Michael Stackpole: The New World

Cyrsa pointed the Naleni blade at Pyrust. “So you shall fight my war, and Cyron will enable you to fight it.”

Pyrust’s eyes narrowed as he looked past her to Cyron. The man still slumped in his throne, looking like an ashen-faced child trapped in an adult’s armor. His gray pallor and the blood seeping through the bandages on his arm’s stump suggested he was finished. And yet, in his light blue eyes, there now burned a spark, dispelling any notion that he was going to die of his wounds. He would survive.

He will thrive.

Pyrust nodded slowly. All his life he had prided himself on his heritage. The Desei had done so much with so little. He’d always wondered what he could do if given a tenth of his enemy’s resources.

The Desei Prince rested a hand on his sword’s hilt. “I have but one question for you, Empress.”

“Please.”

“You said before that you arranged for Nelesquin’s demise. That he was a threat to you. How do I know that you do not see me the same way?”

Her eyes hardened, becoming at once cold and ancient. “I do see you as a threat. If I didn’t, I’d not pit you against Nelesquin. If you were not a threat you’d have no hope of defeating him.”

She leveled the sheathed blade at his heart. “You are a man of ambition. So is Nelesquin. I pit your ambition against his. When you succeed, you will be rewarded. Greatly rewarded, both of you.”

“There cannot be two emperors.”

“As long as I am alive, there may never be one.” Her eyes softened. “But destroy this threat to my empire, and many possibilities may make themselves known.”

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

Jaidanxan (The Ninth Heaven)

The god who had once incarnated as Jorim Anturasi fought to maintain a grasp on his human identity. It was a task worthy of a god, because a human life seemed so insignificant compared to the divine. What mattered the travails of the mortal when the very nature of reality was at risk?

Jorim-for this is how the dragon god Wentoki sought to identify himself-largely maintained a human form. At least in size and shape, though his skin had become scaly. From throat to loins, he had a rich golden hue, while the rest of his flesh had a supple ebon color allowing him to vanish into shadows, which almost made him laugh because, as a god, he could do so without effort.

He looked up, suddenly aware of other presences in his palace. Each of the nine gods had a palace floating above the mortal plane. White marble flowed in strong lines that abstractly defined his nature as a dragon. Gauzy curtains danced on breezes. The broad stairs led down to a balcony from which he could overlook the world.

Tsiwen, his elder sister, the goddess of Wisdom, all but flew down the steps. Her black robe bore the crest of a white bat on the wing and her sharpened features hinted at her thoughtful nature. Dark and beautiful, her wide eyes bespoke sagacity; she could be counted upon for good counsel.

With her came two other gods. Grija, grey and wolfish, let his nervousness betray him. He stank of death, the essence of his nature, and his appearance reflected it. His threadbare robe hung poorly on his gaunt frame. The fur covering his legs had fallen out in patches, revealing red and irritated flesh beneath.

Between them strode Chado, one of the eldest of the godlings. He moved deliberately, muscles rippling. He appeared human, in deference to Jorim’s choice, but wore an orange robe with black tiger stripes. As the god of Shadows, he allied himself very closely with Grija and was the author of many of the world’s ills. Yet while Jorim recognized the uses of disease and rot in fostering a renewal of the world, he still had little love for his brother.

Jorim opened his hands, allowing golden talons to sprout from his fingertips. “Welcome to my domain.”

Grija snarled anxiously, almost tripping on the last step. “Have you given any thought to what I told you? Have you done anything about it?” He tensed, and might have leaped at Jorim had not Chado’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Easy, brother, for he is still unused to his true nature.” Chado smiled easily enough, but his predatory grin did little to ease Jorim’s sense of doom. “I understand you wish to be addressed as Jorim.”

“That serves its purposes, yes.” Jorim ignored his brothers and embraced his sister. “You are always welcome.”

“And always pleased to be here.”

Jorim allowed himself to imagine her embrace as warm. Releasing her, he turned to his brothers. “I have spent the night thinking on what you said, Grija. I do not doubt you believe it is necessary for me to slay my mortal sister. It is a solution to a problem. I am not convinced, however, it is the only solution.”

The god of Death bristled. “I am not stupid! When will you realize that?”

He would have lunged at Jorim, but Chado restrained him yet again. “I feared his reaction might be hasty, so Tsiwen suggested I might explain. Where should I start?”

“Grija told me that my mortal sister, Nirati, is causing a problem. She is dead, but somehow not dead. She has escaped Grija’s realm. I can imagine such things, but what I find curious is that she is beyond his reach but not mine. How is this possible? We are gods. Is anything beyond our reach?”

The tiger god released Grija and began to pace. “Ultimately, no; but directly, most assuredly. It begins with the tree of creation. This reality we all share is the trunk of the tree, and many are the branches. We are all part of it. We are born of it, created by the one who created everything.”

Jorim nodded. “Nessagafel?”

“Yes, our father.” Chado waved a hand at the world below. “We are part and parcel of his creation. We, too, have created things. Some of us create things of substance, and others create things more ethereal.”

Tsiwen laughed easily. “Leave your brow unfurrowed, brother. Nessagafel created the Viruk, and we are powerless to affect them directly. He protected them, at a cost to himself, which made him vulnerable. Chado has fashioned diseases, some of which we may blunt, others of which we cannot.”

Jorim rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What did I create? Nessagafel incarnated as a Viruk. Did I create Men, then become one?”

Chado laughed. “No, brother. Men were a creation we, the Nine, collaborated upon. You have created other things, like the Fennych, but you reserved your greatest creation for the benefit of mankind.”

Grija scratched at his arm. “This is what has caused the problem.”

Tsiwen took Jorim’s left hand between hers. “You have not let yourself remember much, but you are the youngest of us. As such, you sought the most to please our father. While we made mankind, you watched him and his Viruk. You saw him give them magic, and you resolved that a different type of magic would be your gift to Men. That is a most dangerous gift, however, and you were opposed in your desires.”

“Why?”

“Because it ruins everything.” Grija stabbed a hooked finger toward the mortal plane. “We had seen it with the Viruk. Magic gives them an ability which should be ours alone: the ability to alter reality. You know what the unfettered release of magic can do in the world. Men are too limited to understand how to control such power. Even the limits you placed upon it are insufficient to preclude disaster.”

Fear thrummed through Jorim. Grija’s explanation, curt though it was, captured the dilemma perfectly. Magic allowed Men the ability to create. If they could create, they could presumably bar others, including the gods, from having a direct impact on their creation.