He ignored the water and concentrated on the sun. He visualized Wentiko in the solar disk. The Dragon had always stood for courage, and Jorim welcomed that as well as the heat and light. He touched the god’s essence and a pulse came through the mai that shook him. Every muscle in his body contracted, bowing his back.

He expected to fall helpless on the beach, but instead he began to rise. His feet emerged dripping from the sea. The Mozoyan that had been closest to him looked up, the hungry expression on its face evaporating into surprise.

Jorim wanted to turn water from fluid to vapor. Converting a sea would be impossible, for the water in the cove was linked to the ocean, which was linked to all oceans. To convert all that into vapor might be beyond even the power of a god.

But making a small amount of water do that was not. He’d done it before, countless times. It had become an effortless task.

So he began the conversion with the water in the nearest Mozoyan’s eyes.

They exploded, and the creature burbled in pain. It sank beneath the surface, but Jorim still tracked it by essence. He boiled its brain in its skull. Bone cracked and skin parted, releasing a bubble of hot gas to mark the thing’s passing.

He turned his attention to another, and another. Mozoyan died writhing. They thrashed in the water, and only as they grew small did he realize he was flying higher, out over the cove. He no longer had to focus himself on any individual. It was enough that they looked up at him and that they felt the touch of the radiance he was projecting. As his rays caressed them, flesh melted and bones blackened.

Soaring slowly, with no more direction or intent than a kite on a light breeze, Jorim approached the Blackshark. He glanced down at himself and wondered how he was not blinded. His skin glowed with noontime intensity. The water reflected his golden corona and tiny wisps of steam curled up from around dead Mozoyan.

Jorim looked at the Blackshark. He could not see into it, but as his gaze swept over it, he found Mozoyan cowering on deck and hiding in the ship’s depths. One by one he touched them and they died.

The enormous fish that had released the Mozoyan closed their mouths. They slowly began to sink, but the harbor’s shallow bottom hindered them. But it scarcely would have mattered, for his rays pierced the water easily, and the lumbering creatures could never have dived fast enough to elude him.

With the wave of a hand he burned them from end to end. Their thick tails twitched, stirring up mud, then they sank into the muck. He waited and watched for any Mozoyan to escape, and boiled those that did inside their own flesh.

Pulling his radiance back in, Jorim floated down to the Blackshark’s deck. His bare feet touched the wood. It sizzled and smoked. He stepped back and looked down, gaping at the footprints burned into the deck.

They were the footprints of a dragon.

Chapter Twenty-six

14th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Disat Forest, West of Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron smiled. Though early in the year, the day had dawned bright and warm. He’d had ample sleep the night before and rose early to prepare for the day’s outing. He’d initially resisted the idea of joining Prince Eiran and Count Turcol, but going along was the expedient course. Turcol had the potential for being a very nasty thorn in his side, so whatever he could do to take care of the problem immediately was best.

Besides, the Disat Forest had always been a favorite haunt of his. In it, on a small hill, his grandfather had accepted the surrender and abdication of the previous dynasty’s last prince. This began the Komyr Dynasty and, contrary to rumors, he did not have the man slain on the spot. His rise to power had been tempered by mercy. To remind himself of his grandfather’s wisdom, Cyron liked to travel to the hill and meditate, especially on the anniversary of his rise.

His father had made the forests a royal reserve. Poachers knew they could suffer severe punishments if they were caught taking game, but some risked it because they believed that if they could elude the warders and make it to Memorial Hill, the Prince would grant them mercy. Cyron always did, once. If a man were caught more than once, he gave him exactly what his grandfather had given his predecessor.

The forest itself had a beauty and serenity that even a trailing troop of attendants could not spoil. Pines predominated in their eternal coats of green. Where other trees-oaks, elms, maples, and birches-peeked through, their bare branches already showed green buds. Spring would be coming early, and with it the birds would be winging their way north again.

Cyron longed for spring and hoped the Virine invasion would not stop the birds. He banished the thought that it might and lightened his expression for the benefit of his host. He tugged back on his reins, slowing his horse enough that Count Turcol and Prince Eiran could catch up with him.

Count Turcol had been inordinately gracious throughout the day. In celebration of his troops’ posting to the Helosunde border, he’d accepted a Helosundian title and informed his troops they were now the Helosundian Dragons. He proclaimed Prince Eiran to be his cocommander, gratefully distributed Helosundian pennants, and left his troops repainting their breastplates with dogs and dragons intertwined.

Turcol had even been quite pleasant to Prince Cyron-though it clearly took an effort. As they rode through the forest to Memorial Hill, the westron count repeatedly complimented the Prince and begged forgiveness for any past misunderstandings.

“I assure you, Count Turcol, I took no umbrage at anything you have said in my presence.” Cyron nodded toward him and Eiran beyond. “You are both strong men, and the future will demand strong men. I would hope, someday, that I will have an heir who can learn from the two of you. The courage you show in speaking frankly to me is to be lauded. As well you know, many courtiers only tell me what they believe I wish to hear, and a prince cannot rule if this is the case.”

Turcol smiled. “Your Highness is too kind. I know that you cannot rest easily with so many things on your mind. I had hoped this day of riding, hawking, and simple relaxation would provide you comfort-though I am certain you have many comforts.”

Cyron followed Turcol’s glance and smiled. The Lady of Jet and Jade had ridden out with them. Her horse had gotten forward of theirs, and the dark green of her robe nearly hid her against the pines. As if she had heard the remark, she looked back and smiled-but her smile was for Cyron alone.

He resisted the urge to turn quickly and catch Turcol’s reaction. He’d seen it a couple of times already. It clearly galled Turcol that this woman, the famed concubine, would not allow him to buy from her what other women so willingly gave him freely.

Cyron turned his head slowly, giving the westron ample time to control his expression. “Have you ever considered, my lord, what you would do were you in my place, on the throne?”

“Me, on the throne? Please, Highness, I do not think of such things.”

Cyron smiled. “Be honest with me, Count Turcol. Your family occupied the Dragon Throne well before mine did, and you come from Imperial nobility. You must have entertained the idea. I certainly hope you have, for, if not, you are not the man I imagined-and certainly not suited to what I have in mind for you.”

Turcol lifted a branch and ducked his head beneath it. “Perhaps I have thought of it, Highness. Never with avarice, but just as an intellectual exercise.”

“Good, this pleases me.” Cyron reined his horse in closer to Turcol, then looked back to see if the four Jomiri attendants were trailing at a respectful distance. He lowered his voice. “As you know, my lord, I have no heir. Until I can procure one, I have to plan for the future of our nation. May I speak frankly with you?”