“Looks like it was drawn in blood.”

“I have no doubt. His blood.” Keles’ shoulders slumped. “With a whim, he created a continent. And with malice aforethought, I believe he means to destroy another.”

TheNewWorld

14th 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

Kunji Wentoki, Moriande

Nalenyr

The only thing Pelut Vniel liked about the suffocating weight of the ceremonial white mourning robes was that others hated wearing them even more than he did. Sleeves, leggings, and hems had been so exaggerated that everyone looked like children wearing adult clothing. He’d not been required to march through the street with the wagon bearing Prince Pyrust’s body to the Temple of Wentoki. This was good, because his refusal to join the procession would have caused a stir.

Or should have.

His objection to the whole funeral had excellent grounds based on tradition. Pyrust’s body should have been tossed onto the plains south of Moriande for carrion birds to pick apart. He failed to defend the Empress’ holdings, so he was hardly worthy of a state funeral. Moreover, the people of Nalenyr had lived in fear of him for years. Their sons and daughters-or at least their gold-had gone to opposing him. To grant him the long procession that wound through the streets had been absurd.

It had also been quite the spectacle. The buildings along the route had been whitewashed overnight. People wore white-or as close as they could get to it. Many people caked their faces with white cosmetics, or painted white tears on their cheeks. White ribbons hung from branches and fluttering strips of white paper drifted to the streets. Pelut had seen the reports. He knew the expense of it all. It was pure silliness.

Cyron had organized it. Pelut was certain that the Prince did so because he would never have gotten such a funeral had the assassin succeeded in killing him. His body would have been dragged through the streets and torn apart by dogs. It would have been a fittingly ignominious ending for someone who had all but destroyed the bureaucracy.

Pyrust served as his surrogate.

Cyron had gotten all the funeral’s details wrong as well. Pelut cast a sidelong glance at the procession and barely contained his anger. It was one thing to have Pyrust lie in state in Shirikun, but six days? Cyron’s own father had only been on display for three. True, six days was the correct amount for an Imperial Prince, but Pyrust wasn’t born of Imperial loins. Like the Komyr Dynasty, the Jaeshi had begun with bloody-handed bandits usurping a throne. Cyron decided to show Pyrust that honor to further the fiction of the Empress having returned-especially when everyone knew it was Nelesquin who was coming to reestablish the Empire.

And Cyron’s graciousness utterly belied the fact that Pyrust had come to Moriande to kill him and claim the Dragon Throne as his own.

Then Cyron-not content with offending tradition and sensibility-decided to compound his errors by affronting Heaven. By rights, Pyrust’s pyre should have been built in the square in front of Kunji Shiri. Granted, the Temple of the Hawk was decidedly run-down and small, but to use that as an excuse to honor him in front of the Temple of the Dragon? It beggared credulity. Wentoki would want nothing to do with Pyrust. Better they held the funeral at the Temple of Death, for Pyrust was clearly one of Grija’s favorites. Even the Temple of Kojai would have been more appropriate-Pyrust did rule Helosunde, and the Dog god was the god of War, after all.

All the begging Cyron might do, or the sacrifices he might offer, would not make the Dragon open the gates of Kianmang to accept Pyrust. The man might have been a warrior, but he was a nasty one who had never hesitated to inflict as much damage as he could. Vicious in war and fierce in retribution, the man deserved perdition.

And damned he shall be.

Cyron might well have thought he had completely neutralized Pelut, but the Prince never really understood the complexities of running a bureaucracy. Part of it was finding things for people to do, and not always meaningful things. By keeping them working, but not allowing them to see the overall picture, you maintained power. And that power could be unleashed as needed.

Wood had been assembled in the square before the broad and tall Temple of the Dragon, creating a pyre. Logs had been stacked in a cube that rose eighteen feet high. White silk banners had been tied to the crosspieces. Simple prayers for Pyrust had been drawn on each one. And there, visible beneath the platform, were thousands of other written prayers that had been folded up and tossed amid all the kindling. The prayers would burn along with Pyrust, and Wentoki would read them before beseeching Grija to admit Pyrust to Heaven.

Cyron had been content to allow Pelut to handle the production of those prayers. The silken ones asked the gods to be fair and just in their judgment of Pyrust. His clerks had used some of the more archaic symbols to express this message because it was appropriate to the gravity of the ceremony. He doubted Cyron could read but half of them, yet had the Prince had them translated, he would have seen nothing duplicitous in the messages.

The folded prayers-which had been produced by a cadre of young ministers-were slightly different. They implored Wentoki to forget Desei atrocities, while describing them in great detail. After reading countless messages about the evil Pyrust had done, the gods would have no choice but to interpret “justice” in his case as sending him into the most hideous of the Nine Hells.

The procession spread into the square, and Pelut clenched fists hidden in voluminous sleeves. First came the cart bearing the body. It wore an empty saddle that had been draped with white. The body, which had been wrapped in white silk, lay buried beneath a blanket of flowers and paper strips from the street. As it drew up, four strong priests of the Dragon moved in to convey the body to the platform atop the pyre.

Behind that wagon came a simple carriage carrying two women. The Empress wore white, including a porcelain mask.

Pyrust’s widow rode beside her, likewise in white. She did not hide behind a mask, but her face had been made up in white and her hair bleached. Save for the dancing of a wisp of hair and the red-rimmed icy blue eyes, she might have been a marble statue. Her robes hid the signs of her pregnancy, but there was not a person present who did not know her womb nurtured the dead man’s child.

Jasai’s presence galled Pelut. Was there anyone in the city who did not know that Jasai had loathed her husband and was escaping his realm when she arrived in Moriande? Pelut gladly spread rumors that the child she carried was not Pyrust’s, but that of Keles Anturasi. While Jasai’s attendance at the funeral-and her apparent distress at her husband’s death-thrilled the romantics in the city, it would be her undoing.

Pelut would see to it.

After that came another carriage, with Prince Cyron and Virine Count Derael. The latter looked little better than the corpse, and Cyron was not much healthier. Their hats tapered to abrupt points and, had there been a following breeze, were wide enough to propel the wagon.

The men’s presence was meant to inspire the people. In Pelut it inspired hatred. How could the people take heart in these men? Two cripples were Moriande’s defense? Already, people were grumbling that Nelesquin had killed one cripple, so throwing two more at him would mean nothing.

Pelut encouraged that effort, and was pleased at how little he had to spend manufacturing fear.

Once the four priests had placed Pyrust high on the pyre, they carried Count Derael to the broad landing halfway up the steps to the temple. Cyron slowly mounted the steps as the troops who had marched behind the procession filled the square. The Desei troops had painted their shields white and had added the clipped feathers back to the hawk on their crests. Virine and Naleni troops had white silk strips dangling from their helmets. The company of misfit xidantzu had relaced half their armor with white cords.