Michael Stackpole - The New World

Keles began wrapping his hands again. “There is nothing I can do, Ciras.”

Rekarafi toed the edge of the rift, then looked at the cartographer. “Yes, there is. Make this elsewhere.”

“What?” Keles frowned.

“You did it in Ixyll.”

“This isn’t Ixyll. We were moved, I moved us back. And this isn’t like Tsatol Pelyn. I just remade a fortress that had fallen to ruin.” He held up his hands. “I’m still healing from that.”

“In one, you reconnected things that had been severed. In the other, you rebuilt something that was broken.” The Viruk pointed at the rift. “This is severed and broken. Fix it.”

“You don’t understand, Rekarafi…”

The Viruk crouched. “I understand you are stopping yourself from succeeding.”

“This rift is a mile across and…and at least six hundred miles long. Do you have any idea of how many tons of stone and earth that is?”

“Don’t tell yourself why you cannot do this, Keles. All you need to do is see how it can be done. Make it connect again.”

Keles massaged his brow, smearing dirt over his forehead. “There is no way… ” He leaned forward, again placing his hands on the roadway. His chest heaved and his breathing slowed. His head came up and he looked across the rift, to the Viruk, then nodded.

“All right, maybe. There’s a chance. Get rid of this circle.”

Ciras scuffed half of it away. “What else do you need?”

Keles screwed his eyes shut. “We need everyone ready to travel quickly. This isn’t going to be an easy path. If Borosan can outfit some of his gyanrigot with ropes or some of the soldiers with axes, that will help. The wagons might not make it.”

Ciras nodded. “I will get things started.”

“Good. This is going to take a while.” Keles smiled bravely. “Oh, one more thing. Remove everyone from the edge.”

The Viruk nodded. “Did you figure out how to heal the land?”

“Not exactly. Not the way you’re thinking. But my mother’s talent is for plants. See those flutterleaf trees? They propagate when suckers grow up off the roots. Roots were snapped when the land came apart, and it is time to connect things again.”

Keles pressed his hands to the ground and Ciras’ skin tingled as the magic flowed.

Flutterleaf trees grew with incredible rapidity. Roots spread, suckers rose and flourished. Older trees fell, ripping great root balls from the earth. Some of the trees slid into the rift. Others toppled in after them, rolling to a stop parallel to the rift. They trapped falling dirt. New suckers grew up on the narrow terraces. Other trees fell and crossed them.

The sun set and the gyanrigot moved in, shaping the trail into the rift. With ax blades for hands, they chopped trees and pruned branches. They carved earth from the canyon walls and packed it down with flat metal feet. They dragged tall trees to bridge the gap above the slowly closing rift. Bobbing blue lights on their chests marked their passage. By the time the black moon had completed half its journey through the sky, they were hard at work on the path up the other side.

By midmorning, trees grew at the rift’s far side. Before noon, the first of the refugees began the trek across. The void had closed, but the trees that had grown above it had been stunted and twisted. A few bore fruit which, while perfect in shape, stank of rotted meat. Dying crows twitched below, their sharp beaks melted away.

Save for a single narrow column, the rift’s edge had eroded. Keles sat hunched on it and the Viruk crouched over him, steadying him. Ciras couldn’t tell if Keles were alive or dead, and Rekarafi might as well have been a statue.

Then, finally, the rear guard started the journey across and Ciras with them. The track they traveled twisted back and forth, torturously and treacherously steep at points. The different shades of the earthen layers and the different scents surprised him. Likewise did the itching of his flesh as he descended.

Before he ascended the other side, Rekarafi caught up with him, bearing a limp Keles. Tyressa covered a look of horror quickly and raced on to prepare a litter for Keles.

The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not dead, is he?”

The Viruk shook his head. “Exhausted. Imagine growing a forest. The work of a lifetime in one night.”

Ciras shivered. “It would be like fighting a war forever.”

“This is a conclusion you can test, Master Dejote. When Nelesquin lays siege to Moriande, it will seem as if you’ve been fighting him for all time.”

12th 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

Anturasikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Keles Anturasi awoke with a start and was determined to stay awake. For too long consciousness had come in lightning strikes of brilliant clarity etched in pain, such that he surrendered to the sweet comfort of oblivion. Despite Tyressa’s ministrations, exhaustion had refused to surrender its hold on him.

His work at the rift had stripped him of any human identity. He wondered why he’d been stripped of bark. He had no leaves to shade and feed him, no roots to seek moisture. His limbs had been pruned back to a paltry four. He had no words, because trees cared not for words, only wind-songs. And things seemed to be moving very quickly, too quickly. Even he was moving, and somehow that was not possible.

But, slowly, enough people said the word “Keles” that he came to associate it with himself. That realization unlocked dreams and they, in turn, led him back to himself.

That said, awakening in Anturasikun shocked him. The place felt right, and that made it feel alien. The person he was now had never been there before. He recognized everything and its presence pleased him, but he could not shake off a feeling of lurking menace.

He threw off the blanket and cool night air puckered his naked flesh. He glanced down at his feet, half-expecting to see rootlets, but they only ended in toes. His bandaged hands and fingers had no leaves attached. He smiled as if it were all a fading dream.

“Keles, don’t try to get out of that bed.”

The voice came from the chair by the door. His mother smiled and came around to the side. She poured him a cup of water, then supported his head as she helped him drink. “Slowly, slowly. How do you feel?”

Keles just nodded, then pushed the cup away with one hand. Water rolled off his lower lips and sank through several days’ growth of beard. He swiped at it with his hand, then looked at her. “Are you real?”

Siatsi Anturasi smiled, and her violet eyes sparkled. “I am real. You are back in Moriande. Geselkir has seen you. Your bones will heal, he says.”

“There’s more?”

She nodded. “There is news, Keles, and it is not good.”

Keles slid back on the mattress and leaned against the headboard. “Tell me.”

“Your grandfather is missing. We don’t know where.”

Keles nodded slowly. He’d seen Qiro not a month ago. Was that a dream, too? Keles looked at his mother and finally noticed she was wearing a white mourning robe. “That’s not why you are wearing white.”

“No. Majiata is dead. Murdered. She died shortly after you left Moriande.”

A jolt shook Keles. He and Majiata had been engaged. He had loved her. She’d loved the access to Anturasi maps and charts that their marriage would give her family. Their breakup had been less than amicable, and Keles had been happy to leave Moriande shortly thereafter. That seemed so long ago. So many things have changed.

“Keles, you have to listen to me. The murderer also killed your sister. Nirati is dead.”