Princeps’ Fury

Tavi looked up from his place among half a dozen Cane-sized sand tables. They were meant to be used by a Cane squatting in a comfortable crouch, but were an awkward height for an Aleran-too tall to sit beside them, too short to be practical while standing. His back hurt. He straightened, wincing, as Kitai shut the door behind her.

“Crassus is here,” Kitai said without preamble. “He was attacked by the Vord on his way back to the port. He had to circle wide of them on the way back. He’s injured.”

Tavi chewed on his lower lip. “How bad is it?”

“Maximus is seeing to him, but he’s exhausted.” Kitai walked closer and gave Tavi a calm kiss on the cheek. As she did, she whispered, “The rest of the Legion’s Knights Aeris are at hand, unseen. Crassus says that the Shuarans have several thousand of Varg’s people held prisoner in a camp not far from here.”

Tavi smiled and kissed her cheek in return. “Tell them to stand by,” he breathed in reply. “And to say nothing to Varg.”

Kitai gave a slight nod and turned her eyes to the sand tables, examining each of them. Sheaves of paper lay stacked beside them, held down with simple weights made of polished black stone. “What is this?”

Tavi turned to the tables and raked his fingers back through his hair. “The Canim ranges,” he replied. He pointed at one of the stacks of paper with a toe. “And reports taken from each.”

Kitai frowned at the tables and pages. “You’ve read all of these?”

Tavi waggled his hand in a so-so gesture. “I’m not as familiar with their script as I’d like to be.”

Kitai sniffed. “It’s just as senseless as Aleran writing.”

“Yes,” Tavi said, “but I’ve had years to practice Aleran.”

She smiled slightly. “What have you learned?”

Tavi shook his head. “Plenty. I’m just not sure what to make of it all.” He pointed at the first table, where a number of small black stones and white stones marked Vord and Canim forces, respectively. They were scattered everywhere over the table. “Narash. Varg’s range. They were the first to be attacked. The reports from there are the most confused and conflicting.”

Kitai glanced up sharply at him. “It was intentional.”

Tavi nodded. “I think the Vord established several different nests, keeping as quiet as they could for as long as they could, then attacked simultaneously, causing as much havoc and confusion as possible. From what I can tell, most of the Narashan commanders initially thought they were being attacked by their neighbors. By the time they realized the truth, it was too late.”

He gestured at the next tables in succession. “Kadan, Rengal, Irgat… They all fell within the next year.”

He blew out a breath to keep from shuddering. Each Canim nation had been home to a populace nearly as great as Alera’s, though settled into a much smaller geographical region. Despite their armies, the dark power of their ritualists, the savagely protective nature of the Canim with regard to their territories, each of them had fallen as steadily and surely as a field of wheat before a farmer’s scythe.

Tavi nodded to the next table. “Maraul. They held out for nearly a year. But by then they were cut off from Shuar, surrounded. Then…” Tavi shrugged. “Shuar was the only range left.”

“What are you looking for?” Kitai asked.

Tavi shook his head. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been looking for patterns. Trying to see how they think, how they operate.”

“The Vord?” Kitai asked. “Or the Canim?”

Tavi shot her a quick smile. “Yes,” he replied. The smile faded. “Though at the moment, I’d be thrilled at the prospect of having the Canim as a long-term worry.”

Kitai regarded him with calm, serious eyes. “Crassus says that there are as many as eighty or ninety thousand Vord already in central Shuar.”

Tavi frowned at the news. Eighty or ninety thousand. Fighting that many Vord on open ground would be little more than suicide for the Aleran Legions. Their only chance would be to fight beside Nasaug’s troops-and that was hardly a proposition that his men would enjoy. Two years of war had made for plenty of hard feelings on both sides.

For just a moment, staring at the sand tables, at the enormous number of black stones, and the relatively few white ones opposing them, Tavi felt at a complete loss. Only a few years ago, he had been nothing but a shepherd. No, not even that. His uncle had been the shepherd. Tavi had been an apprentice shepherd.

Oh, of course, now he had a title: His Royal Highness, Gaius Octavian, Princeps of the Realm, heir apparent to the Crown of Alera.

With that and a sharp knife, he could slice bread.

How was he supposed to deal with this situation? How was he supposed to make the choices before him-choices that would send Alerans and Canim alike to their deaths? Was he merely arrogant, to think that he was the best person to decide? Or was he quietly, calmly insane?

Kitai’s slim, warm hand slid over the back of his neck, and he looked up into her eyes.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he told her in a near whisper.