Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
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 dead 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 22
J
orim 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 sea 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.”
Jorim frowned. “How are you restrained?”
“It’s a minor thing, really. I have my power back, I can travel to the heavens for a bit, but am still anchored here. I cannot reach the physical world, so my work must be accomplished through agents.” Nessagafel held his hand up. “Just slip this ring from my finger and my will shall be done.”
“There is one thing I don’t understand.” Jorim chewed his lower lip.
Impatience crept into Nessagafel’s voice. “What is it, then?”
“If you created me in your image; if I am powerful enough to defeat the others, then I am powerful enough to challenge you. Perhaps even to defeat you. Aren’t
I
the greatest threat you face?”
“You see? That’s why it was perfect. You and I strive against each other. We push each other to be better.”
“But don’t you fear that I will someday depose you?”
Nessagafel shook his head. “No. I made you my equal in all things, and then I gave you something I have no use for.”
“What?”
“Compassion.”
The child’s fist came around, changing from a pudgy hand to a Viruk claw. Nessagafel thrust his talons into Jorim’s stomach and yanked. Blood splashed and entrails gushed.
Jorim dropped to his knees, scrambling to stuff his intestines back in. As he reached down, his hands filled with glass needles that punctured his bowels. He tried to scream, but thorned ivy shot up from the meadow and threaded its way through his body. A green tendril grew out through one nostril, then wrapped around his head, closing his jaw tight.
All around him the ground rippled. Anthills erupted like little volcanoes. Bright copper ants swarmed toward him, like spokes on a wheel. Each tore out a little piece of his flesh.
Dark birds circled overhead. Their fierce cries split his head with lightning. The ants traveled the ivy, crawling within. Their fire coursed through him. Their venom melted his liver and its dark nectar nourished and encouraged the vine.