So I pulled my people back as well.

I read the dismay and disappointment in Dunos’ eyes. For him and so many others, war is a simple thing: kill or be killed. You have orders and you carry them out, trusting the decisions of your leaders. If an order required you to make the supreme sacrifice, you did so, contented, knowing you would be revered for your bravery.

Dunos had an excuse for believing that-he was but a child of ten years. Adults who believed it had never fought, or had never had to make a life-or-death choice-at least never one that affected them directly. A minister might quarantine a village so some fever would burn itself out, but he did so at a distance, never having to hear the moans of the dying or see the haunted faces of survivors. If you have not seen blood, you do not know war. If you do not know war, you cannot make the right decisions in war.

But then, having seen war was no guarantee you’d make the right decisions either.

We threaded our way through the city. The crowds thickened and we had to force our way to the bridge. I felt trapped by bodies pressing in around me. Any second an arrow would find me. A war machine would pluck me up and crush me like Master Jatan.

And, though I fought it, panic won. I shoved my way through the crowd. I was strong and they were weak. Heedless of protests, I reached the bridge and sent my people across. I ran after them and once safely behind the first line of ballistae, I turned, drawn by the screams rising from the south shore.

The kwajiin skirmishers appeared on the rooftops. They nocked arrows and shot, not even bothering to aim. People wailed and surged toward the Dragon Bridge, but Naleni guards had overturned wagons and set them on fire. Still people tried to climb around, and one man even tossed a young boy through the flames. The child landed, miraculously unburned, but broke a leg. Dunos darted out and dragged the child to safety.

Along the River Road, people scrambled over the wall and leaped into the river. At least one man made the mistake of standing when he topped the wall. Two kwajiin arrows lodged in his chest. Some people hit the water badly and never came up again. Bodies bobbed and floated eastward. Other people struck for the northern bank, swimming furiously. Many exhausted themselves, slowly sliding below the grey water.

Kwajiin archers reached the River Road to the east. They set up in a simple line. If swimmers had made it to the middle of the river, they were safe, but those just setting out had a choice of drowning or dying with arrows in their backs.

Then the gyanrigot arrived. A mantis kicked aside the burning wagons. Two ballistae shot. They were not small machines. They’d been loaded with timbers as thick around as my thigh and capped with triangular steel points half a yard long. The first blew through the mantis’ chest, knocking the gyanrigot back several steps before it exploded like a crushed barrel.

The second shaft glanced off the mantis, then whirled into a human soldier. The blade decapitated one cleanly and the shaft broke nine more. A cheer rose from behind us. I helped reload the ballistae. We could kill another couple here, then the ballistae line behind us could kill a few more. The ballistae on the north shore could sweep that half, killing even more.

Even so, we couldn’t stop them all. If they came, they’d win through.

But they did not come. The gyanrigot melted back into the city and kwajiin warriors took up positions commanding the foot of the bridge.

The war for Moriande was half-over, and we had been soundly defeated.

The green light in Qiro’s tower suggested decay to Nelesquin. The conditions within the tower certainly agreed. Tzaden vines had broken through windows and proliferated wildly. The workshop was a shambles. The weight of vine and fruit had collapsed desks and drafting tables. Charts had been crumpled by grasping vines and curtained partitions had been ripped down.

Yet as Qiro preceded him into the jungle, it seemed he noticed none of the destruction. He drifted through it, irritated only by the occasional vine that tugged at his ankle. The plants shrank from his curses.

Nelesquin stopped at the chamber’s heart. “I will, of course, assign people to clean this up.”

Qiro spun. “No, under no circumstance shall anyone enter.”

Kaerinus, who had trailed in their wake, left off sniffing a tzaden flower. “Does this mean I should leave, my lord?”

Qiro nodded, but Nelesquin forestalled that command with a flick of his hand. “No, not yet. When you do go, you can tell Pravak we have found his left hand.” Nelesquin kicked the thing free of a tangle of vines, but more grew to trap it.

Kaerinus bent and retrieved the bones. “Most aggressive, these vines. They render your tower quite uninhabitable.”

Qiro laughed aloud. “That doesn’t matter. The tower is mine again.”

Nelesquin surveyed the wreckage. “It is not much of a prize, Master Anturasi.”

“If you believe that, you are a fool.” He walked to the far wall and sank a hand deep into the vines. “Behold the world.”

With seemingly no effort at all, Qiro pulled and a whole tapestry of vines fell away. They revealed a white wall with a map of the world drawn on it.

Nelesquin’s mouth went dry. As the son of the last Emperor, he had been privy to what was known of the world. While they had traded with the lands beyond Ixyll, little was known of their culture and nothing of their political structure. Fleets had sailed south and west, trading at islands or a few seaports, but those distant ports defined the edges of the known world.

“It’s beautiful.” Nelesquin walked toward it, his blue eyes shining. “That’s Aefret? It’s much larger than I could have imagined. And Tas al Aud, I didn’t think it was that far west.”

Qiro turned slowly, his fingers intertwined and pressed against his breastbone. “Yes, Prince Nelesquin. This is the world. My world. It is the place I have created. You see there, Anturasixan, my continent, wrought by my hand and my will.”

The cartographer pointed toward the top of the map and the blue line running above the Helos Mountains. “There is the Imperial canal connecting the Dark Sea with the ocean. No, not a canal, a river. Yes, a river. The River Nelesquin. There, my lord, I name it for you. I made it. I name it for you now.”

A chill ran up the Prince’s spine. “You are most kind, Master Anturasi.”

Qiro spread wide his arms and turned to the map again. “You have returned to me my tower. I am not ungrateful.”

“I am pleased that you are pleased. And you have given me a great gift.”

“What is that, Highness?”

“The world, of course.” Nelesquin smiled broadly as he studied the map. “We shall restore the Empire once the pretender is destroyed. And then, well, look at how much we have to conquer. Your name shall be exalted in all the lands, Master Anturasi. My legions will bring all this under control.”

Qiro turned, a thin smile on his lips. “But it is already under control. This is my world, Prince Nelesquin.”

“I understand that, Master Anturasi, but it shall be my Empire. Look there, where your knowledge of Aefret ends. I will push into those lands, and you will add them to your map. I will bring you more of the world.”

“You will bring me more of what is already mine?”

“Yes, Master Anturasi.” Nelesquin smiled indulgently. “And I have given an order that the gates of gold are to be ripped away. You are prisoner here no longer.”

“You are most kind, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro gave him an odd smile, then returned to studying his map.

Nelesquin led Kaerinus out of the tower. He paused, catching his companion by the sleeve, fighting the fatigue washing over him. “He is too dangerous. He will have to be destroyed.”

Kaerinus nodded. “And you shall destroy him, my lord.”