The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Prince Nelesquin might not have transported him to Kelewan to kill him, but it certainly wasn’t to let him go again. Having Pyrust brought to heel would make for a great show, and would sow doubt among the opposition. Only by escaping could Pyrust salvage any victory from his defeat.

  Nelesquin could not let that happen.

  By dying when he wants me to be kept as a pet, I defy him.

  Pyrust smiled grimly. His defeat hardly warranted a death sentence. In retrospect, Virisken Soshir’s strategy would have been more effective—and might yet be. Even with reinforcements from the south, Nelesquin’s army would be hard-pressed to lay siege to Moriande. Bleeding the army, hitting it where it was weak, these things could blunt the attack.

  He’d fought on the plains because the Empress had ordered him to do so, but he could have easily overruled those orders. The fact was that he’d wanted to fight there. He had believed he could win. And he could have, save for a certain confluence of circumstances.

  They did not defeat me, really, I defeated me.

  Up to that battle, his southern campaign had been conducted flawlessly. He had used the superior intelligence and training of his troops to outwit the enemy. He’d crushed the Helosundians. He’d tricked Vroan. He’d overwhelmed Cyron.

  But while his flooding of the plains had mirrored the tactic he used against the Helosundian Council of Ministers, it had actually worked against him. It narrowed the battlefield, which gave the kwajiin an advantage by allowing them to concentrate their troops.

  Marching through the city, he ignored the catcalls and curses. Instead, he once again envisioned the battle. He should have contested the enemy’s entry into the plains. His cavalry could have made countless grazing attacks, raking the kwajiin with arrows. It would have made the invaders fear the cavalry, and that fear would have slowly killed them.

  Weakened, the kwajiin would have had to choose battle or withdrawal. Pyrust could have retreated before them, then hit their supply lines. The invaders would have fallen apart.

  So the question is not why did I lie to Soshir, but why did I choose to believe the lie?

  Pyrust hesitated for a moment, then stumbled forward when pushed from behind. He had his answer and for that answer he thought he might, in fact, deserve to die.

  Doing what he should have done was not the work of a warrior. Cyron could have run that kind of a campaign. It would not have been a military victory, it would have been a victory of logistics. He would have been doing to the kwajiin what Cyron had tried to do to him. Pyrust would have controlled the invaders by denying them supplies—a shopkeeper’s war.

  Victory was what they required of me, but I wanted a specific type of victory—a military victory. More the fool, I. Never buy with blood what can be won with words, time, or rice.

  The parade of soldiers stopped at the Imperial Palace. Kwajiin warriors pulled Pyrust from the midst of his companions and forced him up the stairs. At the top they allowed him to turn and look back. The crowd of Virine dwarfed the soldiers. As miserable as his men looked—Desei, Naleni, and Virine combined—they possessed more nobility than all the residents of Kelewan.

  As the warriors marched Pyrust into the palace, he could not help but smile. He’d never seen the place before, but it lived up to even the most fanciful of descriptions. Nelesquin’s new statue glared down at him, but did not inspire fear. In fact, Pyrust took heart in seeing it.

  He filled that niche very quickly. The man clearly suffers from vanity.

  The trek up the stairs and to the throne room confirmed Pyrust’s assumption. Already murals had been repainted, rewriting Virine history. Nelesquin’s face replaced those of legendary heroes—no matter that the events depicted occurred after the Cataclysm.

  The guards stopped him at the throne room’s entrance. They unlocked his chains. They stripped off the soiled robe and replaced it with a plain red one. They looped a gold sash around his waist and even tucked a short dagger in a wooden scabbard at his right hip.

  Then the doors opened. Along strip of red carpet edged with purple connected the entrance to the foot of the throne dais. Nelesquin sat in the Bear Throne, backed by a huge stone disk with all the signs of the Zodiac carved into the edge. It transformed the Bear Throne into an Imperial throne and its presence did not surprise Pyrust.

  What did surprise him was the fact that the disk was taller than any door or window in the room. It had no seams. How did he get it into this room?

  Tales of his vanyesh and their power tightened Pyrust’s guts. If his forces are backed by xingna, is there a strategy that will defeat them?

  Pyrust lifted his chin and began the trek along the carpet. A side from Nelesquin and himself, only two others occupied the room. One, a slender man in an emerald-and-black cloak, stood to Nelesquin’s left. The other man knelt at his right, on the floor, with a golden chain connecting his collar to the foot of the throne.

  Nelesquin stood. “Of you, Prince Pyrust, I have heard much. My field general praised you and your effort. As you can see with your brother, Prince Jekusmirwyn, I am not without mercy. A man of your skills and standing could be of use in my Empire.”

  Nelesquin’s rich, warm tones filled the room. Jekusmirwyn twitched at the sound. The man’s eyes did not quite focus in the present. Pyrust had seen that look in the eyes of those Delasonsa had tortured. He understood the quality of Nelesquin’s mercy.

  Pyrust stopped shy of the throne and chose not to bow. “It has not been my custom to subordinate myself to a prince.”

  Nelesquin smiled slowly. “I am an emperor.”

  “A pretender. Empress Cyrsa sits on the Dragon Throne in Moriande. Her claim predates yours and is stronger.”

  The larger man’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you were a warrior, but you speak like a bureaucrat. Tell the truth. You chafe beneath her orders.”

  Pyrust rubbed his raw wrists. “I would chafe beneath your orders as well.”

  “Brilliant.” Nelesquin looked to his companion. “I told you, Kaerinus, there were men of this age that yet had steel in their spine. The worthy did not all die in Ixyll.”

  The cloaked man said nothing.

  Nelesquin stepped from the dais and waved Pyrust over to a window. He slid a panel open. Down below, in the square before the palace, the eighty men who had marched in chains with Pyrust stood surrounded. Visible from that height, eighty wooden crosses were being erected on the city walls.

  “I have need to show mercy to the people of Kelewan. I will pardon eighty men and women to celebrate our victory, and have your men crucified in their place. It’s a most unpleasant way to die.”

  Pyrust nodded and fingered the ring. “I am not a stranger to crucifixion.”

  “Freeing the Virine will build loyalty, but I need them less than I need a man like you. If you join me, then Deseirion and Helosunde will come with you. This makes eliminating Nalenyr much easier. Cyrsa will be deposed and the rightful order can be re-established.” Nelesquin rested a hand on Pyrust’s shoulder. “You will be much rewarded and your men will be spared.”

  “Your offer is most generous…” Pyrust’s right hand came up and around in a backhanded slap that caught Nelesquin on the right cheek. The pretender staggered back. His hand rose to his cheek and probed the gash.

  He began to laugh. His hand came away dry. The torn skin was not bleeding.

  Nelesquin’s blue-eyed stare bore into him. “Poison, I assume?”

  “A noxious venom. Some sea creature, I suspect. It will be painless.”

  Nelesquin nodded. “I’m quite sure it would be. Have I anything to fear, Kaerinus?”

  The cloaked man shook his head. “I can neutralize it, but what is the point?”

  “True.” Nelesquin smiled and ran a finger over the torn flesh. In its wake the flesh had sealed itself. “You see, Prince Pyrust, when I decided to become Emperor, I did not wish to leave anything to chance. Not even death. I took precautions. Were I as shortsighted as you are, I should now be dea
d and you would be a hero.”

  Nelesquin’s fingers weaved through a sigil. Purple fire illuminated the character for a heartbeat, then Pyrust’s silver ring heated up. It glowed, then melted through the Prince’s little finger.

  Pyrust clutched his hand to his chest, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Blood dripped, but the robe absorbed it. Then something hit him in the back of his knees, driving him to the stone floor. Nelesquin grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back.

  “I would have given you much, had you but worshipped me.”

  “What you would give, I would never want.”

  Nelesquin stooped and drew the dagger from Pyrust’s sash. “Then I shall give you eternity to mull over your folly.”

  The Desei Prince caught his face flashed in reflection on the steel. He smiled. His eyes betrayed no fear and remained clear, even as Nelesquin drove the dagger into his throat and lodged it in his spine.

  Pelut Vniel stared at the dagger lying on his tea table. He looked down at his reflection. A haggard man looked back. Dark circles haunted his eyes. His flesh had taken on a pallid hue.

  His gaze flicked from the dagger to the note that had come with it. Prince Cyron had written it himself. Pelut recognized his brushwork. None of the others had come in the Prince’s hand.

  “The tragedy of battle now demands all take heart and unite to oppose the enemy. Those who do not do their utmost in opposing him, are complicit with him. Make this blade the sign of your commitment to the future.”

  Pelut shivered. Others who had gotten daggers from the Prince had proudly slid them into their sashes. The Prince had won them over. Praising them. Rewarding them. Making them feel important, but in doing so he had overturned the natural order of things. He had destroyed the safeguards that prevented the nation from lurching into anarchy or despotism. It did not matter that his efforts seemed necessary to oppose an enemy. They transformed the state into something that would always need an enemy.

  Once Nelesquin was defeated—if he was defeated—where would Cyron turn next? Cyrsa would occupy the throne, but it would be Cyron’s dream of empire that would be fulfilled. He would make his vision real, by hook or by crook, destroying the very structures that had kept humanity safe.

  Every other minister’s dagger had been sheathed, but not the one sent to Pelut. Cyron acknowledges my threat. The others had been invited to join Cyron, but Pelut was invited to kill himself. That was what the bared blade meant. If Pelut wanted to provide his own scabbard, if he wanted to acquiesce to Cyron’s wishes and work with him, then he could be accepted.

  My companions are all fools.

  They failed to see the true import of the gift. They believed Cyron was raising them in status equal to warriors. He would allow them to wear a dagger in his presence—a privilege reserved for nobility and honored warriors. But this also bound them; Cyron could slay them if they failed. A few might have seen that, but they dismissed it. Nelesquin’s threat made Cyron’s plan seem acceptable.

  It is not! I see the greater threat. Pelut reached for the hilt. In some ways it would be easier for him to pick it up and open a vein. He’d heard that cutting his wrists would be painless. Here, in a pristine room, wearing a white robe, his death could even be beautiful.

  Far more beautiful than his current circumstance. He remained a minister of high rank, but in name only. Cyron had isolated him and hobbled him. Things were moving too swiftly to be controlled, and once the controls Pelut had labored his whole life to sustain were destroyed, they could never be slipped back into place.

  So, there it is. The challenge. Join Cyron or kill myself.

  Both options revolted him. Though he had been outmaneuvered, he had not been defeated. If he killed himself, the world he fought to preserve would die with him.

  “You give me two choices, Prince Cyron. Join you or die.” Pelut picked up the dagger and watched himself smile. “I see a third. Fight you. The world cannot surrender to you, nor can it survive you. So fight I will—from the shadows, from behind a smile, but fight I shall.”

  The man nodded to himself. “And when the time comes, this very blade will be your undoing.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  2nd 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

  Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)

  Jorim backed away from Nessagafel, but his efforts put no distance between them. The other god had not moved, of course. The Viruk could have pounced on Jorim easily, but he refrained. He watched Jorim and fear trickled through Jorim’s belly.

  “There is no escaping this place, Wentoki, nor is there any escaping me.” Nessagafel chuckled, raising gooseflesh on Jorim’s arms. “I think you should want me to escape. I shall manage that trick with your help.”

  Jorim narrowed his eyes. “You want to destroy everything, kill everyone.”

  “You listen to Grija and the others? You believe them?” The Viruk god shook his head. “They have every right to fear, Grija most of all. He was my first, you know. My first child. I created him with a thought—a half thought, really. I was not paying much attention. I merely wanted a witness to my creation, and he was what I got.”

  Grija cowered in a grey heap, which shrank away to nothingness as Jorim watched. “Is he?”

  “Dead? No. As long as he is remembered a god can never really die. His place can be usurped, he can become obscure or irrelevant, but die? No. I didn’t allow for that.”

  “But Quun and Chado killed you. The constellation that represented you was ripped to pieces.”

  “As attacks go, it was masterfully done.” Nessagafel clasped his hands together. “Had you helped them, I might have been so shredded that I could never have brought myself together again. You know you are the most powerful of them all. You are my most complete creation.”

  “Are you flattering me?”

  “It is not flattery, Wentoki. They are limited. They take their aspects from ordinary animals, but you, you are a dragon. As a man, you have traveled the world enough to know there are no dragons, and yet you exist. Did you ever wonder why?”

  “There are many creatures of myth.”

  “But none of them are gods, Wentoki.” Nessagafel did not step closer, but the distance between them shrank. “When I chose to first visit my creation and walk in flesh, I made myself into a dragon. I did not visit often, but I found the Viruk and the Soth worshipping that image. I chose it for you, and I made you in that image. I made you in my image.”

  “But you are a Viruk.”

  Nessagafel shrugged. “When the Viruk became self-aware, they chose to believe that their god had made them in his image. I had made them, of course, and felt no need to disappoint them. Now this form suits me, but I can change.”

  In an instant the Viruk vanished and a young human boy took his place. “This should be more comforting to you.”

  “It won’t make me forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  “That you tricked me into divesting myself of my divine nature.”

  “That was unavoidable.” The boy held up his right hand and flicked the little finger. A black ring circled the base of it, pinching the flesh. “I used your nature to unlock the chains binding me here. This ring is all that keeps me from my full power.”

  “It stops you from unmaking everything?”

  Nessagafel nodded. “In fact, it does, but this should not be your concern. I would never unmake you.”

  Jorim arched an eyebrow. “No? Why not?”

  “Because I need you. Do you know why I created you last?”

  “No.” Jorim watched Nessagafel and listened to his words. From the way the elder god was taking him into his confidence, the words were meant to beguile him. Flattery combined with sincerity and respect were intended to slip past Jorim’s guard, and might well have, save for his Anturasi upbringing. Countless s
ea captains had used the same tricks to win charts from him, and Jorim had never surrendered so much as a sketch.

  “Grija, incomplete as he was, was suspicious. He talked to the others and plotted with them. I knew they would come after me. They had to. The old and the new cannot exist together. So, I created you in my image, to be my ally and my revenge. By failing to join with them, you allowed me to return from the void. Together we can sweep them from the heavens. Had they killed me, you know they would have turned on you, too. But I made you strong enough to defeat them.”

  “If I could destroy them, I could destroy you.”

  The child-god smiled. “Yes, exactly. I meant you to be my rival. Think of it, Wentoki. You wanted to be so much like me because I made you so much like me. I became flesh; so did you. I created the Viruk; you created the Fennych to kill my Viruk. I know it was a symbolic attack on me, but I’ve forgiven you that excess because we are so alike. I gave the Viruk magic; you gave Men magic. You have made me very proud.” His voice sank into a whisper. “And you have made them very jealous.”

  Nessagafel slipped his hand into Jorim’s, and the dark void in which they stood melted as night before dawn. Green grasses grew up, and flowers thrust red and yellow blossoms skyward. To the right lay a swath of rain forest akin to that of Ummummorar. To the left the forests of Nalenyr. In the meadow, spotted antelope grazed. A clouded-leopard lounged in a thick tree branch. From the distance came the trumpeting of an elephant, and the coughed roar of a maned cat answering.

  “When the others are swept away, Wentoki, we will reorder the world. You know that is what you have been doing. It’s what your grandfather has been doing: making things over again. He’s really doing my work—our work. We will make the world the way it is supposed to be. You and I, we can do that.”

  “What about those I love?”

  The child’s face brightened innocently. “We shall save them! We shall give them all they wish for. We will make them happy—happier than if they had died and gone to the appropriate heaven. We will do for them whatever you want. All you need do is unlock this last little restraint.”