Michael Stackpole: The New World

He focused on that image and called to mind the conviction that the mud had a proper shape. He did not allow himself to entertain any other thought. He would make it into what it was supposed to be.

A tingle began at the base of his scalp and clawed its way up through his hair. Something shifted and mud dripped from his fingers. A castle loomed large in his vision. Suddenly he saw himself there, on the top of a tower, looking out over a vast continent. Mountains rose and fell. Clouds gathered. Fierce lightning crashed. Snow fell and winds howled.

Then the white curtain parted, revealing the slender figure of a man in a white robe, with flowing white hair. Around him, verdant grasses grew up through the snow. The man straightened, his gaze rising from the base of the tower.

A jolt ran through Keles. “Grandfather?”

Qiro laughed. “A tower? This is the best you can do? You thought you could supplant me, and all you can raise is a tower?”

“I never…” Keles shook his head. “Where are we? What is this place?”

Qiro threw his arms open, and mountains rose to stab through the clouds capping the valley. “This is Anturasixan. It is my world. I created it! I have done what you will never do.”

“I don’t understand.” Keles leaned against the parapet. Though the stone appeared to be polished granite, it felt cold and wet, like the mud from the moat. “How did I come to be here?”

“You’re not here. Not yet. But you will be. Soon. Come to me, Keles. You, too, can be a god.”

Then the tower collapsed, reverting to mud, which splashed over Keles in a viscous wave. Something hard closed around his ankle, pulling him down. Keles kicked something solid, but the hold on his ankle only tightened.

Keles flailed his hands. They broke the surface. The moat, it has to be! His lungs burned, his flesh tingled. He kicked again, trying to swim to the surface, but the thing kept dragging him deeper.

Keles’ lungs ached. To breathe was to drown, yet the urge was irresistible.

I’ve gotten my hands wet. Air bubbled from fiery lungs. What a silly last thought.

Then something plunged into the moat from above. The pressure on his ankle vanished as strong hands grabbed him by the back of the neck and thigh, then pushed him up through the muck. He broke the surface, sputtering, and sucked in cool air before landing hard and bouncing.

He tried to stop himself from rolling, but that only hurt his hands. He slammed into the fortress’ wall and slumped over, swiping mud from his eyes.

A hulking creature emerged from the moat, mud sheeting off his body. The coating did not hide the bony plates on his arms or the hooks at his elbow. Mud dripped from clawed hands and water pasted long black hair against half his face. That face split with a grin that revealed an ivory phalanx of needle-sharp teeth.

“You must be more careful, Keles Anturasi.” The Viruk’s words came in a deep, gravelly rumble. “One of the Eyeless Ones caught you by the ankle.”

Keles shook his head. “But there weren’t any present.”

Rekarafi brushed mud from his shoulders. “Not until you brought one to life.”

“What?”

“I was there on the wall, watching. You scooped up mud, then let it drip back. The Eyeless One took shape. It grabbed your ankle and pulled you under.”

Keles drew his knees up, the wall solid against his back. “But that wasn’t what happened. I was trying to make a sand castle from the mud. All of a sudden I found myself in a tower, facing my grandfather. He wanted me to come to him, which was when the tower collapsed and I was dragged under.”

The Viruk crouched and touched some of the mud to his tongue. He spat it out again and it steamed on the ground. “This mud is not from here.”

“I had that same impression.” Keles hugged his knees to his chest. “My grandfather created the Eyeless Ones. I think he shaped them from the mud of the land he created.”

The Viruk’s dark eyes widened. “He created life from nothing?”

“So it would appear.”

“This changes everything.”

“What do you mean?”

Rekarafi’s eyes slitted. “If he can make life from nothing, he can just as easily make all life into nothing. And if you cannot stop him, that is exactly what he will do.”

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

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Pyrust of Deseirion wanted to laugh. There he stood, nine steps from the Naleni Dragon Throne. Prince Cyron, having lost half an arm to an assassin, sat there waiting to die. Yet, at the other end of the red strip of carpet running to the throne room’s doorway, a small, dark-haired courtesan known throughout the Nine as the Lady of Jet and Jade had just commanded Pyrust not to kill Cyron.

The Desei Prince shook his head. “Beautiful and yet insane.” He smiled at Cyron, stepping closer. “She’ll not outlive you by much.”

Cyron did not reply. He just stared past Pyrust, at the Lady of Jet and Jade, his eyes already glassy as if he were dead. Still, his nostrils flared with a heavy, irregular breath.

Pyrust intended to take another step forward, and another. With one strong blow he would decapitate his enemy. His sword would so swiftly pass through the man’s neck that his head would remain in place until a bloody geyser vaulted it into the air. The head would land on the carpet, rolling to his feet, eyes staring up at him from a blood-dappled face. Then his greatest enemy would be dead, and Nalenyr would be his.

He sensed her at his elbow before she spoke. “Nalenyr will never be yours, Pyrust.”

She had advanced silently and stood within striking distance. “You think it a rival nation, but it is merely another province in my Empire. I deny you the right to slay my provincial governor.”

Pyrust spun, his sword poised to strike. “Prattle on about being Empress all you like, but it shall save neither you nor him. I am not a simpleton to believe in wishful tales. There is no protective matriarch who will return to save us.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade smiled beguilingly. The courtesan’s hand came up slowly, twisting, fingers opening as a lotus might blossom. The seductive gesture captivated him with its delicate ease. Then, there she was, right up against him, inside his guard. Her other hand rose up his rain-splashed breastplate and caressed his cheek.

Heat flashed through him, rising to his face. Sweat condensed on his brow and spilled down to burn his eyes. He remembered the sensation from his last coupling with his wife, Jasai. In the heat of passion he had gotten a child on her. The pleasure had filled him with warmth and peace.

Just as I feel now.

“No!” Pyrust went to shove the woman away, but she danced beyond his reach. He stepped toward her, but his left leg weakened and buckled. He went to a knee and a hand, still managing to keep his sword off the carpet. He tried to rise, but his right leg failed as well. He struggled to lift his head, then found himself on his knees before the Dragon Throne-a position he had imagined only in his worst nightmares.

His only solace was that Cyron, too, stared unbelieving at the courtesan. Had he moved, had he lifted his sword, Pyrust would have been at his mercy. The Desei Prince’s limbs trembled uncontrollably.

The Lady of Jet and Jade bowed to both of them. “You have my sincere apologies for the fraud I have perpetrated. Since my return from Ixyll eons ago, I have known many leaders. You have given me the most hope-and caused me the greatest fear.”

Cyron slowly shook his head. “It is not possible. You are not the Cyrsa of legend. You cannot be.”