“I can see the sense in that.”

“Good.” Cencopitzul smiled easily. “The next is my speculation. The centenco prior to Taichun’s arrival heralded the invasion of True Men. They overthrew what was left of the Viruk Empire, freeing the slaves. They may have come down from the Turasynd Wastes, or in through the Spice Route. Again, we have no record of their using magic beyond jaedun; and the Viruk, for reasons known only to themselves, do not seem to have used magic to oppose them. At the next centenco Taichun arrives from the sea, and is able to establish an empire. That would seem to be difficult, wouldn’t it?”

Jorim nodded. “Yes, though with all the warring states, he just had to play one off against another to win.”

“Easier said than done, my boy. The Nine are still nine despite the same dynamic prevailing. My point is that as nearly as can be determined, Taichun also brought magic to the Empire, and the magic I learned well enough to join the vanyesh was magic instantly recognized by the maicana-netl as being in the tradition of Tetcomchoa.”

The Witch-King’s recital of facts held together well enough to make Jorim recast history in its light. “If all this is true, then my question would be, why would Tetcomchoa choose this time to be reborn?”

“That’s simple-the invasion of the new god.”

Jorim frowned. “He foresaw that and arranged to be reborn in Moriande as a precaution?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

Jorim stopped, his mouth hanging open. “I don’t know.”

“I hope you figure it out.” Cencopitzul stood and pulled his chair back, then pointed to the center of the large chamber floor. A silvery-white stone slab had been set in the floor. It measured roughly six feet long and three across. As Jorim looked at it, what had appeared to be scratches on the surface resolved themselves into writing of some form, which shifted and writhed as if it were alive.

The Witch-King waved him toward the block. “Before he left, Tetcomchoa sealed something in this stone. I have no idea what it is. Legend has it that only his reincarnation can unlock the stone and fully claim his heritage.”

Jorim folded his arms over his chest. “And if I fail, I die?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Trying hasn’t killed me yet.” The Witch-King shrugged. “Then again, in seven hundred years of trying, I’m no closer to a solution than I was at the start.”

35th 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

Vallitsi, Helosunde

Prince Pyrust allowed himself to take pleasure in the misery of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. For years they had denied him control of Helosunde. While he acknowledged that they could never have done what they did without Naleni support, they were the ones who procured that support and employed it.

Laying siege to Vallitsi was something Pyrust had neither the time nor the inclination to do. He was not concerned about taking the city, since it would definitely fall. Spring crops had not yet been harvested and winter stores were low, so the ability of the people to resist would be limited. Still, they might be able to hold out for the better part of a month, and in that time Cyron would be able to send troops north to lift the siege or otherwise harass his forces.

After arranging his forces around the city such that the only avenue of escape was to the northwest, Pyrust had his troops dig in and raise a circular berm. In the northwest, his engineers began digging a deep trench that slowly filled with seep water. They brought the trench to within fifty feet of the Kuidze River, which ran past the city’s western walls on its way north to the Black River.

And further downriver, another of his units began to build a dam. The river level rose, then the engineers breached the wall between the river and their trench, flooding the land inside the berm. The water level rose quickly and by the second morning two feet of water had flooded through the city.

The ministers had figured out his intention and had sent envoys to him. Pyrust had made it very clear he wanted the entire Council to come to him, and would accept no conditions. The next envoy came with a list of conditions, so Pyrust had the list nailed to the man’s forehead and sent him back.

So the ministers came, each wearing his finest robes, which were wet to the knees. Some had found robes from a time when Helosunde and Deseirion had been friendlier, but a few still wore robes where Helosundian dogs were devouring hawks and licking up the residue of broken eggs. These ministers, he made certain, would kneel closest to him.

The day had dawned grey and cold, full of the promise of rain. Pyrust had a pavilion set up on the dry side of his berm, with the side flaps raised so his entire army could see the ministers, and they could see the troops. He’d also located it close enough to the berm so that the ministers, on their knees, could not see the city. He, on the other hand, dry and enthroned in armor, could see it easily.

The ministers filed into the open-air pavilion and knelt on either side of a rich red carpet that had been rolled out over the ground. They all shifted uncomfortably and the scent of sweat mingled with that of wet silk. They kept their heads lowered and then, as one, bowed deeply toward him.

Pyrust stood and returned that bow solemnly, which seemed to surprise many of them. Good. Surprise means they are not thinking well.

“I would thank you for joining me here. I would have come into Vallitsi and treated with you in your council chamber, but I did not bring a boat.”

The ministers looked stricken for a moment. They exchanged glances, but said nothing.

“That was meant to be funny.”

One or two ministers laughed.

“And serious, as well.”

The strained laughter stopped immediately.

“It was meant to be serious because we all are in the same boat, on a storm-wracked sea. The survival of the world is in doubt. We must work together, and I believe you know that. If you did not, you would not have come here to negotiate.”

Pyrust stalked the carpet as he spoke, turned at the far end and started back again. “One of you is missing.”

“Koir Yoram, Highness.” A young minister bowed deeply. “He was slain a week ago in Moriande.”

“Your name?”

“Karis Shir, Highness. I was chosen to replace him.”

“Very good, Minister Shir. You are Foreign Relations, but that situation may have to change. No, not that you need to resign, but that you need not think of me as a foreigner.”

“As you desire, my lord.”

Let us hope the rest of your fellows are as quick as you are, Shir. Pyrust raised his left hand and removed his glove. He openly displayed his half hand, making certain each of the Helosundians got a good look at it. Most shied from it, a few paled, and fewer smiled.

“You know I lost half my hand in your nation. Desei blood has been spilled here for years. I have had no love for your nation, for you have been an annoyance since before I took the throne. I could easily have you slain and would be happy to turn Vallitsi into another Dark Sea. In fact, were it not for the spirit your warriors have shown me down through the years, that is exactly what I would do.”

He casually tossed his mailed gauntlet onto his chair, where it landed with a heavy thump. “Your warriors are your salvation, or can be. It is not because I feel threatened by them. Moryne should be ample proof I do not. The threat I feel comes from the south-the distant south.”

He mounted the steps to the small dais where his chair sat and plucked the gauntlet up again. “Prince Cyron will not be coming to your salvation because the threat I speak of threatens him as well. Erumvirine is being invaded by forces that have conquered as much as a third of the nation. They may have taken Kelewan even now. This is the reason Cyron pulled his troops from your border and sent them south.”