Michael Stackpole - Chartomancy

Cencopitzul waved him to a pair of rough-hewn wooden chairs. “That’s not really what you want to know, but it’s a good place to start. I found myself here during the last time of centenco. I was able to help them survive the years of no summer. The maicana-netl then decided I was not Tetcomchoa, but his envoy, and he chose me to be his heir. Here I have dwelt since that time.”

“How were you able to help them?”

The Witch-King smiled. “You know the answer to that question, and that answer raises many more. I was schooled in the use of magic. You thus suppose I was one of the vanyesh, and you would be correct. You would therefore assume I must be insane, and I would counter that I am no more insane than a Naleni cartographer who thinks he might be a god born again.”

“But if you were one of the vanyesh…”

Cencopitzul raised a hand, then slid into the chair across from Jorim. “I did not summon you here to discuss me and my fate, but to address yours. You know Tetcomchoa’s history: he arrived, he taught the Amentzutl magic so they could defeat the Ansatl, then he sailed west with his most trusted warriors. Taichun arrived from the east and carved the Empire out of the warring states that had been the domain of Men after they destroyed the remnants of the Viruk Empire.”

Jorim nodded. “That’s what I have been told.”

“Then you should have two questions. The first is whether or not Tetcomchoa was a god-made-man, and the second is if you are Tetcomchoa-reborn.” The Witch-King sat back. “I’ve given this much thought. We have ample tales of gods visiting the world as all sorts of creatures, including men and women. There is no reason to suppose Tetcomchoa was not a god-one of ours, one of theirs, a new god, it doesn’t really matter which is true. There also seems no dispute that he taught the Amentzutl magic.”

The cartographer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can accept that.”

“Further accept this: there is no historical record in the Empire indicating that anyone save the Viruk employed magic in the sense of invocations. While jaedun always appears to have been possible, during the Viruk Empire the only training humans got was limited to useful tasks, and any Mystic slave was valued. Humans were not put under arms, so they did not develop the skills needed to become Mystical warriors.”

“I can see the sense in that.”

“Good.” Cencopitzul smiled easily. “The next is my speculation. The centenco prior to Taichun’s arrival heralded the invasion of True Men. They overthrew what was left of the Viruk Empire, freeing the slaves. They may have come down from the Turasynd Wastes, or in through the Spice Route. Again, we have no record of their using magic beyond jaedun; and the Viruk, for reasons known only to themselves, do not seem to have used magic to oppose them. At the next centenco Taichun arrives from the sea, and is able to establish an empire. That would seem to be difficult, wouldn’t it?”

Jorim nodded. “Yes, though with all the warring states, he just had to play one off against another to win.”

“Easier said than done, my boy. The Nine are still nine despite the same dynamic prevailing. My point is that as nearly as can be determined, Taichun also brought magic to the Empire, and the magic I learned well enough to join the vanyesh was magic instantly recognized by the maicana-netl as being in the tradition of Tetcomchoa.”

The Witch-King’s recital of facts held together well enough to make Jorim recast history in its light. “If all this is true, then my question would be, why would Tetcomchoa choose this time to be reborn?”

“That’s simple-the invasion of the new god.”

Jorim frowned. “He foresaw that and arranged to be reborn in Moriande as a precaution?”

“I don’t know. Did you?”

Jorim stopped, his mouth hanging open. “I don’t know.”

“I hope you figure it out.” Cencopitzul stood and pulled his chair back, then pointed to the center of the large chamber floor. A silvery-white stone slab had been set in the floor. It measured roughly six feet long and three across. As Jorim looked at it, what had appeared to be scratches on the surface resolved themselves into writing of some form, which shifted and writhed as if it were alive.

The Witch-King waved him toward the block. “Before he left, Tetcomchoa sealed something in this stone. I have no idea what it is. Legend has it that only his reincarnation can unlock the stone and fully claim his heritage.”

Jorim folded his arms over his chest. “And if I fail, I die?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Trying hasn’t killed me yet.” The Witch-King shrugged. “Then again, in seven hundred years of trying, I’m no closer to a solution than I was at the start.”

35th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Vallitsi, Helosunde

Prince Pyrust allowed himself to take pleasure in the misery of the Helosundian Council of Ministers. For years they had denied him control of Helosunde. While he acknowledged that they could never have done what they did without Naleni support, they were the ones who procured that support and employed it.

Laying siege to Vallitsi was something Pyrust had neither the time nor the inclination to do. He was not concerned about taking the city, since it would definitely fall. Spring crops had not yet been harvested and winter stores were low, so the ability of the people to resist would be limited. Still, they might be able to hold out for the better part of a month, and in that time Cyron would be able to send troops north to lift the siege or otherwise harass his forces.

After arranging his forces around the city such that the only avenue of escape was to the northwest, Pyrust had his troops dig in and raise a circular berm. In the northwest, his engineers began digging a deep trench that slowly filled with seep water. They brought the trench to within fifty feet of the Kuidze River, which ran past the city’s western walls on its way north to the Black River.

And further downriver, another of his units began to build a dam. The river level rose, then the engineers breached the wall between the river and their trench, flooding the land inside the berm. The water level rose quickly and by the second morning two feet of water had flooded through the city.

The ministers had figured out his intention and had sent envoys to him. Pyrust had made it very clear he wanted the entire Council to come to him, and would accept no conditions. The next envoy came with a list of conditions, so Pyrust had the list nailed to the man’s forehead and sent him back.

So the ministers came, each wearing his finest robes, which were wet to the knees. Some had found robes from a time when Helosunde and Deseirion had been friendlier, but a few still wore robes where Helosundian dogs were devouring hawks and licking up the residue of broken eggs. These ministers, he made certain, would kneel closest to him.

The day had dawned grey and cold, full of the promise of rain. Pyrust had a pavilion set up on the dry side of his berm, with the side flaps raised so his entire army could see the ministers, and they could see the troops. He’d also located it close enough to the berm so that the ministers, on their knees, could not see the city. He, on the other hand, dry and enthroned in armor, could see it easily.

The ministers filed into the open-air pavilion and knelt on either side of a rich red carpet that had been rolled out over the ground. They all shifted uncomfortably and the scent of sweat mingled with that of wet silk. They kept their heads lowered and then, as one, bowed deeply toward him.