Ciras held a hand up and Borosan sank back into the shadows of the chamber that served as a tack room. Two silhouettes lounged in the shade near the tunnel’s mouth. Men, obviously, and they both wore swords. Even though they were in silhouette, Ciras could see enough of their clothing to know they weren’t from the Nine.

They’re Turasynd.

The idea that the vanyesh were talking with the Turasynd reminded him of a tale Borosan said the Gloon had related. Prince Nelesquin had betrayed Empress Cyrsa by entering into negotiations with a Turasynd god-priest. Fury pulsed through him as he realized the vanyesh were compounding their earlier treason.

“What are we going to do, Ciras?”

The swordsman slipped into the tack room. “Gather two saddles, six bridles, and be ready to move. I’m going to deal with these two. Quickly. If we’re discovered, we will be pursued.”

Ciras moved back into the tunnel, stepping to the center. He kept his gait easy-eager yet casual. He let his hands dangle open at his sides.

He was a dozen steps away from them before they noticed him. They came instantly alert, and his stomach tightened. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords, then they relaxed. They exchanged glances and laughed. He forced himself to laugh, too, then reached inside and, for the first time, invoked jaedun.

His vision changed. Though he saw no more color or less, he somehow saw more clearly. Each man seemed to glow-and the one on the right more so than his companion. He is more dangerous. As Ciras closed, he raised his left hand in greeting, broadening his smile, and they aped his expression.

His right foot touched down and he began to pivot toward the dangerous man. Ciras drew the vanyesh blade in a smooth motion. Even before his foe’s right hand had touched the hilt of his own sword, the draw-cut opened his throat to the spine. Blood gushed and the man gurgled as he fell back.

Ciras continued his spin and brought his blade down and around in a parry. He batted the other Turasynd’s lunge wide, then snapped his sword up high. It fell in a slash that clove the Turasynd from crown to jaw, and dropped him like a bag of rocks.

Ciras completed his turn as the second swordsman’s blade clattered to the ground. He crouched and waited, listening for anything in the echo of the sword’s fall. He heard nothing. Finally, without sheathing his sword, he made his way to the second man’s side and yanked open his leather jerkin.

Black feathers covered the man’s chest. Taken from black eagles, they’d been inserted into the man’s skin, and then he’d willfully entered a place of wild magic. There he’d undergone rituals that Ciras could only imagine, which fused the feathers to his flesh and completed his initiation into the Black Eagle Society.

He quickly checked the other man and found he’d been similarly fletched. This was not the first time he’d seen a Black Eagle. His master had dueled one to entertain Prince Cyron during the last Harvest Festival in Moriande. The Turasynd had been good, and had borne a blade of similar antiquity to the vanyesh blade.

Ciras thought for a moment. He could not directly connect these two with the man in Moriande, but their presence certainly indicated the Black Eagle Society was flourishing. He couldn’t recall if the Turasynd god-priest had been a Black Eagle or not, but it really didn’t matter. He didn’t even know if the Turasynd had another god-priest to lead them, but that didn’t matter either.

I have to assume there is a new one and he is a Black Eagle or allied with them. He sighed. And he or his envoys are in the Prince’s Hall, negotiating an alliance with the vanyesh.

Borosan came up with the thanaton laden with tack. “That was quick work.”

“It had to be. The same must be true of our escape.” Ciras grabbed a bridle and headed out toward the horses. “Ancient enemies are renewing alliances. It won’t be good for us, or the Nine. Let’s hope, my friend, that the Sleeping Empress has spent her time dreaming up a way to deal with them.”

Chapter Forty-two

5th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Keles knew he was dreaming. He looked from the window of his room and down toward the Black River. There, slowly drifting up the river in the darkness, a fleet of small ships grew to enormous proportions. They began to disgorge warriors and other creatures that slipped into the shadowed city.

Fires and screams followed in their wake.

More important than the havoc was the image on the largest ship’s mainsail. It bore his grandfather’s face. As he watched, his eyes came alive and turned to look at him. His mouth moved and in his voice the words “I’m coming for you, Keles” echoed in his head.

“Grandfather, how can you be here? It’s impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for me, Keles. You must know that by now.” A look of anger passed over his face, then the sail fell as if torn loose in a gale. It hit the deck and burst into flames.

Keles sat bolt-upright in bed, bathed in sweat. He tossed back the blanket, pulled on trousers, and stepped into his boots. He reached for a robe and slipped it on, fastening the sash as he opened the door to his chambers. He ran to the library where he worked, and shivered when he found that the warriors who had stood guard throughout the palace-grizzled veterans as long on scars as they were short on hair-had all abandoned their posts.

He bolted inside and crossed to the balcony. Throwing open the doors, he stepped out and looked south toward the river. There, lit by fires rising in factories and the dwellings on the river’s north bank, lurked a fleet of black ships. The flagship appeared as it did in his dream, save that the mainsail did not bear his grandfather’s image. It had been marked with a white line-image that very few in Felarati would have recognized.

Very few outside Anturasikun would know it. The sail bore the outline of the world as his grandfather had painted it on the wall of his sanctum. Only there is a new continent off the southeast coast.

This confirmed that the fleet had come from his grandfather and he certainly didn’t view it as his salvation. His grandfather had sent him off to survey Ixyll on a mission that would most surely have killed him. That Qiro had found him in Felarati would compound his grandfather’s anger. His absence from Ixyll meant Keles had defied his grandfather, and Keles had no desire to face the old man’s wrath in person or by proxy.

The cartographer watched, transfixed, as the black ships grounded themselves on the riverbanks and troops poured forth. Each ship disgorged an improbable number. Huge and tiny creatures leaped out. The smallest swarmed over buildings, while the largest stalked through streets.

The invaders kept coming, and the defenders had no chance to oppose them. Even if crack troops had been available to defend the capital, the onslaught would have been overwhelming. Already refugees began streaming from their homes, fleeing west from the invaders.

Now is the time we can escape! He dashed back into the library, opened a chest, and dug down through carefully stacked paper and rolled maps. He uncovered the two leather satchels he’d hidden there and had slowly filled with supplies. The waterskins were flaccid, but he could fill them later. The other two bags contained dried meat and cheese, tea and uncooked rice, as well as a small pot. He’d meant to get some rope, but hadn’t managed it yet. This will have to do.

The smallest of the invaders leaped the palace walls and bounced into the library. Two of them, looking like harmless monkeys until each flashed a mouthful of sharp teeth, leaped for him and grabbed his arms. They started screeching so sharply their cries rose to silence, then bit him when he fought being dragged toward the balcony.