. “You will be much rewarded and your men will be spared.”

“Your offer is most generous…” Pyrust’s right hand came up and around in a backhanded slap that caught Nelesquin on the right cheek. The pretender staggered back. His hand rose to his cheek and probed the gash.

He began to laugh. His hand came away dry. The torn skin was not bleeding.

Nelesquin’s blue-eyed stare bore into him. “Poison, I assume?”

“A noxious venom. Some sea creature, I suspect. It will be painless.”

Nelesquin nodded. “I’m quite sure it would be. Have I anything to fear, Kaerinus?”

The cloaked man shook his head. “I can neutralize it, but what is the point?”

“True.” Nelesquin smiled and ran a finger over the torn flesh. In its wake the flesh had sealed itself. “You see, Prince Pyrust, when I decided to become Emperor, I did not wish to leave anything to chance. Not even death. I took precautions. Were I as shortsighted as you are, I should now be dead and you would be a hero.”

Nelesquin’s fingers weaved through a sigil. Purple fire illuminated the character for a heartbeat, then Pyrust’s silver ring heated up. It glowed, then melted through the Prince’s little finger.

Pyrust clutched his hand to his chest, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Blood dripped, but the robe absorbed it. Then something hit him in the back of his knees, driving him to the stone floor. Nelesquin grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back.

“I would have given you much, had you but worshipped me.”

“What you would give, I would never want.”

Nelesquin stooped and drew the dagger from Pyrust’s sash. “Then I shall give you eternity to mull over your folly.”

The Desei Prince caught his face flashed in reflection on the steel. He smiled. His eyes betrayed no fear and remained clear, even as Nelesquin drove the dagger into his throat and lodged it in his spine.

Pelut Vniel stared at the dagger lying on his tea table. He looked down at his reflection. A haggard man looked back. Dark circles haunted his eyes. His flesh had taken on a pallid hue.

His gaze flicked from the dagger to the note that had come with it. Prince Cyron had written it himself. Pelut recognized his brushwork. None of the others had come in the Prince’s hand.

“The tragedy of battle now demands all take heart and unite to oppose the enemy. Those who do not do their utmost in opposing him, are complicit with him. Make this blade the sign of your commitment to the future.”

Pelut shivered. Others who had gotten daggers from the Prince had proudly slid them into their sashes. The Prince had won them over. Praising them. Rewarding them. Making them feel important, but in doing so he had overturned the natural order of things. He had destroyed the safeguards that prevented the nation from lurching into anarchy or despotism. It did not matter that his efforts seemed necessary to oppose an enemy. They transformed the state into something that would always need an enemy.

Once Nelesquin was defeated- if he was defeated-where would Cyron turn next? Cyrsa would occupy the throne, but it would be Cyron’s dream of empire that would be fulfilled. He would make his vision real, by hook or by crook, destroying the very structures that had kept humanity safe.