The New World Page 3

  “No.” Cyron’s eyes narrowed. “Qiro Anturasi, it would appear, was able to achieve magic. He is a Mystic and, in the wake of his granddaughter’s slaughter at the hands of a madman, Qiro lost his grip on sanity. He created a map with a continent drawn in his blood. He called it Anturasixan. The map warns ‘Here there be monsters.’ I fear that if the Stormwolf expedition did find it, they were destroyed there.”

  Blood drained from Pyrust’s face, but he forced himself to his feet. “He has a continent to breed an army? How large is it?”

  “A quarter of our landmass.” Cyron looked off in the direction of Anturasikun. “I will show you the map, if I live that long.”

  The Empress shook her head. “There will be no killing. I need you both. Either one of you could have reunited the Empire. One by the sword, the other by gold. Prince Cyron, you have described Prince Pyrust as a wolf. That he is—ruthless and implacable. He may even be a match for Nelesquin in that.”

  Pyrust did not smile, determined not to reveal her flattery’s effect on him. He could not be certain if the pleasure he felt was because of her magic, or the truth in her words. Either way, she was correct: two steps and he could still harvest Cyron’s head, making Nalenyr his.

  “And you, Prince Pyrust, you have rightly feared Prince Cyron’s domesticating influence on you and your nation. Had the invasion not weakened Nalenyr, you would have been kept at bay indefinitely. Another disastrous harvest would have crippled Deseirion. Your nation would have become a Naleni client state. Soon thereafter, the other nations would have joined you, all bound with golden chains.”

  Pyrust would have bristled, save that Cyron appeared to take no pleasure in her assessment. But what she said might well have been true. With Helosunde as a buffer between them, and its Council of Ministers willing to fight a proxy war, Nalenyr would have been ascendant.

  So close. Pyrust slid his sword back into its scabbard, then stooped and recovered the lacquered wooden scabbard for Cyron’s blade. “You need us both how?”

  She smiled. “You each have your talents. You, Pyrust, will be my warlord. Naleni troops will march with your Desei warriors to destroy the invaders. You will crush Nelesquin.”

  Pyrust cocked an eyebrow. “And I leave my brother here to consolidate our nations with himself on the throne?”

  “You forget, it is my throne, and I would have neither of you upon it. Political affairs I can deal with easily enough, but Cyron has special talents.”

  Cyron coughed lightly. “I fear, Empress, I will be of scant use to you in my condition.”

  “You will get better, I am certain.” She crossed to him, accepting the scabbard from Pyrust, then freeing the sword from Cyron’s hand and sheathing it. “You have never been a warrior, but your grasp of logistics is superior. This war will require as much organization as the Turasynd expedition, maybe more. Logistics were never Nelesquin’s strong suit, and I mean to use that against him.”

  Cyrsa pointed the Naleni blade at Pyrust. “So you shall fight my war, and Cyron will enable you to fight it.”

  Pyrust’s eyes narrowed as he looked past her to Cyron. The man still slumped in his throne, looking like an ashen-faced child trapped in an adult’s armor. His gray pallor and the blood seeping through the bandages on his arm’s stump suggested he was finished. And yet, in his light blue eyes, there now burned a spark, dispelling any notion that he was going to die of his wounds. He would survive.

  He will thrive.

  Pyrust nodded slowly. All his life he had prided himself on his heritage. The Desei had done so much with so little. He’d always wondered what he could do if given a tenth of his enemy’s resources.

  The Desei Prince rested a hand on his sword’s hilt. “I have but one question for you, Empress.”

  “Please.”

  “You said before that you arranged for Nelesquin’s demise. That he was a threat to you. How do I know that you do not see me the same way?”

  Her eyes hardened, becoming at once cold and ancient. “I do see you as a threat. If I didn’t, I’d not pit you against Nelesquin. If you were not a threat you’d have no hope of defeating him.”

  She leveled the sheathed blade at his heart. “You are a man of ambition. So is Nelesquin. I pit your ambition against his. When you succeed, you will be rewarded. Greatly rewarded, both of you.”

  “There cannot be two emperors.”

  “As long as I am alive, there may never be one.” Her eyes softened. “But destroy this threat to my empire, and many possibilities may make themselves known.”

  Chapter Four

  4th 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

  Jaidanxan (The Ninth Heaven)

  The god who had once incarnated as Jorim Anturasi fought to maintain a grasp on his human identity. It was a task worthy of a god, because a human life seemed so insignificant compared to the divine. What mattered the travails of the mortal when the very nature of reality was at risk?

  Jorim—for this is how the dragon god Wentoki sought to identify himself—largely maintained a human form. At least in size and shape, though his skin had become scaly. From throat to loins, he had a rich golden hue, while the rest of his flesh had a supple ebon color allowing him to vanish into shadows, which almost made him laugh because, as a god, he could do so without effort.

  He looked up, suddenly aware of other presences in his palace. Each of the nine gods had a palace floating above the mortal plane. White marble flowed in strong lines that abstractly defined his nature as a dragon. Gauzy curtains danced on breezes. The broad stairs led down to a balcony from which he could overlook the world.

  Tsiwen, his elder sister, the goddess of Wisdom, all but flew down the steps. Her black robe bore the crest of a white bat on the wing and her sharpened features hinted at her thoughtful nature. Dark and beautiful, her wide eyes bespoke sagacity; she could be counted upon for good counsel.

  With her came two other gods. Grija, grey and wolfish, let his nervousness betray him. He stank of death, the essence of his nature, and his appearance reflected it. His threadbare robe hung poorly on his gaunt frame. The fur covering his legs had fallen out in patches, revealing red and irritated flesh beneath.

  Between them strode Chado, one of the eldest of the godlings. He moved deliberately, muscles rippling. He appeared human, in deference to Jorim’s choice, but wore an orange robe with black tiger stripes. As the god of Shadows, he allied himself very closely with Grija and was the author of many of the world’s ills. Yet while Jorim recognized the uses of disease and rot in fostering a renewal of the world, he still had little love for his brother.

  Jorim opened his hands, allowing golden talons to sprout from his fingertips. “Welcome to my domain.”

  Grija snarled anxiously, almost tripping on the last step. “Have you given any thought to what I told you? Have you done anything about it?” He tensed, and might have leaped at Jorim had not Chado’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

  “Easy, brother, for he is still unused to his true nature.” Chado smiled easily enough, but his predatory grin did little to ease Jorim’s sense of doom. “I understand you wish to be addressed as Jorim.”

  “That serves its purposes, yes.” Jorim ignored his brothers and embraced his sister. “You are always welcome.”

  “And always pleased to be here.”

  Jorim allowed himself to imagine her embrace as warm. Releasing her, he turned to his brothers. “I have spent the night thinking on what you said, Grija. I do not doubt you believe it is necessary for me to slay my mortal sister. It is a solution to a problem. I am not convinced, however, it is the only solution.”

  The god of Death bristled. “I am not stupid! When will you realize that?”

  He would have lunged at Jorim, but Chado restrained him yet again. “I feared his reaction might be hasty, so Tsiwen suggested
I might explain. Where should I start?”

  “Grija told me that my mortal sister, Nirati, is causing a problem. She is dead, but somehow not dead. She has escaped Grija’s realm. I can imagine such things, but what I find curious is that she is beyond his reach but not mine. How is this possible? We are gods. Is anything beyond our reach?”

  The tiger god released Grija and began to pace. “Ultimately, no; but directly, most assuredly. It begins with the tree of creation. This reality we all share is the trunk of the tree, and many are the branches. We are all part of it. We are born of it, created by the one who created everything.”

  Jorim nodded. “Nessagafel?”

  “Yes, our father.” Chado waved a hand at the world below. “We are part and parcel of his creation. We, too, have created things. Some of us create things of substance, and others create things more ethereal.”

  Tsiwen laughed easily. “Leave your brow unfurrowed, brother. Nessagafel created the Viruk, and we are powerless to affect them directly. He protected them, at a cost to himself, which made him vulnerable. Chado has fashioned diseases, some of which we may blunt, others of which we cannot.”

  Jorim rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What did I create? Nessagafel incarnated as a Viruk. Did I create Men, then become one?”

  Chado laughed. “No, brother. Men were a creation we, the Nine, collaborated upon. You have created other things, like the Fennych, but you reserved your greatest creation for the benefit of mankind.”

  Grija scratched at his arm. “This is what has caused the problem.”

  Tsiwen took Jorim’s left hand between hers. “You have not let yourself remember much, but you are the youngest of us. As such, you sought the most to please our father. While we made mankind, you watched him and his Viruk. You saw him give them magic, and you resolved that a different type of magic would be your gift to Men. That is a most dangerous gift, however, and you were opposed in your desires.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it ruins everything.” Grija stabbed a hooked finger toward the mortal plane. “We had seen it with the Viruk. Magic gives them an ability which should be ours alone: the ability to alter reality. You know what the unfettered release of magic can do in the world. Men are too limited to understand how to control such power. Even the limits you placed upon it are insufficient to preclude disaster.”

  Fear thrummed through Jorim. Grija’s explanation, curt though it was, captured the dilemma perfectly. Magic allowed Men the ability to create. If they could create, they could presumably bar others, including the gods, from having a direct impact on their creation.

  It would allow them to become gods themselves.

  Chado nodded. “You see it, Jorim. We have always found ways to subvert the protections. Nessagafel created the Viruk. They enslaved our Men. You created the Fennych as a scourge upon the Viruk, and you denied Nessagafel the right to interfere with them. I created a variety of maladies that could attack all three. This allowed for a balance.”

  “But if there was a balance, how did it became necessary to destroy Nessagafel?”

  “Events, one tipping into another; things unforeseen and unpredictable.” Chado stopped at the edge of the balcony and leaned heavily on the balustrade. “When Nessagafel created the Viruk, he was still proud of us, his children. He made us gods among them, and we were worshipped. The Viruk thrived, and yet their enslavement of Men came to rankle. Tension grew, and Nessagafel realized two things. The first was that the Viruk were a superior creation to his own children. Second, and far more important, he realized that in creating us, he had granted us enough power that we could stage a revolt against him. He became determined to prune all the branches from creation, save for the Viruk. He would remake everything, and unmake us.”

  Jorim frowned mightily. “How do you know this?”

  The god of Shadows laughed. “Through you.”

  “Me?”

  Tsiwen patted his hand. “You loved our father and sought his attention. Yet you remained loyal to all of us, so when the true danger manifested, you opposed him.”

  Jorim laughed. “Sounds like my grandfather Qiro.”

  “In many ways they are linked.” The goddess of Wisdom smiled easily. “Allow yourself to think on the name Talrisaal.”

  Jorim immediately recognized the name as being of Viruk origin, but his understanding stopped there. Yet concentration unlocked deeper memories. Before his mind’s eye, a scene unfolded deep in the jungles of Ummummorar. Jorim swooped down, his vision piercing the dense veil of leaves. As Men saw color and heard sound, likewise foreign emotions resonated through him.

  Below, a band of Viruk raced along a twisting jungle trail. Full-grown warriors, save for one, they fled. One crashed through the brush ahead of the juvenile, while the half dozen others constantly tossed glances back at their pursuers. The warriors mumbled prayers to Kojai, the god of War, thinking he might be more merciful than the mighty and terrible Nessagafel.

  But the young one, Talrisaal, prayed to Wentoki. He sought courage so he would not dishonor himself amid the company of warriors. He feared dishonor more than he feared death, and the fervency of his prayer attracted Wentoki’s attention.

  Their pursuers boiled through the rain forest. Fennych moved in a vast band, low to the ground, teeth flashing and claws rending vegetation. When he had created the Fennych, Wentoki had made them gentle—a clownish crossing of small apes and bears. He did, however, imbue them with some magic, and it allowed them to change shape to adapt to new situations. In winter their coats might lighten, or if they hunted in caverns, their eyes would grow wide to sharpen their vision.

  But in the presence of the Viruk, they lost all pretense of humor and became hardy predators. Viruk magic could not stop them, at least not directly. Warriors could kill them, but not easily; Fenn claws could shred their flesh as if it were smoke.

  One warrior fell, then another as knots of Fenn pounced and rent them. The furred carpet of muscular bodies would have muffled any scream had the warriors time to voice one. Blood gushed and the Fenn anointed themselves before bounding off to kill more.

  The Fenn advanced in a crescent with wings extending past the lead Viruk and closed slowly. The Viruk burst into a clearing. The scout plunged on through, reaching the tree line, then stumbled back with a half dozen Fenn tearing out mouthfuls of flesh. The two in the rear guard never even made it to the clearing, leaving the last two warriors warding the youth, staring out at the luminous eyes blinking from the shadows.

  Though the warriors tried to restrain the youth, he stepped forward and spoke in a clear voice with no detectable fear. He described a circle with a finger and a wall of fire burst into existence around the three of them. The flames rose to the height of Talrisaal’s eyes. The warriors hunkered down, waiting and watching.

  The Fenn drew the scout’s body into the forest.

  The youth stood there, not cowering, but slowly turning to stare back at the Fenn. Fear still lurked within him, but he refused to surrender to it. He sought to project courage, and praised Wentoki’s name with every breath. He wanted the Fenn to know he would not run or scream. Though they might kill him, they would never break him, and even the Fenn seemed to acknowledge that as truth.

  Wentoki manifested in the clearing as a man. The Viruk stared at him. Talrisaal could not hide his astonishment at a Viruk god choosing to assume the form of a slave. The youth dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.

  “It gladdens my heart, oh Wentoki, that you would come see how your gift is spent.” The innocence of youth filled the words with sincerity. “I shall not dishonor your gift.”

  Wentoki chose to ignore the warriors who still begged for his dog-brother’s intervention. “You’ve prayed for courage to die well, Talrisaal. You don’t need it.”

  The Dragon god gestured and the flames vanished. Darkness fell, shot through with snarls and screams.

  Then the flaming circle returned, smaller, with the youth kneeling at its
heart. The blood of his companions had been splashed over him, but no other trace of them remained. The fire’s renewed light did not fill the clearing, and the Fennych had encroached to shadow’s edge.

  “Do you test me to see if I will be unworthy of your gift?”

  “You are days and weeks from home. You are alone. Have you sufficient wisdom to survive?”

  The youth’s mouth gaped for a moment. “I do not even have the wisdom to know how to answer you.”

  “Then you will pray to my sister, Tsiwen.” Wentoki opened both arms and the circle of Fenn parted. “You have no need for courage, but I should not hesitate to lend it to you if you did. Go now. Tell no one of our encounter; they would not believe you.”

  The young Viruk got to his feet and, without looking back, began the long march to his home.

  Wordlessly, Wentoki commanded the Fenn to escort him. Talrisaal traveled north in the company of forest spirits that guided him to freshwater, scared away predators, and watched over him while he slept. All of this Wentoki observed from afar.

  Jorim blinked. “Talrisaal became a great sorcerer among the Viruk.”

  Chado nodded. “When our father thought to remake the world, he chose nine of his Viruk to replace us. They were sorcerers all, well versed in the warping of reality. He revealed to them his plan to supplant the gods, and Talrisaal revealed the plan to you. With the courage you lent him, he rebelled. While our father was distracted fighting to preserve Viruk unity, we were able to strike and kill him.”

  “But not destroy him completely.” Jorim glanced at Grija. “He was trapped in your realm, in a place of your creation, which was why he could not escape.”

  “Not until your sister did.”

  “How did she do that?”

  Tsiwen gestured and the world spun beneath them. Out in the vast Eastern Sea loomed a new continent. “She is there, in a place called Kunjiqui, in the land of Anturasixan.”