As he had done many times in his fever, Cyron ran over the events of the past months and years, seeking that point where he went wrong. There had to be one, just a simple one, a little mistake that just began to compound in ways he could not have anticipated. But he couldn’t see one. He had hoped to rebuild the Empire peacefully through exploration and trade. He hoped others would be persuaded to reunite the Empire without bloodshed. True, he did want it reunited under a Komyr Emperor, but wanted it for the benefit of all.

That ate at him the most. Had he been coldhearted, he could have let the people of Deseirion starve. Had he done that, Pyrust would have been forced to launch an invasion, but his army would have marched on an empty belly. They would have been broken against the Helos Mountains. Naleni forces could have liberated Helosunde, then taken Deseirion. He would have come with food for all, would have shared the wealth of his nation. He would have made life better for them.

But that was not to be. It was a future that would not be realized because he could not have allowed them to starve.

Unbidden came the thought of the Stormwolf expedition. Since Qiro Anturasi’s departure, he had learned nothing of what they had accomplished. He feared the fleet had met with disaster-a fitting end since he launched it, and clearly his other efforts had been disasters. Then again, the brave men and women who had undertaken that bold adventure deserved better than to be devoured by sharks.

He wondered for a moment if they had found the continent of Anturasixan. It had been drawn in Qiro’s own blood! The thought of the map dripping blood, and the legend “Here there be monsters,” sent a shiver through him. It dawned on him then that Qiro was the author of the troubles in Erumvirine, and somehow this did not wholly surprise him.

The man had ample reasons to be angry with Nalenyr. The Komyr Princes had kept him a prisoner in Anturasikun once he had returned from his unsuccessful journey to Ixyll so long ago. The aggressive exploration urged upon him had cost him his son. A murderer stalking Moriande had butchered his granddaughter. Cyron himself had denied the man the chance to walk free to celebrate his eighty-first birthday, and the needs of the state had demanded both his grandsons be sent into the unknown.

Keles and Jorim. In some ways it would be best if they were both dead. Cyron twisted and flopped in bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but every little jostle jolted pain up his arm. He sat up, cradling the burning limb in his lap and panting as sweat stung his eyes.

What a changed world they would return to. He would no longer be on the throne. Cyron laughed weakly. Who would be on the throne he couldn’t tell. He was certain Vroan would wiggle his ass into the Dragon Throne, but it would only be for a little while. The invaders would come north and Vroan couldn’t oppose them. He would move to try it, though, and Pyrust would sweep in from the north.

The Hawk will perch on my throne after all. He sighed and licked cracked lips. “Perhaps that will be for the best.”

His shoulders slumped and a lump formed in his throat. Staring into the darkness he saw his nation laid waste by war. All that had been golden and green became red and black, awash in blood, smoldering. And Moriande, his white city, gone; towers broken like teeth, walls shattered, and streets echoing with the anguished cries of mourners.

He could see wretched survivors, brokenhearted, wandering listlessly through streets strewn with rubble. Men with bodies tangled with scars. Malnourished women with flat dugs and exposed ribs. Children who were little more than skeletons so weak they could not lift their own heads. Sores covering everyone and fever, like the fever he had, roasting people from within. All of them would turn red eyes toward what was left of Wentokikun and wonder why he did not save them. He had promised them a better life, and all he had given them was the miseries mankind had known from time before remembering.

They will devour my nation as they do my flesh. Cyron tried to lift his left arm, but could not. Angry pain pulsed through him, warning him to remain still. He accepted the warning, hunkering down against pillows. He cried silently at the pain, for himself, for his nation. His right hand tangled in the sheets and he hung on so he would not scream.

The pain, slowly, incrementally, subsided.

Which allowed him again to feel the maggots feasting on him.

Cyron roared and threw back the bedclothes. He swung his legs out of bed and stood quickly. A wave of blackness washed over him, but he grabbed a handful of sheets and remained upright. He staggered from his bedchamber to the outer room, then barked his shin against a low table. He caught the doorjamb and again avoided falling, then stepped to the corner where his armor and swords rested in their stand.

The door slid open to his left, silhouetting a servant. Cyron raised his left arm, displaying the leather wrapping it and the thongs securing them. “Yes, yes, quickly, come here. Help me get this off. Now, help me.”

As the man approached, Cyron reached down for the dagger he would use to cut the maggots from his flesh. As his fingers closed on the hilt, he glanced up and saw the man had drawn a short sword and had raised it above his head.

“Die, tyrant!”

Cyron’s left arm rose and intercepted the blow. The sword stroke carried through the leather and snapped the heavier of the bones. Had it not been for the leather, it would have cut cleanly through the limb. The blade, slightly impeded, just lodged in the second bone.

Curiously, the sword harmed none of the maggots.

Screaming in pain, Cyron twisted and drove the dagger into the assassin. He pierced the man’s body right below the breastbone, puncturing his heart. So fierce was the Prince’s frenzied blow that it lifted the Helosundian from his feet and pitched him over onto the low table. It collapsed beneath him.

Cyron staggered back and broke through the paper-paneled wall. The sword’s hilt caught on a stout piece of wood and ripped the blade free. The Prince screamed again, then felt a jagged piece of wood stab into his back as he hit the floor.

He looked down and saw his robe tented over his right breast. He laughed.

An assassin can’t kill me. How odd that enemies from without cannot stop me, but my own home will be my death.

Chapter Fifty-seven

3rd day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Jaidanxan (The Ninth Heaven)

He had the sensation that he was floating, light and ethereal, as if he had no body at all. Then he realized that he really had no physical sensation-the illusion of floating was because he felt nothing. He had no physical self; he was only being.

And this was the correct way of things.

Jorim did not will his eyes to open, but rather willed that which surrounded him into existence. Slowly it came-at first a blur of colors. He heard muted sounds and recognized them before he saw anything. They were the songs of birds he’d heard the world over, all singing in concert-though he was fairly certain the diverse species had never heard each other sing in the real world.

In the mortal world.

He acknowledged himself to be Tetcomchoa and Wentiko, as well as other names in scripts he’d never seen, comprising sounds his throat never could have produced. The moment he made that judgment, he knew it was wrong. He no longer had a throat. He was no longer a man.

He had no reason to cling to the name Jorim, but he did because it labeled his most recent existence. Those memories burned hottest in his mind. He was not through with them and felt he had left some things undone. He needed to finish them, but had a sense of grander things that also demanded his attention.