The New World (39 page)

“You make things
whole
. I already am.” Her eyes closed for a second. “I have outlived Pyrust. I served my Prince and kept you safe.”

Keles nodded, determined not to cry.

“And I have been loved.”

Keles’ tears fell on their hands.

“Do not cry, Keles.” Again she squeezed his hand weakly. “I became Keru because hatred filled me. There was no room for love in my heart. You made me whole.”

“You can’t die.”

“I must. Kianmang awaits. There are Hells for warriors who only know hate.” Tyressa struggled for breath. “I will know paradise because of you.”

“Tyressa, I love you.” He held on tight. “Don’t leave me.”

“You will be cared for, Keles. Better than I could have managed.”

Her grip slackened as the Viruk’s hands clasped Keles’ shoulders. “Come.”

“But . . . ”

“Her niece is here.”

Keles nodded and stood. He wiped away his tears, then bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Good-bye, Tyressa. To Kianmang swiftly.”

Keles let himself be led from the room. He tried to look back, but Rekarafi’s broad body eclipsed his view. He nodded to a red-eyed Jasai as they passed in the doorway, then attempted to shrug off the Viruk’s hands. But Rekarafi directed him through a doorway and onto a balcony that overlooked Moriande to the south.

Keles refused to look at him. “Why wouldn’t you let me stay?”

“She did not want to have you see her die.”

“She shouldn’t die alone.”

“Jasai will be with her. Prince Eiran, too, if he comes quickly enough.” The Viruk came up beside him and looked out over the city. “She was a warrior. She would not have you think of her otherwise. We will mourn her, you and I, then I will avenge her.”

“I already tore him apart.”

“But you didn’t kill him, Keles. You do not kill. But I know the one who did this to her. He also maimed Ciras Dejote. That I did not kill him when I had the chance long ago is an error I shall soon remedy.”

Chapter 42

C
yron Komyr stared at the wall-mounted map of his divided capital. Despite a few scattered fires, it had not been significantly damaged by flames. Eight bridges had come down with a minimum of casualties, though too many of his people had been trapped on the far side.

A semicircle of tables surrounded him. Reports of all types lay on them, some scrolled, some bound into folios, some just notes scribbled onto scraps of paper. He’d perused them all, had Eiran sort them into piles, and sent his clerks out for more.

He scratched at his stump as he studied the map. It was hardly a remarkable specimen—certainly not an Anturasi chart—which he had marked up with numbers and symbols and ideograms of his own invention.

He turned from the map and frowned at the Empress and Virisken Soshir. “The news is not as dire as could be expected. The
kwajiin
came straight north. Other troops secured the wings. A few Dragons, some militia, and
xidantzu
put up a spirited defense of Wentokikun. They repulsed two assaults by Virine Bears.
Kwajiin
were diverted to kill them, but failed to get them all. Nelesquin has made his headquarters in the Bear Tower. There are scattered pockets of resistance in the south. Black Myrian and his family of bandits are contesting control of the docks. A small boat went across last night. I hope to have word back tonight.”

The Empress nodded and would have spoken, save for a quick knock on the door. A clerk stood there and bowed deeply, extending a folded and sealed note through the door. Eiran crossed and took it, then delivered it to Cyron. He pressed the paper against his thigh, then broke the seal with his thumb.

Shaking it open, he studied it for a moment, then handed it to Eiran. “The developing-situations pile, please. Majesty, you were going to say something?”

“Count Derael provided a realistic view of our ability to hold Nelesquin’s forces back. Within the city we are well defended. If Nelesquin were to send his war machines west, cross the river, and come back on the north side, we would face a repeat of yesterday’s assault.”

“I have taken steps to deal with it.” Cyron rubbed at his eyes. “The
gyanrigot are
a significant problem. They can overwhelm our defenses, but they cannot hold territory. They must have support troops, and we can kill those. The
gyanrigot
are not invulnerable, either.”

Virisken nodded. “So you don’t believe he has the troops necessary to conquer the north?”

“Not right now.” Cyron jerked a thumb at the map. “Prince Pyrust stripped his nation and put weapons in the hands of everyone who could carry them. Similarly, I am arming as many of my people as we can. The
kwajiin
may be formidable, but they’re not immortal. With every citizen armed, taking the whole of Moriande will be difficult.”

“He had Virine soldiers and troops from the Five Princes fighting for him.” The Empress’ eyes narrowed. “Can he bring more up?”

“It will take the better part of a month.” Eiran fished through a pile of papers and glanced at a sheet. “He has to feed his army in the interim. There’s not enough food in the south to do that.”

Virisken’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

The Naleni Prince patted a stack of folios nearly a yard tall. “It’s all in here. Erumvirine shipped us a million quor of rice, and we shipped nearly that much north to Deseirion. We left minimal stores in the south. He has a week, two at the outside.”

Even as he spoke, Cyron began to revise his assessments. It was as if just touching the ledgers and inventories refreshed his memory. He could see the stores shrinking as they were consumed. Every theft, every grain nibbled by a rat, every bit of waste; it all came to him easily. Heavy rains or abnormally hot days would alter things in different ways. Even the way the
kwajiin
ate and what they needed was different, or could be.
I have to find out about that
.

He looked up at the Empress and the swordsman, and found them regarding him curiously. “What?”

The Empress smiled. “I believe your assessments. You will send a messenger to me if you have cause to revise them.”

“Of course, Highness.”

Another sharp rap on the door panel presaged its opening. The same clerk appeared at the door and bowed deeply. He shuffled into the room and handed the folded paper to Cyron before withdrawing.

Cyron glanced at it, then extended it to the Empress.

She stared at the wax seal. “Nelesquin’s crest.” She slipped a thumbnail beneath the seal and broke it. She carefully unfolded the message, then read it aloud.

“Greetings, Cyrsa, harlot who would be Empress. I possess the Imperial capital and everything south of the Gold River. I will soon possess it all, but war against my own wearies me. Three days hence, I would meet with you on a barge in the middle of the river to discuss terms. Please send your reply to conclude negotiations.

Yours truly,

Nelesquin

Emperor”

Virisken smiled. “If he had the troops to take the north, we’d not have gotten a message. Refuse to meet him.”

“No, I will meet him.” The Empress looked at Cyron. “How much preparation will three days buy you?”

Cyron’s head immediately filled with figures and images, orders to be written and reports that would come back. “A great deal, Highness.”

“Enough to keep the north safe?”

“Quite possibly.”

She nodded. “Then figure out how much more time you need. We shall find a way to charm it out of Nelesquin. I want the middle of that river to be as far north as he ever gets.”

Chapter 43

J
orim’s quest to win through the Nine Hells almost ended in Wandao, the Sixth Hell. It had been given over entirely to the torment of bullies—from the abusive father and spouse, to the aging shrew who emotionally tortured and manipulated everyone she knew. They had all been regressed to the age of nine—the point at which they should have grown out of such behavior—though their voices and vocabularies betrayed the age at which they died.

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.”