Michael Stackpole - The New World

“Wasn’t what?”

“Appropriate.” Pelut shook his head. “You must have seen that flash of jealousy. Maybe it was fear. What did you think it was?”

The man shuddered. “I don’t think I could say.”

“No, of course not, best for the morale of the people we forget it.” Pelut nodded conspiratorially. “It would not do for the people to know Cyron thinks all is lost.”

“No, Grand Minister, it would not.”

“Good. Be certain to squelch that rumor whenever you hear it.”

“Of course, Grand Minister.”

Pelut turned away, fighting to appear impassive. Whatever gains Cyron had made in the temple square would be eroded in the public houses. The mere act of correcting an impression would give it life. By the end of the day, that minister and any he talked to would remember seeing Cyron lift his face and say something to his vanquished foe. That would undercut the nobility of his sentiments and wither his support.

Never once did it occur to Pelut Vniel that weakening Cyron might hasten the fall of Moriande. The Grand Minister had already assumed Moriande would fall. The white city would be bathed in blood. But as long as it was Cyron’s blood and not his, both he and the ministries would survive.

And, he was certain, that was something of which both the gods and Emperor Nelesquin would approve.

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

Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)

Nessagafel understood very little about his children. He forced Jorim to maintain full clarity of mind during torture. Every ant bite, every twist of the thorned ivy, each rake of a talon, remained stark in Jorim’s mind. He could catalog them and sort them, rank them and order them.

Nessagafel intended the torture to be unendurable. Clarity of mind provided a means for putting the tortures in context. The context was simple: the agony would endure until Jorim released Nessagafel.

Every twinge underscored this point. As they built and thrummed through him like bass notes, they reached and passed the point at which Jorim would have acquiesced to Nessagafel’s demands.

Jorim’s clarity of mind made one thing apparent: he had absolutely no clue how to release Nessagafel. Moreover, if the first god had been restrained with something that took Jorim’s divine nature to unlock, it stood to reason that whatever this last restraint was had nothing to do with Wentoki or Jorim. Another of the gods must have secretly restrained Nessagafel, trusting neither Grija nor Wentoki to keep him in check.

It had to be Tsiwen. Only the goddess of Wisdom would have such foresight. She was probably also wise enough to suspect something very strange was happening with Nessagafel. She would stay well away from him. Nessagafel would remain trapped and the world safe.

Clarity of mind allowed Jorim one other realization. No matter his physical pain, what truly tortured him was Grija’s simpering moans. When the blood cleared from Jorim’s eyes, the god of Death became visible. He lay on the ground like some discarded scrap of cloth. Even the ants marched around him, though they greedily devoured the dead vulture that had tried to nibble on Grija.

Eternal pain is one thing, but being trapped here with him is too much. Jorim would have told him to leave but the vine wrapped around his head and the thorns piercing his tongue severely limited his conversational abilities. He did manage a grunt, however.

The grey scrap rolled over, looking much like a doll that had been crushed beneath cart wheels. “It is your fault, Wentoki. If you would release him, he would free us. Can you not see how I am tortured?”

Jorim, who at that moment was having difficulty discouraging a vulture from plucking out an eyeball, wanted to laugh. Yet all he managed was a snort. He had never, in all his life, known anyone so pitiful-save, perhaps, his brother’s ex-fiancee.

Majiata actually had a lot in common with Grija. They both were self-centered schemers who accepted no blame and took no responsibility for their actions or the consequences thereof. Had he a choice, he’d have preferred to be trapped forever in Wangaxan with Grija only because her presence would mean she was a goddess-though he couldn’t imagine what her aspect would be.

He snorted another half laugh, then thought for a moment. Wangaxan was the Ninth Hell. It was the one meant for gods. But he was no longer a god. He was no longer Wentoki. He was just Jorim Anturasi-a cartographer, maybe a warrior, maybe a magician. Though a god couldn’t escape Wangaxan, a mortal couldn’t possibly be trapped there.

The paradox vibrated, engulfing him. Pressure built. His ears popped. He felt himself being squeezed, then the sphere imploded, crushing him. Stars exploded before his eyes. He was falling, then he hit the ground, bounced, and landed on his left arm.

He opened his eyes. He lay on a cracked and dry plain the color of amethyst. The moment he described his surroundings that way, a thousand amethyst crystals poked up through the earth. He moved carefully off them and they receded.

The sky was the color of sulfur. The pungent scent followed quickly so he changed his mind, likening the color to that of a zaomin flower. Oval petals began to drift down like snowflakes. The temperature began to drop as well, and wind whipped petals into drifts.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Jorim walked. The sky changed color-this time to a blood-red hue, which began to fall. It washed away the yellow snow and turned the purple earth into stinking mud, but only for a circle nine feet in diameter, centered on Jorim.

He wiped away the blood. “I am in Tolwreen, the Eighth Hell, the one designed for magicians.”

The place shifted constantly. New colors and sounds, new scents and tastes, gravity becoming heavier or lighter. It was designed to challenge magicians to imagine. Whatever they imagined became real and presented more challenges. The more clever you were, the more frustrating your torment. Imagine escape and you create a prison. Magicians would become trapped in a maze of their own invention.

You had a hand in this, Tsiwen, but you must have left a way out. Tsiwen’s wisdom would dictate that no torture should be eternal. If one could demonstrate a lesson had been learned, a reward would follow. Whatever misdeed had doomed a magician, regret, atonement, and change would certainly be sufficient for release.

Of course, one might have countless lessons to learn.

The blood rain abruptly ended, but from the last drops that hit, thirty-six ministry clerks sprang up, each with sheaves of rice paper. They peppered him with innumerable questions, never waiting for an answer. They pressed in on him, their voices rising, the questions becoming more and more absurd.

Jorim laughed. As daunting as they were, they were nothing compared to his grandfather. No, wait, don’t think…

Too late!

The clerks all flowed together into a colossal version of Qiro Anturasi. The giant stamped his foot, but Jorim dodged. The earth cracked and Jorim fell. He rolled, just avoiding another stomp. More earth cracked and Jorim latched on to the sound. He linked it with breaking ice.

Qiro stomped again and his foot went through. The giant plunged into an icy sea. The resulting wave pitched Jorim ninety feet. As he flew through the air he tried to think about growing feathers so he could flap his way to a soft landing.

When he did hit, it was on a bed of feathers, but they were all made of obsidian. They crackled and sliced, opening his flesh. He rolled off the bed and tried to blank his mind. He tried to think of nothing but pleasant thoughts. Still, the stinging cuts reminded him of the copper ants.