Vanyesh. The word sent a trickle of fear down Jorim’s spine. The Cataclysm that brought the Time of Black Ice had been the fault of Nelesquin and his vanyesh. While anyone who trained hard enough in any endeavor could hope to become a Mystic, the vanyesh worked to harness magic by working with magic. Tales of the vanyesh were vile and used mostly to frighten children-but men can easily rekindle that fear in themselves.

“So, they think I’ll become a new Nelesquin?”

“Not all of them. Some know of the last vanyesh trapped in Moriande. They know Kaerinus heals people during the Festival, and they say the Amentzutl maicana don’t seem to hurt anyone. Still, they’ve seen strange things on this journey. They’re a long way from home, and unusual things make them uneasy.”

“I know.” Jorim looked down and watched water drip from his braided side locks. “They’re not the only ones afraid of my training. But it really doesn’t matter if they are afraid that I’ll become like Nelesquin or not. That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Surprise widened Anaeda’s eyes. “You, afraid of something?”

“Only myself.” He looked up at Iesol. “What does the Master say that is relevant?”

“Many things, Master Anturasi, but Book Nine, Chapter Five, Verse Nine speaks most to your point.” The clerk knelt and his voice became very solemn. “And the Master said, ‘Wisdom often begets power, but the child often destroys the work of the father.’ ”

A jolt ran through Jorim. “Yeah, that pretty much covers it.”

“You are afraid of power?” Anaeda grinned. “That’s not possible. You have been raised in one of the most powerful families in Nalenyr. Your grandfather’s merest whim is something the Prince treats like a command. You can’t fear power.”

“I don’t fear power, I fear what I might do with it.” He looked up at her. “You know of my grandfather, but you don’t know of my uncle, and my cousins and their children. You’ve not seen how my grandfather’s use of power has left them. Uncle Ulan was once his equal, but years of Qiro’s belittling have worn him down. I can barely remember a time when Ulan did not quake in my grandfather’s presence. Yes, I grew up around power, and I know how it can twist someone.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way, Jorim.”

“No? Urmyr’s opinion seems to be that there is no other result.”

Anaeda glanced at the clerk. “No disrespect to Urmyr, but this is not always true. Power distills and concentrates what is already there. I sail for the Prince of Nalenyr, and I have sailed under captains both good and bad. Aboard ship their word is law, to be obeyed without question. Some captains are cruel and live in fear, and it consumes them. Others are smart and brave, and their crew thrive with them.

“If what Urmyr said was an absolute, we would have no navy. We would have no leaders because the moment anyone rose to power, it would consume him. This isn’t true; we’ve all seen that.”

Jorim bowed his head toward her. “You’re a fine example, Anaeda. You are firm and fair, quick to discipline, but quick to praise. You’ll punish, but you’ll forgive and you listen to reason. I can accept you as proof of what you say. The question then is, how do you know how you will handle power?”

She laughed quickly. “It distills, remember? Look at how you handle everything, Jorim. Look at your life, at times when you have had to lead, or chafe under the leadership of another. How you act and have acted will tell you.”

He smiled, but she raised a hand. “One thing, however, will be very important. You need to think about the consequences when you’re wrong.”

“With the powers of a god at my command, they could be catastrophic.”

“Of that there is no doubt.” She stood and beckoned to Shimik. “We will leave you now, so you can reflect. Imagine the worst you can possibly imagine, then double and triple it. Then you might begin to see the first glimmers of how bad things could be.”

Jorim’s shoulders slumped. “You’re making this very hard.”

“No, I’m just helping you define the challenge.” Anaeda Gryst regarded him with sharpened eyes. “If you think that challenge is something you couldn’t handle as a man, you don’t want it as a god.”

“I don’t think I have much choice.”

“Perhaps not.” She took Shimik’s paw in her hand. “But then you better find it in yourself to answer that challenge, for failure to do so may be the greatest catastrophe of all.”

Chapter Seven

15th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Count Junel Aerynnor shifted stiffly on the daybed in his modest suite. He even forced a grimace for the benefit of his guest. While the knife wound he’d taken a week previous had not yet fully healed, it did not hurt him nearly as badly as he would have his guest believe. There was an advantage to appearing weak. He’d been trained in such deception as an agent of Deseirion, so Junel easily adapted his role to suit his mission.

Lord Xin Melcirvon had cast his sword onto the rumpled bed and pulled up a rough-hewn wooden chair. The chair did give him a slight height advantage, which he would have surrendered were they both standing. Junel wore his black hair shorter than his visitor, and his body was of longer, leaner proportions than that of the inland lord. They both had light eyes-blue for Junel and hazel for Melcirvon-but the visitor’s were set a bit too close to suggest intelligence or inspire confidence.

Melcirvon smiled almost sincerely. “I was dispatched here as soon as word reached us about your injury. I was told to assure you that any aid you require will be rendered. I will be making arrangements-discreetly of course.”

“This is most welcome news, my friend, but quite unnecessary.” Junel passed a hand over his face as if fatigued. “Prince Cyron has seen to it that I am being cared for. He was most solicitous and, had I desired it, I would now be ensconced in Wentokikun as the Prince’s guest.”

Melcirvon failed to hide his reaction. Blood drained from his face. “His outrages become more… outrageous!”

“What do you mean?”

The man from the western duchy of Gnourn waved a hand at Junel. “The instant we heard of what had happened to you, we suspected-we knew-the Prince had laid you low.”

Junel suppressed a laugh, but then decided to abandon pretense. “My lord, please do not lie to me. I doubt your mistress sent you here with that intent.”

“I never…”

Junel raised a hand. “Your mistress does not believe I am stupid. Please do not measure my intelligence by yours. The reason you were sent here was to determine if I have betrayed your mistress and her confederates to the Prince. She wants to know if, as I lay ill, I spoke of the things we discussed earlier this month, when I visited Gnourn. And were you apprehended by the Prince’s Shadows either upon your arrival in Moriande, or after you leave me today, she would know if I had. She would then be prepared to disavow any knowledge of you and your treason.”

Melcirvon blinked. “But if you had betrayed us to the Prince, he would have already sent troops out to destroy us.”

“Indeed, he would have. And he has not, so you are safe.”

“Then it was not the Prince who had you stabbed?”

“Not Cyron, to be sure. Prince Pyrust might well have done it. He has agents in Moriande and he slaughtered the rest of my family. It may have been my turn.”

The Gnournist nodded slowly. When he had visited Gnourn, Junel had represented himself as a conduit through which a number of disgruntled Desei nobles could liaise with the Naleni inland lords. Neither loved the regime in the capital and would have been happy to see it overthrown. The Desei would be willing to funnel money, weapons, and some troops into Nalenyr. When the time was right, the western portions of each province would revolt and close on the western half of Helosunde. It would be a bold stroke and both Princes Cyron and Pyrust would be powerless to stop it-because the first man to turn his military might to the war for the interior would leave himself open to invasion by the other.