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  "Is that why you sent him away?"

  "I didn't 'send him away.' I sent him on a mission. When it's complete, he'll return better for it. You see, Aaden, I am trying to help them both become stronger, stronger in ways that truly matter, in ways that sharpen them, ways that harden them."

  Again, she did not like the edge in her voice. She backed away from it, touched Aaden on his still bouncing knees. He was getting restless. She would have to let him go soon, go and be a boy for a while, free of lessons like these. She wished, not for the first time, that she did not have to say such things to him. Let him just be the boy he wants to be. But if she allowed that, she would be committing all the mistakes her father had made. Dariel had been but a little older than Aaden when he was cast out into the world alone, everything taken from him. Such things had happened before. They could happen again. If they did in his life, Aaden would never be able to fault her for not preparing him.

  "Aliver was no better," she said. "You should know that from me, because the tales they tell of him make no mention of it. He may have dreamed fine notions, but what are dreams? They're nothing without the backbone to achieve them. Your uncle did wonderful things, of course, but he died with his work unfinished. He would have left the world in chaos had I not been here to set things right. His flaw, Aaden, was that he let emotion drive him. He let notions take the place of deliberate thought. Akarans have done that for too long. Tinhadin killed his older brother to secure his throne, but he killed his youngest out of fear. Even my father only half governed as he should have, choked as he was by an idealism that made him idle. But not any longer. I am not of that mold, nor will you be. I will teach you better than that. So, what I say is this…" She paused until he looked up at her with his full, gray-eyed attention. "Love our family without being weakened by them; honor them as infallible in public while noting their flaws to yourself; demand the most from friends without expecting it; imagine the worst from your enemies so that they cannot surprise you; and rely only on yourself."

  Smiling and softening her voice she added, "Yourself and your mother, I should say." She mussed his hair. "All right, Aaden, enough of this talk! I can see you're restless."

  "May I go to the Marah hall and train?"

  "Yes. Do that. Show me what you've learned later."

  Aaden handed his glass to a servant, who took it lightly, bowing and thanking his highness. The prince mumbled his own thanks to the servant, and then stepped close to Corinn and whispered, "Mother, do you ever use your singing to make the arrow… hit?"

  Corinn slipped her hand around the back of his head and pulled him close. With her lips brushing his ear, she said, "Never."

  An hour later the queen was back in her offices, sitting straight backed and expressionless as Rhrenna introduced Paddel, the head vintner of Prios. He was a jowly man, squeezed unflatteringly into a silken suit that bulged in all the wrong places. He was technically bald, but his scalp had been tattooed a dark blue-black. The ink followed his natural hairline, but the effect was unnervingly peculiar. Paddel seemed quite pleased with it. He regularly touched his scalp with his fingers, as if stroking and repositioning his hair.

  Corinn decided to keep this meeting short. She actually knew most of what the vintner could tell her, having received detailed reports from the league for some years now. They had done their work; hopefully Paddel had done his as well.

  "How have the trials gone?" she asked.

  "Oh, wonderfully! Wonderfully!" The vintner could barely contain himself. He seemed oblivious of the fact that he flung spittle with each excited sentence. "You could not have asked for greater success. All that you wished for, Your Majesty, has been made reality. All of it."

  Corinn sat some distance away, behind her desk, but she held her hand out before her chest, a posture half protective and half a threat that she might smack him. He didn't notice this either. "I hope so. Sire Dagon assured me the product would be worth any wait. In order for that to be true, your Prios vintage will have to be a very fine thing."

  "My queen, my wine is the balm our thirsty nation needs. You will be delighted."

  Corinn doubted delight would play any part in her emotions. She did, however, hide a keen interest behind her intentionally bland facade. She had waited years for this vintage. Balm for the thirsty nation. That would be a useful thing, indeed. It had not taken her long after seizing power to realize that her brother-however he had managed it-had left her gravely handicapped. The people were off mist, and their memories of the nightmares the drug had begun to induce must have been vivid, for none of them returned to the pipe. That was fine in the early days after Hanish's demise. There was work to be done, and more than enough for the people to focus on.

  Before long, however, their clear-eyed awareness began to be a problem. They set their sights on her and started to grow disgruntled. First one nation and then another grumbled for independence, complained about being overtaxed, claimed that agents in the night still stole their children, argued Aliver's old pledges as if they were words from some holy book. Corinn was sure that she had to maneuver, cajole, bribe, flatter, and punish at a frenetic rate precisely because the people were no longer drugged. No Akaran monarch since Tinhadin had worked as hard as she had. If she had clamped down on dissent forcefully, it was the people's own fault! The Numrek were hers to deploy, and use them she did.

  Initially, she had asked the league to find some way to spread the drug again. After all, it would upset their trade with the Lothan Aklun. Those foreigners still wanted quota. That was why the league had taken over the Outer Isles, to make them into a plantation for raising quota. But the Known World, it seemed, no longer wanted mist in return for it. The league had urged caution, patience. They said that to simply put the people back on mist would be a mistake, even if it were possible. It was too easily recognizable, too much a sign of their old condition. Some might take to a slightly altered variation, yes, but others would chafe and foment against it. All still remembered Aliver and considered him their deliverer from mist. It would not do for Corinn to simply reverse that. They convinced her to wait for a new product to control the people, and in the meantime she accepted payment for the quota in coin and jewel and a variety of other things needed to rebuild the empire. That she couldn't argue with.

  It was seven years before they finally came to her saying the new drug had been perfected. It was, they said, made from the same base elements as mist, but they had managed to formulate it in such a way that it could be consumed day or night, without altering one's ability to work, sleep, or procreate. It had proven difficult to contain it in liquid form and in a substance that did not degrade over time. This was important to them, though, as they were convinced the drug should not be smoked. It should seem nothing like mist. This time, they urged, it should be consumed as a beverage, a beverage like… wine. Prios had long had a history of wine making. With Corinn's permission, and under league supervision, the operations had been expanded to cover as much of the island as possible. The result, finally, was this Prios vintage, a wine with a measure of the formula mixed in before bottling.

  "Watching the test subjects," Paddel said, "one almost wants to throw reason away and join them." He leaned forward, beads of sweat clinging to his tattooed hairline. "The vintage, it isn't grandiose. It isn't unpredictable like mist. It doesn't take one over completely. Instead, from the first drink of it one feels the hum of mild bliss, a constant, happy sense of expectation. On the wine, they are convinced that something wonderful is about to happen. Always about to happen. The feeling, when properly dosed, never wears off. They never wonder why this wonderful thing hasn't happened; they only know that it is going to. It's coming. Always coming."

  "And yet they still work?"

  Vigorous nodding. "They do. Of course they do. Why wouldn't they? They feel wonderful, so what's a few more hours cracking rocks or whatever labor they're at?"

  Corinn glanced at Rhrenna, the only other person in the room. Her small fe
atures did not do justice to the sharp mind behind them, but Corinn liked that about her. With her freckled Meinish skin and pale blue eyes she could sit within most rooms without drawing any more attention than an average household servant. She was much more, though. She asked, "And when they are deprived of it?"

  "That's another bit of brilliance," Paddel said, addressing the queen as if she had asked the question. "If we withhold it, the test subjects feel only a vague unease, like the start of hunger pains or like a chill. And what does one do when hungry?" The vintner paused, grinning. "Eats! What does one do against a chill? Puts on a cloak. Nobody thinks 'Why am I slave to this hunger?' or 'Damn this chill, I'll fight it!' No, they do what comes naturally, Your Majesty. The same is true of the wine. In our trials the patients don't even understand that they crave the vintage. They'll do anything to get it, but they don't even know they want it. And I do mean anything…"

  Corinn watched him rub his fingertips across his thumbs at some memory of this anything. "What of our military? If our own soldiers drink this stuff, will it make them unwilling to fight? Peaceful?"

  "Not at all. They'll rush to battle confident of victory! Understand that the vintage-Oh, how should I say…" Paddel squinted his entire face as he searched for the words to explain himself. "They see the world with gilded highlights, yes, but they still see the world. They still walk through the motions of life as before, and honor their responsibilities. They honor them even better, in fact! You, my queen, will rule an empire of happy citizens. They'll do whatever you wish, and they'll never see their lives for what they are-complete and total drudgery!"

  "And how do we control it?" Rhrenna asked. "Much of the empire drinks wine. Even children drink it diluted. How do we control who is on it and who is not?"

  Paddel responded directly to the queen, grinning through his words. "That is for her majesty to determine, but in my opinion… Well, in my opinion, each and every person in the land could drink the stuff. They would all be happier for it, so what's the harm?"

  Rhrenna, catching the queen's eye, expressed her loathing with quick pursing of her thin lips. Corinn silently agreed. She had never heard of anything worse, but she did not say so or let any emotion other than vague displeasure show on her face. "Fine. Continue production as you will, then. Store it carefully. Securely."

  "Of course. We do. We do. The Ishtat Inspectorate guards the warehouse. When, Your Majesty, might we begin distribution? Sire Dagon said the league are ready and will aid at your pleasure."

  "At my pleasure is correct," Corinn replied. "You may go now."

  Go he did, ushered out by Rhrenna, although he clearly had to swallow a host of questions and declarations to do so. Once the two left the room, Corinn inhaled deeply, trying to loosen the tension that had built in her as she spoke with the vintner. She smelled him-a sweet, salty scent as if his sweat were some sort of sugared seawater. She would ask Rhrenna to have incense lit when she returned. A soothing scent-that was what she needed. Something to let her think clearly on this.

  She loathed the pleasure Paddel seemed to take in the venture. Coming from him the entire project seemed tainted by his vile fingertips. But that should not matter, she knew. It was the result that she cared about; and the results, by all accounts, were as advantageous as she could have hoped. She understood now why the league had been willing to wait to see the formula and the means of distribution perfected. She had only to give the word. The wine would flow through the veins of trade, to markets and taverns, to sit on tables in every corner of the empire. It would wet the lips of laborers and thieves, farmers and merchants, scholars and officials. It would be hard to keep it from the gilded goblets of the aristocracy, but they were as troublesome in their simpering ways as ranting prophets like Barad were among the masses. Let them all be deluded. Let the world rest for a while without strife. Even Aliver could not have objected to that.

  The thought of her siblings nagged at her. She would have to decide what to do about them. Neither seemed to fully understand the dangers of a sober populace. Sometimes she feared that they did not understand their responsibilities. The people could not be trusted! They would forever find fault, make mistakes, and give in to petty jealousies and shortsighted thinking. They would destroy themselves if they were allowed to. That was what Tinhadin had realized; that was why he had grasped all power in his hands and ruled with an iron will.

  She would do so as well, and yet she would improve on his model. She would rule with her brain, not her emotions. She would use all the tools she could. She would make the world safe. Nobody would lie to her anymore. Nobody would betray her, steal from her, or abandon her. Nobody would die without her permission. The world would be as she wished it to be. And then she would know peace as well.

  Yes, she thought, then I will know peace. If Mena and Dariel could not understand this, she would have to act for them. She loved them dearly, of course. That was why, she knew, they might have to drink the vintage as well. She was not sure yet, but that might be for the best.

  Rhrenna returned, lit the incense as Corinn asked, and talked through the remaining matters of business. There was always more. This time it was the merchants of Bocoum who harried her. Their drought had grown dire. Northern Talay-and all the food production and trade it drove-was at the brink of collapse. "Your Majesty," Rhrenna said, "they have really become quite insistent. They beseech you to come and see their plight. They say you will truly understand it only when you see it with your own eyes."

  "Fine. I've had enough of these offices anyway. Tell them I will come to them within the fortnight. Tell Aaden as well. He'll be happy for a trip, even a short one."

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kelis received the messenger outside his tent. The youth was barefoot and lean, his musculature barely adolescent, though he was likely older than he looked. The light of the setting sun caught twinkles in the dust that coated him, the result of the miles of travel that had brought him to Halaly. Kelis, hearing his message and the coded language he used to demonstrate its authenticity, stood a moment, unsure how to answer. He knew a summons when he heard it. There was no other word for it. Sangae Umae, his chieftain, demanded his presence. Though he was loyal to the Akarans and to Mena's unfinished work, he could not ignore the order. Delay, perhaps, but not ignore.

  Speaking Talayan, Kelis said, "Tell Sangae that when I am done here I will come to him in Umae. Tell him I have arrived here with Princess Mena only a week ago. We are to attack the foulthing in the lake, but we still have much to prepare. Once we have killed it, I will meet him in Umae." He began to turn away, but the messenger made a clicking sound with his tongue. Apparently, he was not finished.

  The boy's left arm was stunted, half the size of the other. Perhaps this was part of why he was a messenger instead of warrior runner. He did not seem ashamed of it, though, and used the small limb to illustrate his words. "Not Umae," he said. "Sangae awaits you in Bocoum. He is there now and prays your feet do not grow hot on the sand before you reach him."

  Bocoum? The bustling city of Bocoum was Talayan controlled, yes, but Sangae rarely visited there. He was a village chieftain, not a merchant prince. Respected as he was for having been Aliver's surrogate father, Sangae had as little use for the rich men of Bocoum as they had for him.

  "He is at the coast?"

  "Even now," the youth said, one corner of his mouth slightly crooked, as if Kelis were a disappointment for not knowing this already. "He stays in the care of Sinper of the family Ou. Sangae wishes me to take you there. I promised to return with you, as quickly as you can run."

  The boy had an attitude of playful condescension. He thought too much of his authority as a messenger-which was no authority at all, really. Kelis decided to ignore this show of self-importance for now. He held to a long silence as he thought. Sinper Ou was his host? That made little sense. The Ous were the most ambitious of the city's merchant families. They were wealthy by any standard, and in the strange way of it, they earned their for
tune without ever breaking a sweat. They owned the bulk of the rafts the floating merchants leased and took a considerable percentage of their profits. They also owned great swaths of the coastal farmlands, properties they had acquired piece by piece over the generations and now charged for the use of. They controlled more docks than any other family and imposed tariffs on all the goods that crossed them-both those grown on their land and those transported on their rafts. The Ous were not the type of company Sangae usually kept. None of this sounded right.

  "Do you know why he summons me?" Kelis's eyes inadvertently lingered on the youth's stunted arm. "Why he sent you?"

  "No, I don't know why he wants you," the youth answered, "but he sent me because I am fast. This arm does not slow my legs. It cuts the wind for me."

  "I am sure it does-"

  "You will have to work to keep up with me," the boy said.

  Kelis smiled but said nothing. The boy had heart, at least. He told the messenger where to find food and drink and shelter for the evening, and he promised that he would run with him as soon as he had helped the princess. If she consented to let him go, that was.

  Alone later on the hard pallet on which he slept, Kelis could not stop himself from longing for all the possibilities ended by the point of Maeander's blade. Even without outward reminders, being near Mena meant that memories of Aliver were always close. They lay like objects beneath a thin skin of water, sometimes standing out clearly, other times stirred by the current, shaded by clouds, or reflecting the world above like a moving mirror. Aliver's death had never yet felt real to him. He often daydreamed of the boy he had grown strong with, the man he had loved in his quiet way. He contained within himself images and expressions and bits of recalled conversations that seemed more real than the years separating him from those joyful moments. And in his dreams Aliver lived. He stood before him, ironic, aware that he had escaped death and somehow embarrassed to have done so, beautiful in a way that no other person had ever been in Kelis's eyes.