“It is an impressive army, Grandfather.” Nirati pointed to one last boat, a boat that had a lone figure in it. Unlike the others, this one had been shaped of clay and worked with care. Obviously female, she’d been armored and provided with a seashell shield and a quill from a spinefish for a spear. “Who is that?”

Qiro knelt beside that last figure. “This is Lystai. She is my general and will lead my army. But there I need your help again.”

“What do you need, Grandfather?”

He beckoned her to kneel beside him, then reached up and caressed her brown hair. “This will hurt for a heartbeat, but I must…” With a quick yank he plucked a single hair from her head, then daubed the root with mud and affixed it to Lystai’s head.

“There, now she can find your brother and bring him to me.”

Nirati frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You probably think I don’t remember, but I do. You said you dreamed of him, of Keles, and that he was in Deseirion. We can’t have him there, trapped in Pyrust’s court. My army will attack Felarati and free him.”

“Oh, yes, Grandfather, very good.” Nirati kept the smile on her face and looked down at the army baking in the sunlight. Her grandfather had absolutely lost his mind. Prince Cyron’s grandfather had been said to learn how to fight battles based on games played with toy soldiers. Her grandfather, in retreating to his childhood, imagined he, too, could wage wars with toys.

She reached over and took her grandfather’s hands in hers. “I know Keles will welcome his freedom and praise you for freeing him.”

Qiro closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. “You know, I have not forgotten the past. I know that I have been a horrible taskmaster for your brothers, my brother, your father. I knew the potential in all of them. I had to drive them and drive them hard or they would have squandered it.”

He opened his eyes again and looked out at his army. “Toys. Now I squander my talent.”

“Hush, Grandfather. You’ve done great things. You’ve…” She looked around the landscape. “You’ve shaped all this. It is a miracle.”

“No, Nirati, it is not.” He smiled at her softly, freed a hand, and caressed a cheek. “Out of love, I shaped a place where I could defy the gods. In doing so I released forces that I cannot control.”

“You make it sound as dire as if you’ve triggered another Cataclysm.”

“Sweet child, in some ways it is.” He slowly got to his feet and helped her up. They walked up the beach to warm golden sand, then sat again and watched the tide slowly roll in and float his tiny ships away.

“It’s not a Cataclysm, Nirati, but could trigger another.” He shook his head. “But the world needs purging of its evils, and there is more work to be done before the purge is complete.”

Chapter Thirty-three

25th 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

Ministry of Harmony, Moriande

Nalenyr

Pelut Vniel tugged back the sleeves of his blue robe and poured Viruk Tears tea for Koir Yoram, Helosunde’s Minister of Foreign Relations. He really didn’t want to be so hospitable, for the man had been difficult in the past. He promised to be so again, but Pelut had chosen to follow one of Urmyr’s dicta and grant mercy and grace to the doomed.

Yoram already looked as if he’d ridden halfway through the Hells, and the fact that he had come immediately to the ministry without bathing or changing his soiled robe marked his sense of urgency. While Pelut was certain Koir meant to use his condition to emphasize the message he bore, he’d not taken the necessary steps to make Pelut feel obligated to him. Yes, his robe had been torn and he’d been mud-splashed; bits of leaves remained in his black hair; but nowhere did he bear a scratch of a thorn, nor did he have any broken bones.

You endured no pain for your cause, so I shall cause you pain. Even before Koir spoke a single word, Pelut knew what he would be asked, and also knew he would deny the request. Their ranks within the bureaucracy demanded the meeting happen, and Koir likely suspected the outcome already. Still, the game had to be played, and if Koir could present an advantage for Pelut, the foregone outcome might change.

Pelut smiled. “You’ve ridden far and fast. Have you come all the way from Vallitsi?”

“No, I came from Moryne directly and I bear dire news. Four days ago, the Desei attacked and defeated one of our armies, scattering it. Now they advance on Vallitsi.” The man’s blue eyes were sunken in dark pits in his face. “There are reports of thousands of Desei pouring south. Solie is under siege. Pyrust is pushing for the complete conquest of Helosunde, and Nalenyr must stop him.”

Pelut marshaled all his strength and kept his reaction from his face. When Koir had arrived in such a state, he expected that the Desei had pushed into Helosunde again. For them to have already secured Moryne, which had only ever been nominally in their control, meant the Desei had secure lines of supply into the heart of Helosunde and, therefore, could stage for movement south. That they were pressing on to Vallitsi indicated that Pyrust was further stabilizing his power in the region.

And all this just at a time when our own best troops have gone south.

“Drink your tea, please, and eat something.” Pelut waved a hand at the bowl of rice and fish on the low table before his guest. “I would not wish to be seen as inhospitable to a man bearing such grave news.”

Koir, never one for the civilities, fixed him with a hard stare. “Which means you are not going to help.”

“I think, Minister, you misspeak. Fill your mouth with food instead of inanity.” Pelut poured himself some tea and sipped it, ignoring his guest for a moment. He savored the rich, dark tea. It was from the island of Dreonath and said to be flavored with the tears of the Viruk.

After his visitor had surrendered and sipped some tea, Pelut lowered his own cup and folded his hands in his lap. “Though you are well aware of it, Minister, you will recall that my Prince recommended against the ill-fated attack on Meleswin. Pyrust retaliated in the New Year’s Festival and retook his city.”

“Our city.”

“His city, and you know it.” Pelut shook his head. “You lost a city, you lost a general, you lost valiant troops, and you lost a princess.”

“She was a duchess.”

“And he made her a princess when he married her. He was wise enough to leave you a prince. Had he not, your Council of Ministers would have garnered more power by playing nobles off against nobles.”

Koir’s head came up. “And you do not do this?”

The Naleni minister’s expression hardened. “What do you mean to suggest, Minister?”

“It would not be possible for Count Turcol to conceive of or execute a plan to assassinate Prince Cyron without your complicity.”

Pelut slowly smiled. “I have no idea what you are talking about. Count Turcol died defending his Prince against bandits. The Prince himself was wounded, and the wound is not healing well.”

The Helosundian laughed. “You play the game very well, but there are things you do not know. For example, in searching for assassins, Turcol first approached some of my people. He was clumsy in his attempts, and we deemed the effort doomed to failure, so we rejected it. He did not care. He simply found others to do what needed to be done-and he was not even smart enough to kill those of my people he’d approached. Curious about how things would turn out, and determined Prince Eiran would not die at the same time, my people saw everything.”

Not possible. The Prince told me the Lord of Shadows had uncovered the plot. I confirmed Turcol had spoken with me but not about the depths of his treachery, just how to extend the invitation.