The Withering Sword

Chapter 17: Tyovato-feg

SILARON

South-western Gyoto

Prince Silaron rolled over in his bunk. Sleep had eluded him for the past few hours. The rocking motion of the ship beneath him didn’t help, and neither did his brother’s snoring in the bunk next to him, but nothing contributed to his sleeplessness as much as his fear of what would come later that day when they docked at the foot of the mountains.

Leaving Bainling a little less than a month ago had almost come as a relief. The whole court had been in uproar at the news that the Tyovadh had chosen the two royal princes to join their ranks, and Silaron hadn’t had much peace there, either. The trip here hadn’t been so bad―passing the lush islands of Leiyang; seeing Wem-Mayagato-feg, the aptly-called White City; sailing up the Tawem-Togabato, which wound through the lowlands of Gyoto, peppered with farmlands and villages; and making out the majestic Pehm mountains in the distance.  He’d also enjoyed learning about seafaring and getting to know the sailors on their ship.

He supposed that taking Nerion away from Bainling might give him a better chance of survival. Removed from public scrutiny and no longer a threat to the empress, as he could no longer inherit their mother’s title, far fewer people would have much cause to wish him ill. But who would succeed their mother? Someone deep in the empress’ confidence, no doubt. And what awaited them at Tyovato-feg?

When the envoy had first come, Silaron had not believed him. Why would the Tyovadh want him and his brother? According to everything he knew, the Tyovadh usually picked their recruits at a much younger age, thirteen or fourteen, or maybe even younger. The Tyovadh warriors had a quasi-mystical birthright and an innate talent for battle. And no one could refuse the call if chosen.

Convenient, thought Silaron for the thousandth time as he rolled over again, trying to find a more comfortable position. Too convenient.

The Tyovadh warriors renounced all claims to titles or lands. Silaron’s hands clenched into fists at the memory of holding the quill and signing the document that declared he would never ascend to the throne of Miihing. Watching Nerion sign an identical document had been even worse.

Silaron didn’t know if he had wanted Nerion to be king. Although he had grown up knowing it would happen and preparing for the eventuality, he didn’t know if Nerion would truly have been a good king or not. But this political maneuvering on the part of the empress and her council… it sickened him.

He had no doubt that she was to blame. She had the means and the motive. And the perfect cover―no one dared question the recruitment of the Tyovadh. Not even royal princes.

Underneath, the ship rocked again. It wasn’t as bad on the river as on the open sea, but it brought up a wave of nausea. He thought his mental state might have something to do with it, because in the daytime, when he had other activities to distract him, he’d rarely gotten seasick. He couldn’t even remember what it felt like for the floor not to move. They hadn’t stopped to rest at any of the inns along the river; the Tyovadh wanted them in the mountains as soon as possible, or perhaps the empress didn’t want them to escape. As if they would. Where would they go?

Silaron got up and climbed quietly out of their cabin onto the deck. He could hear the rowers chanting below. They worked in shifts and hadn’t stopped once since leaving Wem-Myagato-feg. The river barge was slim, much smaller than the junk that had carried them across the Sea of Suns. It cut through the gentle current of the river, creating cascades on either side, tipped with white.

His heart beat faster when he saw how much closer they’d come to the mountains. They looked close enough to touch. Somewhere in those rocky slopes―the exact location was a secret―Tyovato-feg, the stronghold of the Tyovadh warriors, waited for them.