Michael Stackpole - The New World

The stiffness eased with each step, but he’d grossly overestimated his condition. He kept one hand on the wall and slowed as he came to the first short set of steps.

“The rift in Helosunde wasn’t natural. I felt it.”

“You mumbled about that in your sleep.”

“My mother just asked whose perception would take precedence in a conflict. See, if you take two Mystic swordsmen, and they fight, they get the measure of each other. They learn who is better and who is worse.”

“You don’t have to be a Mystic to learn that.”

“No. It’s true in almost everything, but here’s what’s important. When two opponents agree that one is better and the other is worse, who will win?”

Tyressa reached the bottom of the stairs first and eased him down the last few steps. “Presumably the better swordsman.”

“Exactly. And he’s better because both of them agree on the circumstance-or the reality-that says he’s better.” Keles looked at her. “But skill is only one dimension. What if the lesser swordsman is luckier? And what if the better swordsman has seen omens that make him think it is not a good day for him? Could their shared perception of luck and omens change the circumstance and make the lesser swordsman the victor?”

“But reality isn’t subjective, Keles.”

“Isn’t it?” He paused for a moment and caught his breath. “When I was young, I worked for my grandfather and drew maps. Thousands of them. Sometimes I wanted to do other things, or I was having a bad day. I would draw a map and I would think it was horrible. I hated it. I was certain my grandfather would reject it and beat me. And then he’d take that map and praise it. He would use it as an example for all my cousins to show them what they should be able to do. And I would look at that map and it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought. In fact, it would be pretty good.”

She looked hard at him as they started up the spiral ramp to the workshop floor. “You seem to be saying that your grandfather’s perception of the map changed it from being flawed to good.”

“I am.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“Why?” Keles held his hands out. “I saw the ruins the way they should have been and rebuilt Tsatol Pelyn. Why couldn’t his looking at my map refine it to be the map he said it was?”

Tyressa frowned. “But that would mean that there is no bedrock reality.”

“No, I think there is. The same way there is a mattress, though sheets and blankets may hide it. Perhaps, after time, the weight of perception shifts reality, but it takes a long time and requires a lot of magic.”

They topped the ramp and came into a vast, circular chamber with high, vaulted ceilings. A dozen pillars supported the chamber’s dome, and a ring of windows below it allowed sunlight. Desks and drafting tables, cabinets, and shelves predominated, with young Anturasi men and women working so hard, that none of them noticed Keles’ arrival. A side from a hissed curse here and there, or the crackle of a map being scrolled open, the chamber remained quiet.

To the north, a pair of curtains had been used to slice a wedge out of the circle. With Tyressa’s help Keles pulled aside the first set of curtains and passed through.

“Beyond this is where my grandfather worked on his map of the world. He used to say that a place did not exist until he put it on the map. Right here, he told my brother, ‘I am the world!’” Keles shivered, remembering Qiro’s rage. “His is the strongest perception of the world, Tyressa, and I don’t like the implications of that.”

Keles drew aside the last curtain, and his heart sank. “Look, there, where the rift was.”

“It’s a channel linking ocean to sea. The coastal lowlands in eastern Helosunde are flooding.” She pointed. “You can see the blue expanding.”

“And no one but us knows about the rift, so no one could have put it on the map. This is Qiro’s world.” Keles shook his head. “And that, there, the continent where none ever existed before, that’s a piece Qiro added.”

“Looks like it was drawn in blood.”

“I have no doubt. His blood.” Keles’ shoulders slumped. “With a whim, he created a continent. And with malice aforethought, I believe he means to destroy another.”

14th 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

Kunji Wentoki, Moriande

Nalenyr

The only thing Pelut Vniel liked about the suffocating weight of the ceremonial white mourning robes was that others hated wearing them even more than he did. Sleeves, leggings, and hems had been so exaggerated that everyone looked like children wearing adult clothing. He’d not been required to march through the street with the wagon bearing Prince Pyrust’s body to the Temple of Wentoki. This was good, because his refusal to join the procession would have caused a stir.

Or should have.

His objection to the whole funeral had excellent grounds based on tradition. Pyrust’s body should have been tossed onto the plains south of Moriande for carrion birds to pick apart. He failed to defend the Empress’ holdings, so he was hardly worthy of a state funeral. Moreover, the people of Nalenyr had lived in fear of him for years. Their sons and daughters-or at least their gold-had gone to opposing him. To grant him the long procession that wound through the streets had been absurd.

It had also been quite the spectacle. The buildings along the route had been whitewashed overnight. People wore white-or as close as they could get to it. Many people caked their faces with white cosmetics, or painted white tears on their cheeks. White ribbons hung from branches and fluttering strips of white paper drifted to the streets. Pelut had seen the reports. He knew the expense of it all. It was pure silliness.

Cyron had organized it. Pelut was certain that the Prince did so because he would never have gotten such a funeral had the assassin succeeded in killing him. His body would have been dragged through the streets and torn apart by dogs. It would have been a fittingly ignominious ending for someone who had all but destroyed the bureaucracy.

Pyrust served as his surrogate.

Cyron had gotten all the funeral’s details wrong as well. Pelut cast a sidelong glance at the procession and barely contained his anger. It was one thing to have Pyrust lie in state in Shirikun, but six days? Cyron’s own father had only been on display for three. True, six days was the correct amount for an Imperial Prince, but Pyrust wasn’t born of Imperial loins. Like the Komyr Dynasty, the Jaeshi had begun with bloody-handed bandits usurping a throne. Cyron decided to show Pyrust that honor to further the fiction of the Empress having returned-especially when everyone knew it was Nelesquin who was coming to reestablish the Empire.

And Cyron’s graciousness utterly belied the fact that Pyrust had come to Moriande to kill him and claim the Dragon Throne as his own.

Then Cyron-not content with offending tradition and sensibility-decided to compound his errors by affronting Heaven. By rights, Pyrust’s pyre should have been built in the square in front of Kunji Shiri. Granted, the Temple of the Hawk was decidedly run-down and small, but to use that as an excuse to honor him in front of the Temple of the Dragon? It beggared credulity. Wentoki would want nothing to do with Pyrust. Better they held the funeral at the Temple of Death, for Pyrust was clearly one of Grija’s favorites. Even the Temple of Kojai would have been more appropriate-Pyrust did rule Helosunde, and the Dog god was the god of War, after all.

All the begging Cyron might do, or the sacrifices he might offer, would not make the Dragon open the gates of Kianmang to accept Pyrust. The man might have been a warrior, but he was a nasty one who had never hesitated to inflict as much damage as he could. Vicious in war and fierce in retribution, the man deserved perdition.