“But not until I am whole. Hurry, Kaerinus, find what I need.” Nelesquin raised his head. “If I am to be Master of the World, I must be whole. The sooner I am, the sooner our new campaign begins.”

Keles hugged his arms around himself. “You have tried everything, Master Geselkir?”

The rotund man wiped sweat from his brow with a square of stained silk. “There is nothing more…”

“Perhaps the Viruk ambassador. She healed me.”

The Prince’s physician shook his head. “I consulted her and even begged her to use magic, but she said that too much damage had been done. The sword split her spine and ruptured her bowels, poisoning her blood.”

“But the xunling root, it helped.”

“But a body can only take so much of it, Keles. It numbs because it is poison.” Geselkir patted Keles’ shoulder. “We have tried everything.”

Keles grabbed the man’s sleeve. “There must be something more.” Tears leaked from his eyes.

“You should say good-bye.”

Keles nodded, his throat thick. He swiped at tears, then entered the darkened chamber. Tyressa, her flesh as pale as her hair, lay on a bed. The only light came from a candle on the table next to her. The xunling roots stood sentinel against the walls. Rekarafi huddled in the far corner, his face hidden in shadows.

Keles approached the bed quietly and drew up a chair. Tyressa looked so innocent, so beautiful. Gone was the wariness and ferocity that had always been a part of her.

She’d been dressed in a black silk robe, embroidered in gold with the rampant hound crest in which all Keru were laid to rest. A white sheet covered her to just beneath her breasts. Her breathing came regularly, but shallow and rasping.

He took her hand in both of his and shuddered. Her flesh was so cold. He looked at his hands, now healed in part because of her ministrations, and held on more tightly. He closed his eyes, searching for a way to summon the magic to make her whole.

Her hand tightened on his, briefly. He looked at her. Her blue eyes fluttered open, but only halfway.

“No, Keles. Your magic won’t work.”

“Tyressa…”

“You make things whole. I already am.” Her eyes closed for a second. “I have outlived Pyrust. I served my Prince and kept you safe.”

Keles nodded, determined not to cry.

“And I have been loved.”

Keles’ tears fell on their hands.

“Do not cry, Keles.” Again she squeezed his hand weakly. “I became Keru because hatred filled me. There was no room for love in my heart. You made me whole.”

“You can’t die.”

“I must. Kianmang awaits. There are Hells for warriors who only know hate.” Tyressa struggled for breath. “I will know paradise because of you.”

“Tyressa, I love you.” He held on tight. “Don’t leave me.”

“You will be cared for, Keles. Better than I could have managed.”

Her grip slackened as the Viruk’s hands clasped Keles’ shoulders. “Come.”

“But…”

“Her niece is here.”

Keles nodded and stood. He wiped away his tears, then bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Good-bye, Tyressa. To Kianmang swiftly.”

Keles let himself be led from the room. He tried to look back, but Rekarafi’s broad body eclipsed his view. He nodded to a red-eyed Jasai as they passed in the doorway, then attempted to shrug off the Viruk’s hands. But Rekarafi directed him through a doorway and onto a balcony that overlooked Moriande to the south.

Keles refused to look at him. “Why wouldn’t you let me stay?”

“She did not want to have you see her die.”

“She shouldn’t die alone.”

“Jasai will be with her. Prince Eiran, too, if he comes quickly enough.” The Viruk came up beside him and looked out over the city. “She was a warrior. She would not have you think of her otherwise. We will mourn her, you and I, then I will avenge her.”

“I already tore him apart.”

“But you didn’t kill him, Keles. You do not kill. But I know the one who did this to her. He also maimed Ciras Dejote. That I did not kill him when I had the chance long ago is an error I shall soon remedy.”

TheNewWorld

31st 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

Shirikun, North Moriande

Free Nalenyr

Cyron Komyr stared at the wall-mounted map of his divided capital. Despite a few scattered fires, it had not been significantly damaged by flames. Eight bridges had come down with a minimum of casualties, though too many of his people had been trapped on the far side.

A semicircle of tables surrounded him. Reports of all types lay on them, some scrolled, some bound into folios, some just notes scribbled onto scraps of paper. He’d perused them all, had Eiran sort them into piles, and sent his clerks out for more.

He scratched at his stump as he studied the map. It was hardly a remarkable specimen-certainly not an Anturasi chart-which he had marked up with numbers and symbols and ideograms of his own invention.

He turned from the map and frowned at the Empress and Virisken Soshir. “The news is not as dire as could be expected. The kwajiin came straight north. Other troops secured the wings. A few Dragons, some militia, and xidantzu put up a spirited defense of Wentokikun. They repulsed two assaults by Virine Bears. Kwajiin were diverted to kill them, but failed to get them all. Nelesquin has made his headquarters in the Bear Tower. There are scattered pockets of resistance in the south. Black Myrian and his family of bandits are contesting control of the docks. A small boat went across last night. I hope to have word back tonight.”

The Empress nodded and would have spoken, save for a quick knock on the door. A clerk stood there and bowed deeply, extending a folded and sealed note through the door. Eiran crossed and took it, then delivered it to Cyron. He pressed the paper against his thigh, then broke the seal with his thumb.

Shaking it open, he studied it for a moment, then handed it to Eiran. “The developing-situations pile, please. Majesty, you were going to say something?”

“Count Derael provided a realistic view of our ability to hold Nelesquin’s forces back. Within the city we are well defended. If Nelesquin were to send his war machines west, cross the river, and come back on the north side, we would face a repeat of yesterday’s assault.”

“I have taken steps to deal with it.” Cyron rubbed at his eyes. “The gyanrigot are a significant problem. They can overwhelm our defenses, but they cannot hold territory. They must have support troops, and we can kill those. The gyanrigot are not invulnerable, either.”

Virisken nodded. “So you don’t believe he has the troops necessary to conquer the north?”

“Not right now.” Cyron jerked a thumb at the map. “Prince Pyrust stripped his nation and put weapons in the hands of everyone who could carry them. Similarly, I am arming as many of my people as we can. The kwajiin may be formidable, but they’re not immortal. With every citizen armed, taking the whole of Moriande will be difficult.”

“He had Virine soldiers and troops from the Five Princes fighting for him.” The Empress’ eyes narrowed. “Can he bring more up?”

“It will take the better part of a month.” Eiran fished through a pile of papers and glanced at a sheet. “He has to feed his army in the interim. There’s not enough food in the south to do that.”

Virisken’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

The Naleni Prince patted a stack of folios nearly a yard tall. “It’s all in here. Erumvirine shipped us a million quor of rice, and we shipped nearly that much north to Deseirion. We left minimal stores in the south. He has a week, two at the outside.”

Even as he spoke, Cyron began to revise his assessments. It was as if just touching the ledgers and inventories refreshed his memory. He could see the stores shrinking as they were consumed. Every theft, every grain nibbled by a rat, every bit of waste; it all came to him easily. Heavy rains or abnormally hot days would alter things in different ways. Even the way the kwajiin ate and what they needed was different, or could be. I have to find out about that.