Keles frowned. Perhaps that was the problem with magic. When it came easily, the magician had no sense of consequence for his actions. Rekarafi said he’d improved the drainage in the clearing, yet the plants in the center preferred swampier soils.

To dry the clearing I shifted a thousand cubic feet of water.

From the lay of the land, it had drained off to the west and into a ravine. The trickle there would have become a small flood. The swollen stream would have boiled through the forest.

Keles stopped imagining and began seeing. Further downstream the water undermined the support of a small stone bridge. The bridge began to crumble. Stones shifted and mortar cracked. The children playing on it froze. Angry water splashed high. One of them screamed…

“No!” Keles thrust his hand into the water. He lifted the bridge, held it together. The children shrieked, but leaped to safety. The bridge’s stones tumbled into the raging stream, trickling like gravel through his unseen fingers.

“Keles!”

His eyes jerked open as Jasai slapped his hand aside. A shower of hot coals arced out and hissed against the moist ground. He shook his hand, then slapped at his smoldering bandages.

“What were you doing?”

“Um…” He glanced off into the distance. “I think I stopped a small flood from killing two children.”

“By digging your hand into the coals?” She reached out and took his hand into hers. She brushed away the ashes. “Are you hurt?”

He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

“You have to be careful.”

“I’ll try.” He exhaled and weariness pounded him. “I don’t know if I imagined things or…”

“It doesn’t matter.” She kissed his palm gently, then released his hand. “No harm done.”

A day later, as they followed the trace of the flooded stream, they came across the ruined bridge. They forded there, and following Keles’ instruction, found the house where the children lived. Their father happily guided the refugees to a nearby village, and from there riders were sent to a larger town to summon help.

The refugees nearly outnumbered the villagers, but they did not seem concerned. They immediately put Princess Jasai up in the Headman’s home and began preparations for a celebration. The refugees were divided up into small groups to be housed in the village, where they chopped wood, hauled water, and otherwise traded sweat for hospitality.

Yet as much as the villagers revered Princess Jasai, they stood in awe of her aunt. The Keru were legendary for their courage, and since they served Prince Cyron of Nalenyr, they’d not often been seen far from the court at Moriande. Tyressa constantly had a gaggle of young girls following her, spying on her from behind buildings or beneath wagons. Tyressa bore her semidivine status with good humor and even devoted an hour to drilling the girls in the fine art of marching.

All was proceeding well, with food being prepared and tables gathered in the village square, when one of the riders returned from the trek to town. He reported that authorities would arrive in a day or two to help the refugees. He also reported that Prince Eiran had been slain.

The news of her brother’s death crushed Jasai. Keles found her hugging a homespun blanket around herself, weeping quietly. What had been planned as a raucous celebration became a muted memorial.

Keles sat with her, holding her hands while she told him about her brother. “I was so angry with him. He hadn’t the courage to stand up to Prince Pyrust. He let Pyrust take me away-and what made it worse was the look in his eyes. He wanted to act, but he couldn’t. He was too afraid, too unsure. In that one moment, he realized he’d been used by the Council of Ministers and, because of that, I had been put in jeopardy.”

She sniffed. “I’d vowed I’d never forgive him but…” She shrugged and Keles brushed a tear from her cheek. “In recent months, I had softened my stance. I wanted my child to have an uncle. Pyrust had killed his brother, so Eiran was my only choice.”

Keles smiled weakly, happy his face was hidden in shadow. “I’d be happy to stand in as an uncle. My brother, too, I’m sure.”

She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand. “Thank you. Please do me a favor?”

“Anything.”

“Stay here this evening. Just…sitting here. I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course, as you desire, Princess.”

Help from the outside came faster than predicted. By the next noon a local militia battalion arrived. A few had arms and armor, but most had flails, pitchforks, and other tools. They asked the refugees to lay down their arms, and seeing the wisdom of that request, Jasai gave the order. What tension had been in the air evaporated, and the village again began preparations for a celebration.

By midafternoon, a tall, well-muscled man in ministry robes wearing a sword rode up on a well-lathered horse. He dismounted and spoke to the militia’s leader. The captain gave orders and his men began to form up. The minister then approached Princess Jasai and bowed to her-but not too deeply and for none too long.

Jasai regarded him warily. “You are Ieral Scoan. I remember you as the one who brought the crown to my brother.”

The man produced a handkerchief and wiped his upper lip. “I am flattered, Duchess.”

“You needn’t be. I do not remember you fondly.” Jasai raised her chin. “Duchess was the rank I was given by the Council of Ministers. I am a princess now.”

“Yes, of Deseirion.” He smiled graciously, but contempt crept through his words. “But we are in Helosunde. Here you are a duchess, nothing more.”

Keles took a step forward. “But nothing less.”

Scoan laughed quickly. “Actually, much less.” He produced a small square of folded paper, sealed in red wax. “You are requested to report to Vallitsi and appear before the Council of Ministers.”

Jasai stared down at the paper, then back up at him. “And if I choose to ignore that request?”

“Forgive me. I never meant to imply you had a choice. You’re under arrest.” The minister gave her a predatory grin. “You’ve been consorting with the enemy, Duchess. You’ll be tried for treason and hanged by the neck until dead.”

TheNewWorld

Chapter Nine

23rd 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

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Save for decades of practice, the Naleni Grand Minister could not have kept surprise and outrage from his face. He had served the Komyr court perhaps not always enthusiastically, but diligently and certainly above the level the Princes deserved. The Komyr Princes had never fully appreciated the role the bureaucracy played in stabilizing the world.

But this-this outrage-showed how far Prince Cyron’s mind was gone. And Prince Pyrust has joined him.

Pelut Vniel stood in the doorway to the Naleni throne room, with a phalanx of lesser ministers behind him. Wooden columns split the room in three. A red carpet edged with purple occupied the center and ran right to the door. Had Vniel stepped through incautiously, he would have trod where only nobility walks, and his life could have been forfeit.

To the left of the throne stood Prince Cyron. He wore a purple robe emblazoned with a golden dragon. Pelut had never seen the robe before, and the way the dragon coiled around a golden crown certainly had not been seen since before the Empire had been sundered. The crown’s nine points each bore a sign of the Zodiac, the foremost pair being those of the Naleni dragon and the Desei hawk.

Pyrust aided and abetted Cyron in this lunacy. He wore a deep blue robe with a flying hawk emblazoned on it. The left wing had two feathers clipped, marking the Prince’s half hand. The hawk was poised to land on an Imperial crown, within which nested two fledglings. The image again had not been seen since before the Cataclysm.