163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Nemehyan, Caxyan
Jorim looked down on the city below and felt queasy. It was not just the Mozoyan flesh he’d eaten, or all the other things that went with it. The Amentzutl had put on a fine feast with soups and stews alternating with roasted strips of meat. The fleet had provided rice and other basics which, to the Amentzutl, were as miraculous as the horses and chariots. Even at the top of his pyramid, Jorim could hear sounds of singing and merrymaking as the sun began to peek up over the eastern horizon.
Anaeda Gryst looked toward the dawn. “Red sky in morning, sailor take warning.”
“It’s not the sky or the weather I’m worried about. It’s not even being thought a god that worries me.”
“No?” Anaeda smiled easily. “I think it would concern me. I merely accept responsibility for a fleet, but you have it for all these people.”
“I am not a god.”
“How do you know?” Iesol knelt at the top of the pyramid about a dozen feet to Jorim’s left. “There are those who suppose that if one can reach jaedunto, perhaps there is a goal above that—divinity.”
“Your idea invalidates your question. I’ve not reached jaedunto, so divinity would be beyond me.”
“I would beg to differ, Master Anturasi.” The minister pressed his hands to his thighs and spoke softly. “As the Master says, ‘There is no destination that cannot be found at the end of multiple paths.’ My idea merely described one way people think divinity is accessible. They are likely wrong. What you have told us suggests that divinity is something you can realize.”
Jorim frowned. “I do not follow.”
“It is simple, Master. Tetcomchoa, the first time around, sailed west and, you suspect, might have been Taichun—he who was Urmyr’s Master. If you accept that Tetcomchoa was a god here, and a man in the Empire, then the path from god to man is open.”
“But that does not mean the reverse is true. Nor does it mean that, because we accepted him as a man, he somehow divested himself of his divinity.”
Iesol smiled. “But this would suggest that just because we have accepted you as a man you are not precluded from having always been a god.”
Jorim held a hand up. “I don’t mind semantic games, but not now. I’ve had far too little sleep and things are running riot in my head.”
Anaeda crouched at his right. “I don’t believe Iesol was playing a game. You don’t want to accept the possibility that you are a god, or that you could become one. I understand this and even applaud your humility. The fact is, however, that these people do believe you are a god. They are also of the opinion that this Mozoloa is rising in the west. As the legends are explained to me, it is Mozoloa who each night inhales the sun and exhales the stars. Each night you send a serpent that squeezes him so hard that eventually he releases the sun and it rises again.”
“We know that is not true.”
“It doesn’t matter what we know, Jorim. The point is simply this. For these people, Tetcomchoa is the god who makes all life possible. Tetcomchoa is core to their reality the same way the Nine Gods are to ours. Your problem is that they see you as Tetcomchoa and they expect you to lead them to where they can defeat Mozoloa.”
Jorim sighed. “That is out of the question. We can’t lead them to the Nine Principalities. Not only do they not have the means to get there, but they would be an invading force. For all I know they’d identify Prince Cyron as Neletzatl and make war on my home.”
“Curious.”
The cartographer glanced at Iesol. “What?”
“It cannot have passed your notice that Neletzatl and Nelesquin have similar sounding names.”
Anaeda glanced up. “The Prince lost with Empress Cyrsa?”
“The Prince who was her rival, yes. There are stories—seldom heard, and almost never in the Nine—that parallel those of the Sleeping Empress. Nelesquin is said to sleep as well, but uneasily in his grave. It has been said he will return, but not as a help.”
“Return to the Nine?”
“To what he once knew as the Empire—what he once thought he would rule.” Iesol nodded. “If he has come back, perhaps the time for Taichun’s return is at hand as well.”
Jorim frowned. “And who else will return? No, don’t answer that, Iesol, I was being dramatic.” The cartographer groaned. “I don’t believe I am Tetcomchoa. Still, every previous centenco has produced difficulties, and they match points in our history. Could it be that they are right? Is some threat rising to the west? Face it, between here and Moriande there is a lot of west, and most of it wet.”
Jorim stared down at the shadows surrounding the pyramid’s base. “If we accept that centenco has validity, then we know a threat exists. The Amentzutl know there is a threat, but the people back home do not.”
“Can you communicate it to your grandfather?”
“No. I’ve tried. Not to tell him about the Amentzutl; we agreed I would not do that. But I tried to reach him to convey some basic weather information. I got nothing.”
“How do you mean ‘nothing’?”
He looked over at her, completely at a loss for words. He had always been able to find his grandfather and convey information. He’d largely been unable to stop his grandfather from plundering whatever else he desired—though the reverse had never been true. Parts of his grandfather had always been untouchable, and Jorim had learned to armor his private memories in layers of mundane trivia that his grandfather hated.
With distance had come a weakening of the contact, but always there had been something. Yet since the battle there was nothing. His attempts to reach his grandfather had fallen into a void, and when he sought his brother, things were no better—though he still could feel Keles out there somewhere.
“It is as if my grandfather has fallen off the edge of the world.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is he dead?”
“No, I think I would know that.” He snorted. “There are times I have wanted it so badly that I know parts of me would rejoice in his death. Now I just feel isolated. Keles is still out there but not looking for me, so we are not communicating.”
Anaeda stood and began to pace, her boots rasping on the stone. “If we accept that there is a danger, we have an obligation to warn Nalenyr.”
“We also have an obligation to help the Amentzutl.”
The ship’s captain smiled down at him. “Spoken like a god taking responsibility for his people.”
“That’s not funny.” Jorim clambered to his feet as Shimik came bounding up the pyramid’s steps.
The Fenn leaped into Anaeda’s arms, then pointed back down the steps. “Nauana comma.”
Nauana was indeed coming, and at the head of a procession a dozen people long. Each of them wore feather cloaks and gold headdresses with long feathers rising from their brows. Each of them looked older than Nauana by at least a dozen years, and they ascended in age. The wizened man bringing up the rear could easily have been over a hundred and might have even been around when Tetcomchoa last walked among the Amentzutl.
The procession reached the top of the pyramid and spread out in a line. Nauana stood in front of them and bowed in the Naleni fashion. “These, Lord Tetcomchoa, are the Elders of the maicana.”
The Elders bowed together and straightened up after a respectful time.
Jorim bowed to them and held it equally as long. Iesol and Anaeda likewise bowed, but remained down longer. These gestures brought smiles to the maicana faces—probably because they were happy to have mastered this new custom.
Nauana came up last of all, but smiled carefully. “This morning is a time for many momentous decisions.” She gestured toward the north and moons glowing from within constellations. “We have much to tell you.”
Jorim nodded. “As do we to tell you.”
Nauana bowed her head. “Please, my Lord Tetcomchoa, tell us your will.”
“We come from the west, where Mozolo
a will present his threat. We must warn our people of it, and summon help to defend the Amentzutl from him.” He glanced at Captain Gryst and she nodded. “Toward this end, we will be taking our fleet back west.”
The young maicana woman solemnly translated his words for her elders, but they did not have the effect Jorim would have anticipated. He expected they would be upset that he was leaving, but instead his words seemed to elicit smiles and positive murmurs. Even Nauana smiled as she looked back at him.
“This is, of course, how it should be, Lord Tetcomchoa.”
He frowned. “You know I will be going with them?”
“As we expected.”
“And we’ll be leaving inside a week.”
Nauana frowned. “We do not think that is possible.”
“There is no choice in the matter, Nauana.”
“My Lord’s resolve makes that apparent. We will work very hard, then.” She nodded solemnly. “We shall begin now, shall we, my Lord?”
Jorim watched her face for any sign of deception, but found none. “Perhaps, Nauana, you need tell me what you all came here to say.”
She nodded. “When you were here last, my Lord, and you took your leave, you shared your power with us. You created the maicana. You told us to hold your power and your art sacred. We were to learn and refine, create new things and make what you gave us as strong as we could. You said this was because one day you would return and we would have to show you our work, returning to you the vestiges of your power.”
Nauana opened her arms, her cloak slipped back behind her shoulders. “When you came, I was certain you were Lord Tetcomchoa and worthy of your teachings to be returned to you. Others were not. The miracles you wrought on the battlefield have left no doubt. The Elders have confirmed it and have agreed to return to you what is your right.”
“My right?”
“Yes, Lord Tetcomchoa. Though you give us only a week, we shall train you in the ways of the maicana.” Nauana’s face took on the expression of confidence that made his heart pound faster. “You came to us a god with the powers of a man. You shall face Mozoloa with the powers of a god. When we have returned to you what you lent us, nothing in heaven or on earth will be able to stand against you.”
Chapter Sixty-two
7th day, Month of the Wolf, Year of the Rat
9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th year since the Cataclysm
Ixyll
Keles woke with a tightness on his forehead and pain throbbing in his head. Though he could remember nothing of what he’d dreamed while unconscious, bits of terror floated in a sense of contentment. It all had something to do with his sister, but the fading fragments made no sense. Pain chased thought from his mind and oblivion beckoned again, but he fought it.
He opened his eyes and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. Borosan’s two lanterns illuminated only a tiny bit of the vast chamber. In the glow of one he could see Moraven and Ciras resting quietly, with the thanaton standing sentinel nearby, and the Viruk sleeping up against the wall.
Tyressa smiled at him. “He said you would be waking up now.”
“He?” Keles tried to sit up, but his head began to swim. As he lay back down he realized he was stretched out on one of the biers, and that sent a shiver through him.
Tyressa pointed to where the Soth Gloon squatted beside Borosan. “His name is Urardsa.”
Keles nodded once, then stopped. “How long have I been out?”
“Most of the night. You slept peacefully, as did Borosan. The storm has passed, but Ciras is exhausted. Moraven is unresponsive and Rekarafi says he needs more rest.”
“How about you? Have you slept?”
She shook her head. “But I’m doing perfectly well.”
He touched the stitches on his forehead. “Your handiwork?”
Tyressa nodded. “You’ll have a scar on your front to match the ones on your back.”
“Thanks.”
The Gloon rose, leaving Borosan to tinker with his gyanrigot. “Your wits should be about you now.”
“They’re returning.” Keles forced himself up on his elbows. “I thank you for saving us.”
“What makes you think I did?” The pale creature cocked his head to the right.
“The signal light in the storm. You led us to sanctuary.”
Urardsa opened his arms and spun around, displaying himself and the dirty rag of a loincloth he wore. “What do you see on me that would cause that glinting?”
“Nothing.” Keles started to rub at his forehead, but Tyressa caught his wrist. “You’re denying you saved us?”
“Have you any proof I did?”
“No.” The cartographer lowered his hand. “Are you going to answer all my questions with questions?”
“Are you going to ask any questions for which there are answers?”
Keles looked at Tyressa. “You endured this for how long before you decided to let me wake up?”
She smiled. “How long do you imagine?”
He groaned and she laughed. Keles looked from her to the Soth Gloon again. “How is it that you are here?”
“I was entombed here with the others.” He hopped up on the bier and squatted at Keles’ feet. He pointed high up on one of the chamber’s walls. “You can barely make out where they placed me.”
A dozen questions immediately came to Keles, but he thought before speaking. If the Soth had been entombed, he clearly had been believed dead. Since the graves outside dated from the time of Empress Cyrsa, it would be logical to assume he had gone out from the Empire with the expedition. And if he has not left here since he was entombed, he’s been here for over seven hundred years.
“You were taken for dead. Who did that?”
Urardsa shrugged his narrow shoulders. “I was beyond thinking at that point. I am now Gloon, but before that I was the life stage known as Myrkal. I was larger then than I am now, though not as large as when I was Anbor. As Anbor I had come to know some of the Empire’s great fighters, and though I had become Myrkal, they invited me to join them. I could yet fight, but this was not demanded of me.”
“Yet you were believed dead and entombed with warriors. What transpired to cause all these deaths?”
The Gloon smiled and his four small gold eyes tightened. “I find this fascinating, Keles Anturasi. I am able to see the future, not the past, so I do not know the details of how I came to be here. I do know the circumstances that led to it, and I shall share them with you, but first . . .”
Urardsa reached a thick-fingered hand out and passed it in front of Keles’ face, over his head, down along his shoulders, never quite touching him. It was almost as if the Gloon were trying to catch an elusive insect. The expression on his face as he did this did not change, but the four gold eyes flicked quickly, often darting in different directions.
The Gloon lowered his hand. “When first I saw you, your future had dimmed. When you fell and struck your head, you should have been dead, but you did not die.” He looked up toward the top of the chamber. “Perhaps the wild magic had something to do with it. It matters not. Now, though, you have a number of life-lines ahead of you.”
“You see my future directly?”
The Gloon closed all of his eyes and shook his head. “You are a pearl on a chain. Your past forms links that are easily seen. For most, there is one chain into the future, and the length of it corresponds to their life. There are an infinite number of possible futures, but finite is the number in which anyone can participate. Your being here opened more futures to you when there should have been none—some great, some trivial. Unlike the others here, you may live a long time.”
Keles frowned as much as he could, given the stitches in his forehead. “You were wrong about me. You’re wrong about them. But you were telling us how you came to be here.”
The Gloon smiled easily and broadly, almost as a child might. “You don’t wish to know y
our future?”
Keles returned the smile. “You’ve already admitted that your vision is flawed, so why should I?”
The Gloon reopened his eyes. “It has been a long time since I have sparred with someone. My companions and their ghosts are not very inventive. Yes, my circumstances; I recall. I do not know what you have been told of the war against the Turasynd. Skirmishes raged across Deseirion, Solaeth, and Dolosan. The Empress kept drawing the enemy west, hoping that if the grand confrontation unleashed a wave of magic, it would be triggered far enough away from the Empire that her people would survive. Your presence suggests she was successful.”
Tyressa nodded. “The Time of Black Ice was not easy, but we survived. It has been over seven hundred years.”
The Gloon considered that quietly, then nodded. “Ghosts only discuss the past and do not mark the passing of time. The Empress—who is not here, nor has her ghost visited—wanted to be certain the Turasynd would not return to the Empire. She divided her force, leaving a third of it in Dolosan, hidden away. The plan was that when the Turasynd followed her onto the Spice Route, this force would come behind and catch them unawares. The barbarians would be crushed between both forces.”
Keles looked at Tyressa, who nodded. “I understand her reasoning.”
“Good, Master Anturasi. You are not alone, for all of us did, and applauded it. She was advised to put Prince Nelesquin in command of that force. What she did not realize was this: as a Prince of Imperial blood, Nelesquin resented her presence on the throne. To him and his branch of the family, she was naught but a concubine who had murdered her husband and usurped his place. That her husband was incompetent and paralyzed with fear was never believed by those with Imperial blood.”
Keles nodded. The history of that era had emphasized how decisive and brave the Empress was. While it was known that she had killed her husband and met his bodyguards with a bloody dagger in hand, this was not dwelt upon. Moreover, because she had formed each of the Nine Principalities and some were still led by the fami-lies she had picked to run them, the bureaucracy and governments had a vested interest in maintaining that her actions were justifiable and legitimate. But Nelesquin’s difference of opinion was understandable—especially as he was a contemporary of hers.
A Secret Atlas Page 48
