Turcol bit back any cry of pain, clenched his teeth, then looked up at the archers. “You idiots! I give the orders. Shoot him!”

Bows twanged in unison. Down the hill, the quartet of attendants fell, each stuck through the chest with an arrow.

Turcol blinked and slumped in his saddle. “This is not happening. This is not how it was planned.”

“Not how you planned it, Turcol.” Cyron shook his head. “Had you not made your approaches to Grand Minister Vniel quite so obvious, my Lord of Shadows would not have discovered what you were up to. Hiring assassins in Moriande was a second mistake. That is my realm, and loyalties to me run high.”

“Loyalties to you?” Turcol shook his head with disbelief. “They are assassins.”

“So they are. And I pay well each year to make certain they do not act against me. Surely you did not believe you were the first noble to think of killing me?”

The count started to answer, then closed his mouth. Moving slowly, he dismounted, then sank to his knees. “In the spirit of the day, the spirit of this place and tradition, I ask for mercy.”

Prince Eiran laughed aloud. “Are you insane? You’ve committed treason and you want mercy?”

Cyron held up a hand. “Just a moment, Prince Eiran. I am not deaf to your appeal, Count Turcol. In the spirit of this place, you wish what my grandfather gave his predecessor? Is this it? Nothing less will satisfy you?”

“That’s what I want, my lord.”

“I can grant you that.” Cyron folded his arms over his chest. “The legend is true. My grandfather spared his predecessor’s life; but his predecessor was much like you. Bold, brash, ambitious. He was a man who did not know when he was beaten. He planned, even as you do now, of returning to power and returning his dynasty to the throne.

“And he was like you in one other regard. He had no children.”

Turcol nodded, puzzled.

“My grandfather didn’t kill him, he gelded him. Then he sent him to live in a monastery on the coast of the Dark Sea. So, I’ll give you what you say you desire.”

Turcol’s shoulders sagged with resignation, then he launched himself at the Prince. He reached his feet in a heartbeat and drew his dagger in the next. As he raised it, two arrows narrowly missed him. Fury burning in his grey eyes, he rushed forward.

And might have reached Cyron, save for the Lady of Jet and Jade, who stuck a foot out and tripped him. Turcol went down heavily, the arrow’s shaft breaking. Eiran delivered a sharp kick to the man’s head, and he remained down.

Cyron bowed deeply to the concubine, then to the Helosundian Prince. “You are both yet more dear to me for saving my life.”

They returned the bows, but said nothing.

Cyron turned to the nearest swordsman and gave him the slightest shake of his head. In commanding his master assassin to supplant those Turcol had hired, he also asked that Eiran and the Lady of Jet and Jade be left free to act. He’d informed neither of them of what would happen, and in the unlikely event either proved a coconspirator, they would have died as Turcol had.

The Prince pulled back the left sleeve of his robe. “We will tell everyone what Turcol intended to say. Bandits found us out here and sought to rob us, not realizing who we were. Turcol and his men fought them valiantly, driving them off, but not before the count and his men died of their wounds.

“Eiran, because the count so graciously made you his cocommander, you will lead the Helosundian Dragons north and watch over them. Tell them we think the bandits were truly Desei assassins who intended to kill Turcol, so much does Pyrust fear him and his men on the border. That will put steel in their spines.”

Eiran bowed his head. “As you will it, Highness.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade regarded him openly. “Orders for me, Highness?”

“Yes. Please avert your eyes.” Cyron waited until she had turned away, then nodded to his Lord of Shadows and lifted his bared arm. The assassin drew a dagger and held it high.

Cyron sighed and nodded. “It has to be believable, our story, and so it shall be.”

The blade fell.

Chapter Twenty-seven

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

Quunkun, Kelewan (The Illustrated City)

Erumvirine

Though our number was pared severely in that first encounter with what we came to call the kwajiin-their blue skin having made that name inescapable-we reached Kelewan without much further incident. Probes did still arrive, and we fought them back, but the invasion moved at a steadier pace. And as we traveled west, more refugees joined us and the breadth of the invasion became clear.

Ranai had seen it begin at Derros-or, rather, had seen one of the beginnings. Towns and villages along the Green River had been hit, as well as locations as far north as the Central Mountains. All the reports talked of total slaughter, which was what Dunos had seen. The general lack of refugees on the roads confirmed that few had escaped the invaders.

Many of those fleeing suggested the invasion was divine retribution for the secret things Prince Jekusmirwyn was doing in his palace. But Moraven had traveled extensively through Erumvirine, and the most annoying thing Jekusmirwyn had done was continue the Virine tradition of long names for rulers. Because Erumvirine had been the Imperial capital province, the local rulers picked names of specific import when they ascended to the throne. Jekusmirwyn actually translated as “the last Prince,” which was taken as an omen of immortality, or his role as the Prince who would reestablish the Empire.

The invaders, it appeared, had a different take on it.

The idea of divine retribution was the product of feeble minds rendered even less stable by fatigue and fear. Were the gods desirous of punishing him, they’d show up in Quunkun, deal with him alone, and depart. That was the orderly way of doing things, and the Lords of Heaven were ever about doing things in an orderly way.

As we drew closer to the capital, the roads clogged, and small encampments of refugees set themselves up in open spaces. Some of them had lost the will to live and so lay down to die. Others had taken heart in seeing columns of soldiers heading east to deal with the threat. We’d seen them, too, which is why we were heading west. While few of the refugees chose to follow me, a number of xidantzu did. By the time we reached Kelewan, I had a cadre of a dozen warriors, half of whom were Mystics or well on their way to becoming such.

I remembered Kelewan, both as Moraven Tolo and from further past, though those memories still lay shrouded. It had once been known as the “Illustrated City” because of the local customs determining what colors would be used on various buildings and how they would be otherwise decorated. Quunkun, the Bear’s Tower, lay at the city’s hub. White marble faced it, and colorful pennants hung from towers. Around it, split into twelve divisions that subdivided into yet smaller cantons and wards, each part of the city adopted different colors to identify it. Gold marked the trading divisions, with buildings having secondary and accent colors that identified very specifically what they did. River traders, for example, would paint with gold and green-the latter for the river.

Even the slums were brightly painted. White, of course, was to match the Palace, but in reality the slum dwellers could only afford whitewash. In other places, as divisions were divided and subdivided, buildings could end up with a m?lange of colors that made the eyes bleed on a sunny day.

I could only hope the kwajiin were not color-blind.

Most refugees sought entry through Whitegate, but I refused to go into the capital as a beggar. We recovered Urardsa and Dunos from their fellows and headed for Bloodgate. As would be expected, soldiers warded the entrance to their section of town. A variety of mercenaries and xidantzu loitered outside that gate, but I decided they were beneath my notice. The sort of people I needed would not have been intimidated by some princeling’s foot soldier.