The New World Page 31

  In this Hell of children, the copper ants and thorned vines with which Nessagafel had tortured Jorim abounded. Again and again, the children kicked over the anthills. When the ants erupted in copper geysers, the children would run screaming through nettles, brambles, and the vines. Thorns would tear at them and burrs would thicken their hair. Eventually they would stumble and fall. Screaming and thrashing, they would sink beneath a wave of ants.

  Clean piles of bones dotted a landscape which—aside from these grim monuments and the abundance of anthills—appeared quite pleasant. Plants would arise from amid the skeletons, flower, then produce a strange fruit that resembled a cocoon. It would fall to the ground and a child would emerge to begin the cycle anew.

  Seeing the ants and vines stopped Jorim. He dropped to his knees and hugged arms around himself. “There has to be another way around.”

  The Viruk hunched beside him. “What is it?”

  “Nessagafel.” He looked up. “He used the ants and vines on me.”

  “I understand.” Talrisaal nodded. “Even his kindnesses were tinged with cruelty. Our priests said it was to toughen the Viruk. Our philosophers thought it a reflection of the world we grew up in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Talrisaal laughed and Jorim took pleasure in the sound. “How do I say this to a god? You, your brothers and sisters, were long acknowledged as Nessagafel’s creations. Even when he manifested himself and became the God-Emperor in Virukadeen, he reinforced this thought. It was a core precept of our religion, but there were heretics among us. In fact, until the day you saved me, I was one.”

  The Viruk got his hands under Jorim’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “Wentoki, I have been watching. If we do not anger the ants, I believe we will pass unharmed. Look, over there.”

  Two children played together amid the grasses. They laughed and plucked blades of grass. They held them between their thumbs and blew, making funny sounds. This increased the laughter. The children slowly regressed, shedding years, and when they reached the point where they could no longer stand, they vanished altogether.

  Jorim arched an eyebrow. “You think they are off to be reborn?”

  “Thus is the cycle of life completed.” Talrisaal urged him forward. “We will get out of here soon enough.”

  “You’re right.” Jorim walked on, placing his feet carefully. “I want to go back to something you said. What did your heretics believe?”

  “I don’t know that it was belief, really, as much as a point of discussion. People wondered why cruelty existed in the world. If Nessagafel was a perfect and generous god—as he claimed—and creation was a reflection of him, then cruelty had to be part of him or something he introduced consciously. Why would he do that? No one could answer, and he remained silent on the point. So some began to wonder if he was a flawed god. When that was taken a step further, we wondered if he was a god at all.”

  “How could they question his being a god? He was there in Virukadeen.”

  “Actually, that was the source of the question. There was no way to tell if he had discovered magic and it had made him as powerful as a god or—and here is the heretical bit—if the very discovery of magic made us believe there had to be gods. That belief, perforce, led us to create a god—either of whole cloth, or by channeling our belief into a Viruk who claimed he was a god.”

  Jorim stopped. “But if he wasn’t the god who created everything, then how is it here? How am I here?”

  “Two separate issues and, believe me, your existence caused me no end of sleepless nights. The existence of reality could imply a god, but does not require one. Our creation of a god could have imbued him with the power to create you and his other children, as well as other bits of creation you all claim. Some have suggested, in fact, that we created a god to be a mechanism for working magic before we understood how it worked. We invest power and belief in a god, we ask for boons, and when they are granted, we rejoice. What this means, ultimately, is not that Nessagafel created us in his image, but we crafted him in ours.”

  Jorim followed the Viruk around a silken pouch that was just beginning to open. “But why would your god, your vessel, then create us?”

  Talrisaal nodded grimly. “Here is where it gets very odd. If we created Nessagafel in our image, and if his very life depended upon our worship of him, then our growing understanding of magic and how to control it became a direct threat to his existence. If you can work miracles yourself, how or why do you need to worship something that no longer seems so powerful? Nessagafel was, in effect, a parasite. By creating you for Men to worship, Nessagafel was guaranteeing his continued existence. He creates nine of you, he waits to see which is the most powerful or well liked, then allies himself with you or supplants you.”

  “Then why the plan to destroy all creation and start over?”

  Talrisaal shook his head as they neared a shimmering lake. “There was not much time to discuss this as the end came, but the idea was advanced that one of you, his children, might bestow magic upon Men. Tsiwen had gifted foresight to the Soth, and you allowed the Fennych to shift shapes. Magic for Men was but a matter of time.”

  “Which would put him in the same situation all over again: losing power because Men would become miracle workers.” Jorim frowned. “But the vanyesh and the Cataclysm ended that problem. Magic is feared, and the power is limited.”

  “But limited only by the minds of those who wield it.”

  “If he had influence over the vanyesh…” Jorim shook his head. “All of this is predicated on his ability to influence affairs in the mortal realm, but he was destroyed with Virukadeen.”

  “He may have been destroyed, but his worship was not.” The Viruk sighed. “No matter how horrible something may be, there will be those who refuse to see its reality. Change terrifies them, so they refuse to acknowledge it. They cling to the old ways, repeat the old rituals, and through that imbue new life into an old evil.”

  Jorim rubbed both hands over his face. “What you’ve said makes a dreadful sort of sense. Among the Amentzutl, the pantheon has undergone contractions and the channels for worship have been merged. For instance, Tsiwen and Kojai have been merged into Tlachoa, a monkey god which, in more recent representations, has sprouted bat’s wings.”

  “They shape the gods to their needs.” Talrisaal shrugged slowly. “If the gods do for us that which we cannot do ourselves, it makes sense that we reshape them and their aspects to address our current needs—for good or ill.”

  Jorim looked down at himself. “Then am I being reshaped?”

  The Viruk flashed bright teeth. “You are courage, and it is forever needed and lauded.”

  “The ants tested that courage. Thank you for helping me.”

  “I have returned a favor you did me.” Talrisaal waded out into the lake. “And now to Quoraxan, to repay the demons who had been tormenting me for their kindness.”

  The Viruk dove beneath the water and Jorim went after him. They both swam down, going deeper and deeper until a current began to draw them along. It picked up speed and suddenly sucked them into a tube.

  Then a heartbeat later, Jorim shot out of a tunnel, free of the water. He flew into Quoraxan, a world of red lands that had been scoured and scarred by savage winds and volcanic flows. Lava erupted and burning lakes lit the landscape. Even the water burst into flames halfway down its nine-hundred-foot descent.

  Jorim began falling and falling fast. His companion had suggested that worshippers shape gods to their needs, and Jorim sorely needed wings. He reached out, finding magic and shifted its balance. His robe ripped as wings thrust out and beat hard. He took heart in the fact that they were bat’s wings, and he came to hover just above the tallest of the pool’s licking flames.

  Talrisaal, on eagle’s wings, hovered beside him, riding the hot air.

  Jorim laughed. “My bat’s wings are for Tsiwen and wisdom. But you? Eagle’s wings for Sisvoc and love?”

  “I love not being b
urned.”

  “Good point.”

  The two of them looked down. The pool had collected in a bowl-shaped depression, the edges of which eclipsed their view of the surrounding area. Demons, tens of thousands of them, in a variety of colors—some dotted with warts, others striped with ulcerating wounds oozing pus and maggots—packed the shores. Some bore tridents, others studded clubs, but the nastiest just gnashed serrated teeth and flexed claws.

  “And I think, Wentoki, I love flying above them.”

  Which is when the demons all sprouted wings and launched themselves into the air.

  Chapter Forty-four

  32nd day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

  Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

  163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

  737th Year since the Cataclysm

  Shirikun, North Moriande

  Free Nalenyr

  “Keles.”

  The cartographer turned slowly. He already knew she’d entered the garden. The plants had reported it to him—and not just the xunling roots. And it was not that the plants were able to sense Jasai specifically, but when she eclipsed light, the sensation passed through the plants like a slip of cloud passing before the sun. Her tread, though gentle, created pressure. Unconsciously, he factored in height and weight, leaving him with only one possible option.

  Besides, he’d known she would come.

  “Good afternoon, Highness. Please, sit.” He waved a hand toward a bench. The trees shading it drew limbs away, allowing sunlight through. “Are you warm enough?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She nodded, pulling a cloak about her, and accepted his invitation. “I hope the rains do not start again.”

  “I’ve heard it said the weather turned because of disturbances in the Heavens and Hells.” He sat beside her. “I fear the weather has broken, as has my heart.”

  “My aunt’s death was a blow to us all, Keles. For my entire life, she was an example for me. My greatest disappointment was when I realized the Keru would never accept me because I was too small.”

  Keles shook his head. “You are fierce enough to be Keru.”

  “Ferocity counts little when you are tiny.” She stared into his hazel eyes. “When I realized I could not be Keru, I sought to prove I should be. Do you know what I did?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “You’re not even trying.” She took his hands in hers and squeezed firmly. “I ran away. I ran off into the mountains. I was going to prove myself worthy. I was going to survive out there, perhaps kill a bear or a tiger or something to prove how tough I was. Now, mind you, my prior experience of the wild was herding cattle and sheep in meadows. But, off I went.

  “Tyressa followed me. For a week she watched—she never admitted it, but I was able to piece things together later—then, when I was hungry and tired and cold, she came wandering down the trail in front of me with a deer she’d killed. She showed me how to skin it and butcher it, then how to make a shelter. She taught me which plants were edible and which were poison. We stayed out for a week, talking, getting to know each other.”

  Keles smiled. “I spent time like that with Tyressa on the way to Ixyll. She knew a great deal, and was wise in so many ways.”

  “I know, Keles. She was very wise. In that week she taught me a lot about herself. She told me she envied my mother for having married well and having had such wonderful children. She promised me never to tell anyone, but that there were times she longed for love. I asked her why she didn’t love, and she just said, ‘The Keru love and serve Helosunde, and that has to be enough.’ And yet, we both knew it wasn’t enough.

  “She chose a hard life, Keles, one I never could have chosen, because I wanted more. She and the other Keru put nation and service before self. You have to respect that.”

  “I respect it, Highness. I understand it. I just don’t want to. I feel hollow. My heart beats, but is gone.”

  Jasai tipped his face up with a finger under his chin. “She died to keep you alive. She died happily, having fulfilled her mission.”

  “I know that.” He looked at her but, seeing too much of Tyressa in her face, closed his eyes. “Why couldn’t she tell me she loved me? She did love me, didn’t she?”

  A finger brushed away his tears. “Keles, oh Keles, of course she did. She loved you terribly. It elated her and scared her. Eiran says she insisted that he save you from Vallitsi—getting me out of there was almost an afterthought.”

  Keles shook his head. “You know that’s not true.”

  “An overstatement, perhaps, but not much of one. She loved you. You had to have seen that in how she cared for you and acted around you.”

  “But then why, on her deathbed, could she not bring herself to tell me she loved me?”

  “If she admitted to it, perhaps she thought she would be abandoning her identity as Keru. Keru put people and nation before self. In dying, she thought she had failed, and did not want one last failure.”

  “But she didn’t fail.”

  Jasai clutched his hands tightly. “And I think, perhaps, by not telling you that she loved you, she hoped to spare you some of the pain of her death.”

  Keles wiped away his own tears and stared at her. “How could she think it would spare me anything?”

  “The Keru are not perfect, Keles. Strong in war, weak in love. Had she thought about it, she would have done the right thing. She never had the chance to. You can’t hold that against her.”

  “No, you’re right, I can’t.” Keles reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek. “I’ve been selfish, mourning my loss and wallowing in pity.”

  He laughed for a second. “I was thinking…Well, I was thinking all sorts of stupid things.”

  “Like what?”

  “That the four women in my life who loved me—or pretended to at least—all have died in the last year. Majiata, Nirati, my mother, and Tyressa. And not just died, but died horribly. Who would be stupid enough to come near me, now? I’ve lost everyone who loved me. I’ll forever be alone.”

  “Keles, I…”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. She looked down, but he raised her face again. “No, Princess, no need for the charade. You’ve seen me as a means to an end, and I understand that. I accept it—applaud it, even. I know Tyressa thought you loved me and thought I should fall in love with you instead of her. It’s enough that I see how pitiful I am for myself. I don’t need your pity, too.”

  She refused to meet his stare. “It’s not pity, Keles. You have no idea how much I admire you and what you have done.”

  “I’ve done nothing worthy of admiration, Princess.”

  “How can you say that? I was at Tsatol Pelyn. I was there when you enabled us to cross the rift. I’ve benefited from the tzaden plants that grew to help you.”

  “None of that means anything, Highness.” Keles stood and looked south. Low clouds and smoke darkened the landscape. Lights burned in the windows of Quunkun. Gyanrigot lights in Qiro’s workshop created a blue halo around the top of Anturasikun. Through the smoke, the huge, hulking metal warriors strode along the River Road. Above them, bare smudges in the distance, resisters’ bodies hung from crosses.

  “Nothing I did stopped Nelesquin, or made the world safer. Your husband died trying to stop Nelesquin. Because of him, your aunt is dead. My mother is dead. Half the city is gone. You should save your pity for someone worthy of it.”

  Jasai caught his right hand and brought it to her lips. “Those I pity, Keles Anturasi, are the people who never do anything. They never act, they just wish to have acted. You will always be one who acts. My respect and admiration for you will never end.”

  “Respect and admiration. Thank you. Do not tell me you love me.”

  “You still believe you are unworthy of love?”

  “It is best if I am, Highness. I kill those who love me.” Keles frowned. “You know they say I am jaecaixingna. Everyone fears me. Everywhere I look I see circular amulets.”

&
nbsp; “They do that because they fear the vanyesh.”

  “They fear me more.” He slowly shook his head. “Or they will.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “You said I act. I only do that because your aunt showed me how. Before her, I was an observer. But now, you’re right. I have to stop this nonsense. If I don’t, love won’t matter. There won’t be anyone left alive to love.”

  Ciras Dejote huddled under a cloak, less to ward himself from the cold than to conceal the stump. He wouldn’t even put it through a sleeve. He just hid it inside his robe.

  It struck him as curious that what he noticed more than not having a right hand or forearm was the lack of weight at his left hip. He no longer wore a sword. What is the purpose?

  It really didn’t matter that his left hand was still healing from the arrow. He certainly had been trained to use a sword in his off hand. One couldn’t reach a level of mastery without that, and though he did not fight with two swords, he could certainly defend himself. But the ability to use a sword did not bring with it the will to use one, and it was that will which had abandoned him.

  No, not abandoned. I left it behind.

  He peered south across the Gold River’s sluggish breadth, where crucified soldiers moaned on their crosses. They’d continued fighting even though they’d been hideously wounded. Such was Nelesquin’s idea of justice that one soldier who had lost a leg had it nailed knee and ankle to the crossbeams along with his body.

  Smoke and clouds swirled. Archers lurked on both sides of the river, occasionally taking shots. They couldn’t hit anything. Even with a tailing wind, the arrows fell short of either shore. But as futile as the task was, the archers had to try occasionally, relieving tension and venting fear.

  Ciras would never have done that. Engaging in a futile act revealed weakness. If a warrior perceived himself as weak, he would die.

  A tugging at his cloak brought Ciras around. “Yes, boy, what do you want?”

  The young boy wore a white robe with a red bear crest. The long sword tucked into his red sash almost scraped on the ground after him. His left arm, wrapped though it was in leather and ring mail, clearly was withered.