The New World

by Michael A. Stackpole

  “They’ve gone.” Borosan pointed to the remains of the citadel that had once stood tall and proud. “And they’ve taken their weapons with them.”

  Ciras nodded. The citadel had been pieced together with swords and shields, armor and spears. It had been a martial masterpiece. Now the wires that once suspended it hung slack and what remained lay scattered like gold coins spilled from a cut purse.

  Wildmen emerged from the distant shadows. Some brandished weapons as if they were talismans. A few had pulled on armor. Greaves hung awkwardly from shoulders, and bracers pinched calves too tightly. Helmets had been put on backward, then tipped up to let the wearer see his feet.

  Vlay clapped his hands commandingly and the wildmen scattered, hooting and screaming. He turned in his saddle and looked at Ciras. “There is discipline for you.”

  “Where have the vanyesh gotten to?”

  Borosan pulled a small, boxy device from a saddlebag. “There are several mousers below the Prince’s Hall. Let’s see what they’re doing down there.”

  It took some hunting, but they found a series of tunnels that carried them deep beneath the mountain. Using Borosan’s device to guide them, they entered a series of natural caverns that opened into one huge cave that had been extensively altered. At first glance, it reminded Ciras of the workshop where the mounts had been created in Voraxan, only much bigger.

  Borosan dismounted immediately. He attached blue gyanrigot lights to his thanatons and explored. The ghostly light revealed massive forges with huge hammers and tongs, supported by geared circles that allowed them to rotate freely. Further a device with smaller hammers could be seen; and beyond it were other machines with arms ending in even smaller hammers for fine work.

  Borosan paused near the large device and held up one of the command-slates. “The vanyesh used these forges to create the bodies they wore. I cannot tell what else they might have made, but there is a pile of command-slates here. They probably have mounts just like ours. They might even have created enough for the Turasynd Black Eagles.”

  Ciras shivered. “Would they be that insane?”

  Borosan shrugged. “You saw them. Most had left humanity behind a long time ago. They were talking to the Turasynd. Why would they hesitate to arm the barbarians?”

  “I can’t imagine.” Ciras sighed. “Can you make sense of those slates?”

  “Probably. If we fire up the forges again, we can see what they were making. I can make more parts for our horses. I’ve had some ideas since we rode out…”

  “Figure out what they were doing first.” Ciras looked at Vlay. “What are your thoughts?”

  “The vanyesh clearly believed Nelesquin was calling them to arms. I don’t know why; Nelesquin is dead. His head was struck from his body and both were buried in a tomb built to the Empress’ specifications. The tomb was disturbed, however. We can assume the vanyesh violated it. You said his skeleton is housed in a chamber above us.”

  Ciras nodded. “Gilded, every inch of it, save for the skull, which was missing.”

  “Show me, please.”

  Vlay and a handful of warriors accompanied Ciras up to the Prince’s Hall. Tall, narrow, and deep, the chamber seemed even more forbidding because it lacked the reflected light from the vanyesh’s golden robes. Tiered seating rose on either side. Entering, the hall appeared as if it had been abandoned for eons.

  Three weeks, and already decay has set in.

  Hand on sword hilt, Ciras marched beside Vlay. They stopped just shy of the purple strip of carpet leading to a massive stone throne.

  Vlay nodded. “It’s the Celestial Throne, the one Nelesquin coveted.”

  Ciras drew his sword and pointed at the purple garment discarded across the throne’s arms. “The skeleton had been wearing that robe.”

  “It looks like the one we buried Nelesquin in.” The ancient warrior shook his head. “We’d placed his tomb at a crossroads so he’d not know which way was home. That precaution, apparently, was insufficient.”

  Chapter Eight

  23rd 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

  Helosunde

  Keles dropped to a knee on the forest trail. He could sense the others behind him, but they had learned to keep quiet when he raised a hand. He pressed his right hand to the damp loam, rubbed a bit between finger and thumb, and concentrated.

  The world flowed away from his consciousness. He focused on the cool, wet soil staining his fingers. He caught an immediate sense of decayed leaves and dirt churned by deer hooves. Men had passed this way, too. But that impression was fleeting and unreliable; it could have been yesterday or two hundred years before.

  His sense spread out from the soil and sped across the surface of the earth. The world unfolded in his mind, spreading out like thick oil. Awareness surged over hills and down through ravines. It poured over rocks and flowed into streambeds. It grew thin at fords, and eddied where water curled around smooth stones.

  Experience helped him read the land. He knew woodlands well. They were heading south across rising land, so the ravines tended to run to the north and east. Their runoff would eventually trickle into the Black River.

  He pushed his senses further into the land and felt a tingle at the base of his scalp. There, off to the east, up and around a steep-sided ravine, lay a forest clearing. It was big enough for the refugees to camp. A bit further east was a stream from which they could draw water, and the forest had enough windfall to provide firewood.

  Keles opened his eyes and smiled as Rekarafi appeared in front of him. “Over there, about a quarter mile. A clearing?”

  The Viruk nodded. “There was a small one. Will it be bigger when I scout it out again?”

  “It’s big enough.” Keles rubbed a hand over his forehead, smearing it with dirt. “You seem to think that I make a decision and the world changes. It’s not like that.”

  “I have seen the changes you have wrought. I have felt the magic.” The Viruk squatted and carved a symbol in the ground with a talon. “You must understand what you do so you may claim it as power.”

  “Perhaps it is a power I don’t want. And yet, if I do not master it, my grandfather can destroy the world.”

  “Think, Keles. Tell me how the power works.”

  Keles closed his eyes. “I don’t impose my will on the land. I simply see things the way they are supposed to be. At least that’s what it feels like. I just see what is meant to be there.”

  “Meant by whom?”

  The cartographer opened his eyes. “I don’t know. Me? My grandfather? The gods? Maybe the land itself. All I know is that I see what feels right. Do you suppose that is possible?”

  “Possible?” The Viruk rose and pointed off toward the clearing. The group’s scouts led the people past in a serpentine procession that disappeared into the growing dusk. “Did it feel right to remake the people?”

  “Maybe, in a way. The children became the adults they would have been, and the elders regressed to the people they had been. The minister and his guards became idealized versions of themselves—every bit the heroes they imagined themselves. Only you, Tyressa, and Jasai remained unchanged, because you are the people you were meant to be.

  “The land, though, I wonder…In Ixyll, the magic changed the land in many ways, but there were basics that did not change. A valley might grow living metal flesh, but it was still a valley. Rocks might have been transformed into giant fruits, but they still rolled downhill. Is it possible that the world itself has a magic that can resist magic? Is reality too difficult to change on so vast a scale?”

  Rekarafi’s ivory teeth glowed in the twilight. “I have lived for many years, Keles Anturasi. I saw the Viruk Empire collapse. I saw the empire of Men collapse. There are constants. This idea of the land possessing its own magic is not without merit. Perhaps you need to concentrate on finding
what exists and perfecting it.”

  Keles smiled. “Flow with the river, not against it?”

  “It makes it less likely that you will be destroyed by the current.” The Viruk waved him on. “Let us see if what you thought matches what I remember seeing.”

  The refugees had already begun to make camp and establish guard positions by the time they arrived. They organized on a standard plan, with the warriors occupying an outer ring and Princess Jasai’s shelter constructed in the middle. The guard stations pushed out into the woods. Given the nature of the Eyeless Ones and how they hunted, the company would need ample warning of their approach.

  Fortunately, the sour weather that had kept them soaked for much of their trek south had also limited their pursuit. Rekarafi had estimated that they had gained a day over the Eyeless Ones, and their monkeylike companions had not been seen for a week.

  Keles smiled at the Viruk. “Is it what you remember?”

  “You only changed it a little. Bigger. Better drainage.” The Viruk shrugged off the baggage he’d been carrying. “Next time, bring the deer yard closer.”

  As Rekarafi dashed off to hunt, Keles picked up his gear and carried it over to where Jasai sat before a small fire. He pulled off his own pack, then sat. He rolled his shoulders around and felt a series of pops ripple up his spine. He groaned, and she smiled as she fed a small stick into the fire.

  “Keles, you really must let me carry something when we head out again.”

  “You are carrying enough, Princess.”

  The blond woman stroked a hand over her stomach. “Yes, I know, the future of Helosunde—a child to unite my nation with Deseirion.”

  “It doesn’t matter whose child it is. It’s enough that you’re carrying a child.” Keles looked around at the others preparing their shelters and lowered his voice. “And you are the leader of our expedition. These people are loyal to you, not to Deseirion.”

  Golden firelight could not melt the ice of her blue eyes. “They are my husband’s subjects. He had them so cowed they would follow me to the Mountains of Ice and through the Gate to the Underworld. They are suspicious of everything here. They see themselves as enemies in a foreign land.”

  “Is that how you see yourself?”

  She snorted, anger tightening her eyes. “I should. The Council of Ministers chose my brother to be Prince, then convinced him to attack Meleswin. They abandoned him there, and Pyrust took me to wife and to bed. The only reason they will be happy to see me is to use me as leverage over Pyrust.”

  Keles laughed and she turned her cold stare on him. “You are amused by something?”

  “Just by how wrong they are. Anyone thinking you’re a means to an end is a fool—and that includes Prince Pyrust.”

  She looked a bit mollified by that, but Keles had already learned not to take too much comfort in appearances. Jasai had told him that, for her, he was also a means to an end. She had meant to use him to enable her escape from Deseirion. But her aunt had suggested that Jasai had grown to love him.

  I wonder what the reality is. He had no way of knowing, and no mind to trust any assumptions. In fact, he didn’t want to make assumptions because he was in love with Tyressa. Though he found Jasai desirable, Tyressa was even more so. But if Tyressa did not exist, if Jasai was not married to the Desei Prince and carrying his child…

  Too many ifs, and none of them real.

  For a heartbeat he wondered if he could change such things—make if into is. That would greatly reduce the complications in his life. But what shone gloriously for a moment became dark and twisted a second later. In many ways, his grandfather had used his will and influence to change the lives of those around him. He had even swapped Jorim’s fate with Keles’. In a fit of pique he’d exchanged their missions. Had his grandfather possessed true magic then, there was no doubt he would have used it to do that and worse.

  Keles frowned. Perhaps that was the problem with magic. When it came easily, the magician had no sense of consequence for his actions. Rekarafi said he’d improved the drainage in the clearing, yet the plants in the center preferred swampier soils.

  To dry the clearing I shifted a thousand cubic feet of water.

  From the lay of the land, it had drained off to the west and into a ravine. The trickle there would have become a small flood. The swollen stream would have boiled through the forest.

  Keles stopped imagining and began seeing. Further downstream the water undermined the support of a small stone bridge. The bridge began to crumble. Stones shifted and mortar cracked. The children playing on it froze. Angry water splashed high. One of them screamed…

  “No!” Keles thrust his hand into the water. He lifted the bridge, held it together. The children shrieked, but leaped to safety. The bridge’s stones tumbled into the raging stream, trickling like gravel through his unseen fingers.

  “Keles!”

  His eyes jerked open as Jasai slapped his hand aside. A shower of hot coals arced out and hissed against the moist ground. He shook his hand, then slapped at his smoldering bandages.

  “What were you doing?”

  “Um…” He glanced off into the distance. “I think I stopped a small flood from killing two children.”

  “By digging your hand into the coals?” She reached out and took his hand into hers. She brushed away the ashes. “Are you hurt?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “You have to be careful.”

  “I’ll try.” He exhaled and weariness pounded him. “I don’t know if I imagined things or…”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She kissed his palm gently, then released his hand. “No harm done.”

  A day later, as they followed the trace of the flooded stream, they came across the ruined bridge. They forded there, and following Keles’ instruction, found the house where the children lived. Their father happily guided the refugees to a nearby village, and from there riders were sent to a larger town to summon help.

  The refugees nearly outnumbered the villagers, but they did not seem concerned. They immediately put Princess Jasai up in the Headman’s home and began preparations for a celebration. The refugees were divided up into small groups to be housed in the village, where they chopped wood, hauled water, and otherwise traded sweat for hospitality.

  Yet as much as the villagers revered Princess Jasai, they stood in awe of her aunt. The Keru were legendary for their courage, and since they served Prince Cyron of Nalenyr, they’d not often been seen far from the court at Moriande. Tyressa constantly had a gaggle of young girls following her, spying on her from behind buildings or beneath wagons. Tyressa bore her semidivine status with good humor and even devoted an hour to drilling the girls in the fine art of marching.

  All was proceeding well, with food being prepared and tables gathered in the village square, when one of the riders returned from the trek to town. He reported that authorities would arrive in a day or two to help the refugees. He also reported that Prince Eiran had been slain.

  The news of her brother’s death crushed Jasai. Keles found her hugging a homespun blanket around herself, weeping quietly. What had been planned as a raucous celebration became a muted memorial.

  Keles sat with her, holding her hands while she told him about her brother. “I was so angry with him. He hadn’t the courage to stand up to Prince Pyrust. He let Pyrust take me away—and what made it worse was the look in his eyes. He wanted to act, but he couldn’t. He was too afraid, too unsure. In that one moment, he realized he’d been used by the Council of Ministers and, because of that, I had been put in jeopardy.”

  She sniffed. “I’d vowed I’d never forgive him but…” She shrugged and Keles brushed a tear from her cheek. “In recent months, I had softened my stance. I wanted my child to have an uncle. Pyrust had killed his brother, so Eiran was my only choice.”

  Keles smiled weakly, happy his face was hidden in shadow. “I’d be happy to stand in as an uncle. My brothe
r, too, I’m sure.”

  She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his hand. “Thank you. Please do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “Stay here this evening. Just…sitting here. I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Of course, as you desire, Princess.”

  Help from the outside came faster than predicted. By the next noon a local militia battalion arrived. A few had arms and armor, but most had flails, pitchforks, and other tools. They asked the refugees to lay down their arms, and seeing the wisdom of that request, Jasai gave the order. What tension had been in the air evaporated, and the village again began preparations for a celebration.

  By midafternoon, a tall, well-muscled man in ministry robes wearing a sword rode up on a well-lathered horse. He dismounted and spoke to the militia’s leader. The captain gave orders and his men began to form up. The minister then approached Princess Jasai and bowed to her—but not too deeply and for none too long.

  Jasai regarded him warily. “You are Ieral Scoan. I remember you as the one who brought the crown to my brother.”

  The man produced a handkerchief and wiped his upper lip. “I am flattered, Duchess.”

  “You needn’t be. I do not remember you fondly.” Jasai raised her chin. “Duchess was the rank I was given by the Council of Ministers. I am a princess now.”

  “Yes, of Deseirion.” He smiled graciously, but contempt crept through his words. “But we are in Helosunde. Here you are a duchess, nothing more.”

  Keles took a step forward. “But nothing less.”

  Scoan laughed quickly. “Actually, much less.” He produced a small square of folded paper, sealed in red wax. “You are requested to report to Vallitsi and appear before the Council of Ministers.”

  Jasai stared down at the paper, then back up at him. “And if I choose to ignore that request?”