Sweeping her gaze back toward the west, she skipped over the triangular jut of land that was Harkala and its sister states, once part of Ternathia but longe since independent once more. The long Ricathian coastline led her eyes up past Shurkhal?another former Ternathian province, famous for its vast stretches of uninhabitable desert?and the Grand Ternathian Canal, linking the Mbisi and the Finger Sea.
Then her gaze reached the portion of the map north of Shurkhal, along the Mbisi's eastern shore, where the nation of Othmaliz lay between the peoples of the west and the peoples of the east. Like Shurkhal and Harkala, Othmaliz had once been part of Ternathia's empire. Also like Shurkhal and Harkala, Othmaliz had returned to native rule when Ternathia withdrew from the eastern half of its empire.
Andrin's gaze stopped there, for in Othmaliz, lay Tajvana.
Her skin tingled with the strange fire of her still-undefined Glimpse as she moved her eyes past the long, narrow, knife-like promontory known as Ibral's Blade, which ran parallel to the incredibly long and narrow Ibral Straits. That narrow passage of water opened up into the Sea of Ibral, which lapped against the city's ancient shoreline, and her heart burned with a strange passion she stared at the name on the map.
Tajvana.
The very name was magical, imbued with a history so deep it could hardly be grasped. Capital city of Ternathia for twenty-three centuries. Beauty beyond imagining. Ancient power, unrivaled in the history of mankind. Wealth almost beyond calculation, because it had been wealthy for so many millennia. Tajvana, which could be reached from the west only through the Ibral Straits, straddled the even narrower Ylani Straits, beyond which lay the dark and chilly waters of the Ylani Sea.
The Ylani was totally landlocked, save for that one tiny outlet, through Tajvana. Historically, whoever controlled the Ylani Straits had controlled the rich trade routes between Ricathia and Ternathia in the west, and Arpathia and Uromathia in the east. The importance of that trade had begun to fade as colonization had spread from Chairifon across the globe of Sharona, opening new markets, new sources of raw materials and goods, but only until the Larakesh Portal had suddenly appeared in the mountains just west of the sleepy little Ylani Sea seaport of the same name some eighty years ago. The only way for shipping to reach Larakesh from the rest of the world was through the Ibral and Ylani Straits, which meant?once again?through Tajvana. The ancient city had become, if possible, even wealthier than before, and the Portal Authority's decision to locate its headquarters there had restored it to the very first rank of important cities. Yet it was still the sheer history of the city which resonated so deeply with Andrin's very blood and sinew. Tajvana was unique, the one city on the face of Sharona which had known both financial and political power, virtually without interruption, for at least five thousand years. The city was as old as Ternathia itself, a jewel the Ternathian emperors had voluntarily given up.
Despite Andrin's understanding of the economic and political reasons behind Ternathia's abandonment of Tajvana, she'd always felt that the city's loss had diminished not merely the borders of the Empire, but its prestige and culture, as well. To Andrin's way of thinking, at least, it was a matter of national pride?or, more precisely, national shame?that her ancestors had abandoned the richest and most culturally diverse city in the world. She'd often wondered if the people of Tajvana missed the Ternathians and the power and prestige the Empire had brought to their city, or if they'd been glad to see the people who'd conquered them so long ago finally return home.
Andrin had wanted to see Tajvana for as long as she could remember, which was unusual for her. She didn't normally chase after ghosts, or yearn for lost glory. But Tajvana was different. It felt … wrong, somehow, to live in this chill stone palace in cool, rainy Ternath, when whispers of memory ran through her blood, echoes of warm wind in her hair, the warmth of sun-heated marble beneath her hands as she leaned against a carved balustrade, drinking down the glorious light that washed across the city like a tide, along with the scent of exotic flowers, or the rattle of palm fronds against a star-brushed night sky?
Andrin blinked and focused on the Privy Council Chamber once more. Such clear memories of a place she'd never seen would have been disturbing, had she not been Calirath. But the blood in her veins was the same blood which had flowed through the veins of Tajvana's rulers for centuries, and her family's Talent often manifested odd little secondary Talents no one could quite explain. She had visited Tajvana in her dreams, walked its narrow streets through the memories carried in her blood and, quite possibly, her Talent, and she longed to actually go to Tajvana, just to see how accurate those whispers of memory really were.
She sighed, aware that it was highly unlikely she would ever travel there, and yet burningly conscious of the need. Somehow, despite the unlikeliness, she'd always secretly believed that one day she would see Tajvana. Yet she was an emperor's daughter. Her safety and her duties took precedence over any urge she might have had to make the long journey. And once she married?in what would doubtlessly be a politically advantageous marriage, whether the suitor was a Ternathian noble or a prince of some other land?her duty would be to remain at home and raise somebody's heirs. She regretted that more than any other part of her life, yet duty came first when one was born Calirath. And at least she could be intensely glad that Janaki would be the one to rule Ternathia after their father.
She felt a familiar stir of relief at that thought, but the relief was matched by a stronger prickle of her discomfiting Talent, which brought her back to the worrisome question of why her father had insisted on her presence at the Privy Council meeting.
Most of the Councilors had arrived, but there were still a few holes in the ranks. First Councilor Taje was deep in conversation with her father, their voices too low for her to hear, when Alazon Yanamar, Zindel's Privy Voice, entered the chamber and made her way straight to the Emperor. Yanamar was not a standing member of the Privy Council, although she frequently attended its meetings, for obvious reasons. But today, she carried a strange, disquieting aura with her, and as Andrin watched them?her father, Taje, and Yanamar?she tried not to shiver.
It got harder as Zindel and the Privy Voice stepped into the farthest corner of the room, standing alone while Yanamar delivered whatever message had pulled them away from breakfast.
The Emperor's face drained of color, and Andrin's palms went cold and damp against her velvet skirt. Yanamar's trained face gave no indication of what the message had contained, but Zindel's eyes had gone dark and frighteningly shuttered, with a look Andrin had never seen in them.
The Privy Voice glanced once toward Andrin, not unkindly, but without a hint of the thoughts behind her shuttered grey eyes. Not sure what else to do, Andrin nodded politely back to Yanamar from where she'd seated herself in one of the chairs along the wall, rather than one of those at the council table. Her father glanced up, as if the movement of her head had drawn his attention, and gave a slight frown. But he didn't speak, so she remained where she was, on the sidelines, where she belonged. She was here to observe and learn, not participate. At least, she didn't think she was expected to participate. She was usually adept at reading her father's nonverbal signals, but today she was unsure of anything except the fear that buzzed beneath her skin, sharper now than ever.
So she watched and listened as the remaining privy councilors hurried into the room, summoned from whatever tasks had been interrupted by the command to assemble. The First Councilor was by far the most composed of the lot; Andrin couldn't remember ever having seen Shamir Taje lose his composure. He was like a five-masted barque, she mused?ponderous and steady, solid and dependable, whatever the weather between him and his destination. As a child, she'd thought him duller than the endless Ternathian rain; as a nearly grown woman, with a better appreciation for the requirements of statesmanship, she recognized him for what he truly was: an utterly indispensable advisor, whose solid judgment and unflappable resolve were precisely what the Ternathian Empire required.