“There were many reasons, complicated reasons.” Nelesquin sighed. “My father was very good at paying attention to details-more suited to the bureaucracy than leading the country. The pirates threatened how smoothly his Empire ran; they did not threaten the Empire. The Turasynd did both, and while my father scrambled to keep the Empire running, he didn’t have enough perspective to see how to deal with the threat.

“And then there was politics to contend with.” His voice shrank. “I shall not deceive you, Nirati; I played at politics. My position was not assured, so I took steps to solidify it. My friend, Virisken Soshir, was rewarded with the leadership of my father’s bodyguard. I courted other factions and became initiated in the ways of the vanyesh. This frightened some nobles, and they conspired to turn my father against me. When he most needed my counsel, I was not permitted to see him. He made no decision when one was sorely needed. He dithered and Cyrsa, one of his pleasure wives, murdered him and usurped his throne.”

“Then she sundered the empire and headed off into the wilderness to face the Turasynd.”

“Exactly.” Nelesquin’s lips pressed tightly together, then he looked away. A tear glistened on his left cheek. “I joined her, bringing all those who felt loyalty to me. She’d humored me by making me Prince of Erumvirine. She mocked me. She gave me and the vanyesh an impossible task, then betrayed us, and we were defeated. And we had to be, since her usurpation would never have withstood my return.”

“You sought the best for the Empire, my love.” Nirati reached up and brushed the tear away with a finger. She brought that finger to her mouth and tasted the tear. “I know that you do what is best now as well.”

“There are wrongs that must be made right. I have waited a long time for that.”

She listened to him, but only distantly. While he spoke sweetly, she tasted bitterness in his tear and knew he had not told her everything. She did not imagine he was lying to her. While she had no doubt he was capable of deception, she also knew he would not willingly deceive her.

By the same token, what he had told her did not easily reconcile with the stories she’d grown up hearing. The vanyesh were evil and, therefore, their leader must have been evil. Empress Cyrsa was a heroine for saving the Empire. While she was willing to accept that there might be more than one point of view, and that those who survived the Cataclysm had a vested interest in casting the status quo as legitimate, it seemed that truth lay closer to what she had learned as a child.

She had no difficulty in imagining a prince choosing to patronize those bards who sang tales that vilified Nelesquin. If Nelesquin were correct, had he returned, their claim to power would have evaporated. Just as what her grandfather drew on maps determined how the world was seen, couldn’t history likewise be shaped?

Her brothers had enjoyed the tales of Amenis Dukao, one of the soldiers who had ventured to the west with the Empress. The stories of his adventures had been labeled as fiction, though many of the observations in them, especially about the Wastes, were deemed accurate by those who had traveled to such places. What if the stories were true, and just deemed fiction to render them impotent?

And what if I choose not to remember dying so I can rob death of its potency? A shiver shook her. Kunjiqui had always been her paradise, a perfect place conjured of dreams that had been a sanctuary when she was a girl. Her grandfather had somehow made it real to provide her a retreat from something horrible in life. And after my death have I accepted this place as a heaven to which I am entitled?

Nelesquin reached out and gently took her chin in his hand. “What is it, beloved? You shivered.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw them brimming with compassion. “I have died, and I cannot remember why or how.”

He nodded slowly. “I have died as well, and I do recall the circumstances. Be comforted that you do not.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He lifted her chin. “I have been remiss. There is a task I’ve meant to perform, but I have neglected it. I beg of you forgiveness and permission to act.”

Nirati frowned, puzzled. “To do what, my lord?”

“To do for you what I have been doing for myself.” He gestured with his left hand, closed it, then opened his fist. A beautiful green butterfly with wings edged in black flapped peacefully there.

Nirati smiled. “Oh, my lord, it’s lovely.”

“And it shall serve you well.” He raised it to his mouth, whispered something she could not hear, then launched it skyward. The insect fluttered about for a moment, then began a lazy, meandering flight toward the north.

“What is it doing?”

“I have been devoting myself to righting the wrong that destroyed the Empire. Now I’ve just set about righting the wrong of your death.” He bent his head and kissed her. With his lips brushing hers, he added, “The person who killed you will soon find himself dead.”

Nirati kissed him back, softly and fleetingly. The idea of violence being done in her name bothered her, but slaying the person who killed her did seem just. “It will be quick?”

“From one perspective, yes.” Nelesquin pulled back and smiled. “From his, probably not.”

She considered for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come, my love, I shall show you the grand cabin we shall share as we sail north. This ship shall take us home and allow me to reclaim the throne that has long been meant to be mine.”

Chapter Forty-five

7th 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

Maicana-netlyan, Caxyan

Had it not been for his facility with languages, Jorim would have spent the rest of his life on the floor of the Witch-King’s home, staring at the silver-white slab. As that thought came to him, he smiled, because what he had learned might guarantee he did. I’ll be here eternally if this does not work.

Cencopitzul helped as he could. While sympathetic to Jorim’s plight, he did not enjoy languages. He politely listened to Jorim’s discoveries-and having to explain his conclusions helped Jorim immeasurably. He would have been angry that he was not getting more help from Cencopitzul, but one discovery provided a reason why that might have been impossible.

Jorim had looked up from the slab and its shifting scripts. “You made a comment about time not always flowing in one direction here.”

The Witch-King had nodded. “I relive days-the boring ones, alas. When something interesting happens, I enjoy it, but then I fall back into a cycle of tedious days. It has occurred to me that when I focus, I am able to counteract the effects of timeshifting, and when I am bored I surrender to it.”

Jorim nodded, then pointed at the slab. “I think this is the source of the timeshifting.”

“What do you mean?”

The Naleni cartographer pointed to a pile of skins on which he had written words in charcoal. “We’ve been watching the sigils change over the face of the slab, and we have assumed that the characters are shifting their shape. I think there is another solution. We’ve identified five different scripts, and there are two others we can’t identify.”

Cencopitzul nodded. “The Viruk variant and the Writhings.”

“Right. Now the same message appears to be written in each language, and covers the slab entirely. While the words appear randomly in time, they always show in the same spot on the slab.”

“Exactly. The same phrase is repeated endlessly and the phrases revealed themselves at different times.”