Michael Stackpole - The New World

But they did not come. The gyanrigot melted back into the city and kwajiin warriors took up positions commanding the foot of the bridge.

The war for Moriande was half-over, and we had been soundly defeated.

The green light in Qiro’s tower suggested decay to Nelesquin. The conditions within the tower certainly agreed. Tzaden vines had broken through windows and proliferated wildly. The workshop was a shambles. The weight of vine and fruit had collapsed desks and drafting tables. Charts had been crumpled by grasping vines and curtained partitions had been ripped down.

Yet as Qiro preceded him into the jungle, it seemed he noticed none of the destruction. He drifted through it, irritated only by the occasional vine that tugged at his ankle. The plants shrank from his curses.

Nelesquin stopped at the chamber’s heart. “I will, of course, assign people to clean this up.”

Qiro spun. “No, under no circumstance shall anyone enter.”

Kaerinus, who had trailed in their wake, left off sniffing a tzaden flower. “Does this mean I should leave, my lord?”

Qiro nodded, but Nelesquin forestalled that command with a flick of his hand. “No, not yet. When you do go, you can tell Pravak we have found his left hand.” Nelesquin kicked the thing free of a tangle of vines, but more grew to trap it.

Kaerinus bent and retrieved the bones. “Most aggressive, these vines. They render your tower quite uninhabitable.”

Qiro laughed aloud. “That doesn’t matter. The tower is mine again.”

Nelesquin surveyed the wreckage. “It is not much of a prize, Master Anturasi.”

“If you believe that, you are a fool.” He walked to the far wall and sank a hand deep into the vines. “Behold the world.”

With seemingly no effort at all, Qiro pulled and a whole tapestry of vines fell away. They revealed a white wall with a map of the world drawn on it.

Nelesquin’s mouth went dry. As the son of the last Emperor, he had been privy to what was known of the world. While they had traded with the lands beyond Ixyll, little was known of their culture and nothing of their political structure. Fleets had sailed south and west, trading at islands or a few seaports, but those distant ports defined the edges of the known world.

“It’s beautiful.” Nelesquin walked toward it, his blue eyes shining. “That’s Aefret? It’s much larger than I could have imagined. And Tas al Aud, I didn’t think it was that far west.”

Qiro turned slowly, his fingers intertwined and pressed against his breastbone. “Yes, Prince Nelesquin. This is the world. My world. It is the place I have created. You see there, Anturasixan, my continent, wrought by my hand and my will.”

The cartographer pointed toward the top of the map and the blue line running above the Helos Mountains. “There is the Imperial canal connecting the Dark Sea with the ocean. No, not a canal, a river. Yes, a river. The River Nelesquin. There, my lord, I name it for you. I made it. I name it for you now.”

A chill ran up the Prince’s spine. “You are most kind, Master Anturasi.”

Qiro spread wide his arms and turned to the map again. “You have returned to me my tower. I am not ungrateful.”

“I am pleased that you are pleased. And you have given me a great gift.”

“What is that, Highness?”

“The world, of course.” Nelesquin smiled broadly as he studied the map. “We shall restore the Empire once the pretender is destroyed. And then, well, look at how much we have to conquer. Your name shall be exalted in all the lands, Master Anturasi. My legions will bring all this under control.”

Qiro turned, a thin smile on his lips. “But it is already under control. This is my world, Prince Nelesquin.”

“I understand that, Master Anturasi, but it shall be my Empire. Look there, where your knowledge of Aefret ends. I will push into those lands, and you will add them to your map. I will bring you more of the world.”

“You will bring me more of what is already mine?”

“Yes, Master Anturasi.” Nelesquin smiled indulgently. “And I have given an order that the gates of gold are to be ripped away. You are prisoner here no longer.”

“You are most kind, Prince Nelesquin.” Qiro gave him an odd smile, then returned to studying his map.

Nelesquin led Kaerinus out of the tower. He paused, catching his companion by the sleeve, fighting the fatigue washing over him. “He is too dangerous. He will have to be destroyed.”

Kaerinus nodded. “And you shall destroy him, my lord.”

“But not until I am whole. Hurry, Kaerinus, find what I need.” Nelesquin raised his head. “If I am to be Master of the World, I must be whole. The sooner I am, the sooner our new campaign begins.”

Keles hugged his arms around himself. “You have tried everything, Master Geselkir?”

The rotund man wiped sweat from his brow with a square of stained silk. “There is nothing more…”

“Perhaps the Viruk ambassador. She healed me.”

The Prince’s physician shook his head. “I consulted her and even begged her to use magic, but she said that too much damage had been done. The sword split her spine and ruptured her bowels, poisoning her blood.”

“But the xunling root, it helped.”

“But a body can only take so much of it, Keles. It numbs because it is poison.” Geselkir patted Keles’ shoulder. “We have tried everything.”

Keles grabbed the man’s sleeve. “There must be something more.” Tears leaked from his eyes.

“You should say good-bye.”

Keles nodded, his throat thick. He swiped at tears, then entered the darkened chamber. Tyressa, her flesh as pale as her hair, lay on a bed. The only light came from a candle on the table next to her. The xunling roots stood sentinel against the walls. Rekarafi huddled in the far corner, his face hidden in shadows.

Keles approached the bed quietly and drew up a chair. Tyressa looked so innocent, so beautiful. Gone was the wariness and ferocity that had always been a part of her.

She’d been dressed in a black silk robe, embroidered in gold with the rampant hound crest in which all Keru were laid to rest. A white sheet covered her to just beneath her breasts. Her breathing came regularly, but shallow and rasping.

He took her hand in both of his and shuddered. Her flesh was so cold. He looked at his hands, now healed in part because of her ministrations, and held on more tightly. He closed his eyes, searching for a way to summon the magic to make her whole.

Her hand tightened on his, briefly. He looked at her. Her blue eyes fluttered open, but only halfway.

“No, Keles. Your magic won’t work.”

“Tyressa…”

“You make things whole. I already am.” Her eyes closed for a second. “I have outlived Pyrust. I served my Prince and kept you safe.”

Keles nodded, determined not to cry.

“And I have been loved.”

Keles’ tears fell on their hands.

“Do not cry, Keles.” Again she squeezed his hand weakly. “I became Keru because hatred filled me. There was no room for love in my heart. You made me whole.”

“You can’t die.”

“I must. Kianmang awaits. There are Hells for warriors who only know hate.” Tyressa struggled for breath. “I will know paradise because of you.”

“Tyressa, I love you.” He held on tight. “Don’t leave me.”

“You will be cared for, Keles. Better than I could have managed.”

Her grip slackened as the Viruk’s hands clasped Keles’ shoulders. “Come.”

“But…”

“Her niece is here.”

Keles nodded and stood. He wiped away his tears, then bent and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Good-bye, Tyressa. To Kianmang swiftly.”

Keles let himself be led from the room. He tried to look back, but Rekarafi’s broad body eclipsed his view. He nodded to a red-eyed Jasai as they passed in the doorway, then attempted to shrug off the Viruk’s hands. But Rekarafi directed him through a doorway and onto a balcony that overlooked Moriande to the south.