It had also been quite the spectacle. The buildings along the route had been whitewashed overnight. People wore white-or as close as they could get to it. Many people caked their faces with white cosmetics, or painted white tears on their cheeks. White ribbons hung from branches and fluttering strips of white paper drifted to the streets. Pelut had seen the reports. He knew the expense of it all. It was pure silliness.
Cyron had organized it. Pelut was certain that the Prince did so because he would never have gotten such a funeral had the assassin succeeded in killing him. His body would have been dragged through the streets and torn apart by dogs. It would have been a fittingly ignominious ending for someone who had all but destroyed the bureaucracy.
Pyrust served as his surrogate.
Cyron had gotten all the funeral’s details wrong as well. Pelut cast a sidelong glance at the procession and barely contained his anger. It was one thing to have Pyrust lie in state in Shirikun, but six days? Cyron’s own father had only been on display for three. True, six days was the correct amount for an Imperial Prince, but Pyrust wasn’t born of Imperial loins. Like the Komyr Dynasty, the Jaeshi had begun with bloody-handed bandits usurping a throne. Cyron decided to show Pyrust that honor to further the fiction of the Empress having returned-especially when everyone knew it was Nelesquin who was coming to reestablish the Empire.
And Cyron’s graciousness utterly belied the fact that Pyrust had come to Moriande to kill him and claim the Dragon Throne as his own.
Then Cyron-not content with offending tradition and sensibility-decided to compound his errors by affronting Heaven. By rights, Pyrust’s pyre should have been built in the square in front of Kunji Shiri. Granted, the Temple of the Hawk was decidedly run-down and small, but to use that as an excuse to honor him in front of the Temple of the Dragon? It beggared credulity. Wentoki would want nothing to do with Pyrust. Better they held the funeral at the Temple of Death, for Pyrust was clearly one of Grija’s favorites. Even the Temple of Kojai would have been more appropriate-Pyrust did rule Helosunde, and the Dog god was the god of War, after all.
All the begging Cyron might do, or the sacrifices he might offer, would not make the Dragon open the gates of Kianmang to accept Pyrust. The man might have been a warrior, but he was a nasty one who had never hesitated to inflict as much damage as he could. Vicious in war and fierce in retribution, the man deserved perdition.
And damned he shall be.
Cyron might well have thought he had completely neutralized Pelut, but the Prince never really understood the complexities of running a bureaucracy. Part of it was finding things for people to do, and not always meaningful things. By keeping them working, but not allowing them to see the overall picture, you maintained power. And that power could be unleashed as needed.
Wood had been assembled in the square before the broad and tall Temple of the Dragon, creating a pyre. Logs had been stacked in a cube that rose eighteen feet high. White silk banners had been tied to the crosspieces. Simple prayers for Pyrust had been drawn on each one. And there, visible beneath the platform, were thousands of other written prayers that had been folded up and tossed amid all the kindling. The prayers would burn along with Pyrust, and Wentoki would read them before beseeching Grija to admit Pyrust to Heaven.
Cyron had been content to allow Pelut to handle the production of those prayers. The silken ones asked the gods to be fair and just in their judgment of Pyrust. His clerks had used some of the more archaic symbols to express this message because it was appropriate to the gravity of the ceremony. He doubted Cyron could read but half of them, yet had the Prince had them translated, he would have seen nothing duplicitous in the messages.
The folded prayers-which had been produced by a cadre of young ministers-were slightly different. They implored Wentoki to forget Desei atrocities, while describing them in great detail. After reading countless messages about the evil Pyrust had done, the gods would have no choice but to interpret “justice” in his case as sending him into the most hideous of the Nine Hells.
The procession spread into the square, and Pelut clenched fists hidden in voluminous sleeves. First came the cart bearing the body. It wore an empty saddle that had been draped with white. The body, which had been wrapped in white silk, lay buried beneath a blanket of flowers and paper strips from the street. As it drew up, four strong priests of the Dragon moved in to convey the body to the platform atop the pyre.
Behind that wagon came a simple carriage carrying two women. The Empress wore white, including a porcelain mask.
Pyrust’s widow rode beside her, likewise in white. She did not hide behind a mask, but her face had been made up in white and her hair bleached. Save for the dancing of a wisp of hair and the red-rimmed icy blue eyes, she might have been a marble statue. Her robes hid the signs of her pregnancy, but there was not a person present who did not know her womb nurtured the dead man’s child.
Jasai’s presence galled Pelut. Was there anyone in the city who did not know that Jasai had loathed her husband and was escaping his realm when she arrived in Moriande? Pelut gladly spread rumors that the child she carried was not Pyrust’s, but that of Keles Anturasi. While Jasai’s attendance at the funeral-and her apparent distress at her husband’s death-thrilled the romantics in the city, it would be her undoing.
Pelut would see to it.
After that came another carriage, with Prince Cyron and Virine Count Derael. The latter looked little better than the corpse, and Cyron was not much healthier. Their hats tapered to abrupt points and, had there been a following breeze, were wide enough to propel the wagon.
The men’s presence was meant to inspire the people. In Pelut it inspired hatred. How could the people take heart in these men? Two cripples were Moriande’s defense? Already, people were grumbling that Nelesquin had killed one cripple, so throwing two more at him would mean nothing.
Pelut encouraged that effort, and was pleased at how little he had to spend manufacturing fear.
Once the four priests had placed Pyrust high on the pyre, they carried Count Derael to the broad landing halfway up the steps to the temple. Cyron slowly mounted the steps as the troops who had marched behind the procession filled the square. The Desei troops had painted their shields white and had added the clipped feathers back to the hawk on their crests. Virine and Naleni troops had white silk strips dangling from their helmets. The company of misfit xidantzu had relaced half their armor with white cords.
Standing a step below the Empress, Prince Cyron raised his arms-emphasizing his deformity. Pelut did not doubt the Prince had planned the gesture to make some other sort of point, but it was moot. The lot of them looked like the ghosts they would be soon.
“People of Moriande, Nalenyr, Deseirion, Helosunde, and Erumvirine-people of the True Empire-today we release the spirit and soul of Prince Pyrust of Deseirion. Prince Pyrust’s greatest wish was the re-creation of the Empire sundered so long ago. The Jaeshi Dynasty came closer than any other to accomplishing this task. Just over a month ago he arrived here, ready and able to add Nalenyr to his realm. I would have been slain by his hand. His vision of the future would have prevailed.”
Cyron half turned toward the Empress. “The Empress revealed her presence to the both of us-I had no more knowledge of her identity than he did-and drafted us both into her service. We both gladly agreed. Pyrust’s dream had come true, and he accepted the charge to be her warlord. His goal was to preserve the Empire and this he fought to do against an evil so ancient and potent, even Death could not contain it.”
Cyron faced the pyre again and lowered his arms. “There is no one within the sound of my voice who did not, in some way, fear Prince Pyrust. I did. When he came to kill me, I saw the fire in his eyes, the steel in his spine, the strength of his dream. He came to unite Deseirion, Helosunde, and Nalenyr, not only to reestablish the Empire, but to face a greater threat. He never intended to be defeated by it, or to surrender to it, but to destroy it. That his effort did not bring success i
s not a failing on his part but a mark of the cunning of our enemy. Prince Pyrust killed many of them. He bought us time that will guarantee our victory.”
Pelut dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from falling asleep. Of course Cyron had to deify Pyrust. That would appease the cowardly Desei troops who let their prince die. It might even convince them to die for Nalenyr-Cyron all but ceded it to Pyrust in his eulogy. And the rest of the people learned that while Pyrust had been bad, Nelesquin was worse. The message was clear: all the energy you’d have put into resisting Pyrust must be redoubled to resist Nelesquin.
But the people had done nothing to resist Pyrust. The Lords of the West had allied themselves with him against their own ruler. Cyron should have ceded the westrons to Nelesquin outright, since they’d cause nothing but trouble. And, ultimately, Cyron was telling everyone that things would be fine since he was in charge of things-he and a whore, plus the man who lost Tsatol Deraelkun. He might be speaking from Wentoki’s Temple, but those words wouldn’t inspire courage.
Cyron finished speaking and accepted a torch from the hand of Wentoki’s high priest. He descended the steps slowly-thwarting Pelut’s desire that he trip-and respectfully approached the pyre. He, at least, spared the crowd the maudlin display of looking upward and uttering unheard words that thousands of wags would be happy to invent.
In fact…
Pelut turned to a notoriously gossipy minister standing next to him. “What do you think it was that Prince Cyron just said to Prince Pyrust?”
The light of crackling flames illuminated the surprise on the man’s face. “I do not believe, Grand Minister, I heard him say anything.”
“No, of course you didn’t. He spoke too softly.” Pelut glanced at the pyre and the thick, white smoke rising from all the burning prayers. “But just before he lit the pyre, he looked up and said something. I couldn’t hear, but his expression, it wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Appropriate.” Pelut shook his head. “You must have seen that flash of jealousy. Maybe it was fear. What did you think it was?”
The man shuddered. “I don’t think I could say.”
“No, of course not, best for the morale of the people we forget it.” Pelut nodded conspiratorially. “It would not do for the people to know Cyron thinks all is lost.”
“No, Grand Minister, it would not.”
“Good. Be certain to squelch that rumor whenever you hear it.”
“Of course, Grand Minister.”
Pelut turned away, fighting to appear impassive. Whatever gains Cyron had made in the temple square would be eroded in the public houses. The mere act of correcting an impression would give it life. By the end of the day, that minister and any he talked to would remember seeing Cyron lift his face and say something to his vanquished foe. That would undercut the nobility of his sentiments and wither his support.
Never once did it occur to Pelut Vniel that weakening Cyron might hasten the fall of Moriande. The Grand Minister had already assumed Moriande would fall. The white city would be bathed in blood. But as long as it was Cyron’s blood and not his, both he and the ministries would survive.
And, he was certain, that was something of which both the gods and Emperor Nelesquin would approve.
TheNewWorld
Chapter Twenty-nine
14th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)
Nessagafel understood very little about his children. He forced Jorim to maintain full clarity of mind during torture. Every ant bite, every twist of the thorned ivy, each rake of a talon, remained stark in Jorim’s mind. He could catalog them and sort them, rank them and order them.
Nessagafel intended the torture to be unendurable. Clarity of mind provided a means for putting the tortures in context. The context was simple: the agony would endure until Jorim released Nessagafel.
Every twinge underscored this point. As they built and thrummed through him like bass notes, they reached and passed the point at which Jorim would have acquiesced to Nessagafel’s demands.
Jorim’s clarity of mind made one thing apparent: he had absolutely no clue how to release Nessagafel. Moreover, if the first god had been restrained with something that took Jorim’s divine nature to unlock, it stood to reason that whatever this last restraint was had nothing to do with Wentoki or Jorim. Another of the gods must have secretly restrained Nessagafel, trusting neither Grija nor Wentoki to keep him in check.
It had to be Tsiwen. Only the goddess of Wisdom would have such foresight. She was probably also wise enough to suspect something very strange was happening with Nessagafel. She would stay well away from him. Nessagafel would remain trapped and the world safe.
Clarity of mind allowed Jorim one other realization. No matter his physical pain, what truly tortured him was Grija’s simpering moans. When the blood cleared from Jorim’s eyes, the god of Death became visible. He lay on the ground like some discarded scrap of cloth. Even the ants marched around him, though they greedily devoured the dead vulture that had tried to nibble on Grija.
Eternal pain is one thing, but being trapped here with him is too much. Jorim would have told him to leave but the vine wrapped around his head and the thorns piercing his tongue severely limited his conversational abilities. He did manage a grunt, however.
The grey scrap rolled over, looking much like a doll that had been crushed beneath cart wheels. “It is your fault, Wentoki. If you would release him, he would free us. Can you not see how I am tortured?”
Jorim, who at that moment was having difficulty discouraging a vulture from plucking out an eyeball, wanted to laugh. Yet all he managed was a snort. He had never, in all his life, known anyone so pitiful-save, perhaps, his brother’s ex-fiancee.
Majiata actually had a lot in common with Grija. They both were self-centered schemers who accepted no blame and took no responsibility for their actions or the consequences thereof. Had he a choice, he’d have preferred to be trapped forever in Wangaxan with Grija only because her presence would mean she was a goddess-though he couldn’t imagine what her aspect would be.
He snorted another half laugh, then thought for a moment. Wangaxan was the Ninth Hell. It was the one meant for gods. But he was no longer a god. He was no longer Wentoki. He was just Jorim Anturasi-a cartographer, maybe a warrior, maybe a magician. Though a god couldn’t escape Wangaxan, a mortal couldn’t possibly be trapped there.
The paradox vibrated, engulfing him. Pressure built. His ears popped. He felt himself being squeezed, then the sphere imploded, crushing him. Stars exploded before his eyes. He was falling, then he hit the ground, bounced, and landed on his left arm.
He opened his eyes. He lay on a cracked and dry plain the color of amethyst. The moment he described his surroundings that way, a thousand amethyst crystals poked up through the earth. He moved carefully off them and they receded.
The sky was the color of sulfur. The pungent scent followed quickly so he changed his mind, likening the color to that of a zaomin flower. Oval petals began to drift down like snowflakes. The temperature began to drop as well, and wind whipped petals into drifts.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Jorim walked. The sky changed color-this time to a blood-red hue, which began to fall. It washed away the yellow snow and turned the purple earth into stinking mud, but only for a circle nine feet in diameter, centered on Jorim.
He wiped away the blood. “I am in Tolwreen, the Eighth Hell, the one designed for magicians.”
The place shifted constantly. New colors and sounds, new scents and tastes, gravity becoming heavier or lighter. It was designed to challenge magicians to imagine. Whatever they imagined became real and presented more challenges. The more clever you were, the more frustrating your torment. Imagine escape and you create a prison. Magicians would become trapp
ed in a maze of their own invention.
You had a hand in this, Tsiwen, but you must have left a way out. Tsiwen’s wisdom would dictate that no torture should be eternal. If one could demonstrate a lesson had been learned, a reward would follow. Whatever misdeed had doomed a magician, regret, atonement, and change would certainly be sufficient for release.
Of course, one might have countless lessons to learn.
The blood rain abruptly ended, but from the last drops that hit, thirty-six ministry clerks sprang up, each with sheaves of rice paper. They peppered him with innumerable questions, never waiting for an answer. They pressed in on him, their voices rising, the questions becoming more and more absurd.
Jorim laughed. As daunting as they were, they were nothing compared to his grandfather. No, wait, don’t think…
Too late!
The clerks all flowed together into a colossal version of Qiro Anturasi. The giant stamped his foot, but Jorim dodged. The earth cracked and Jorim fell. He rolled, just avoiding another stomp. More earth cracked and Jorim latched on to the sound. He linked it with breaking ice.
Qiro stomped again and his foot went through. The giant plunged into an icy sea. The resulting wave pitched Jorim ninety feet. As he flew through the air he tried to think about growing feathers so he could flap his way to a soft landing.
When he did hit, it was on a bed of feathers, but they were all made of obsidian. They crackled and sliced, opening his flesh. He rolled off the bed and tried to blank his mind. He tried to think of nothing but pleasant thoughts. Still, the stinging cuts reminded him of the copper ants.
“No, anything but!”
His mind would have summoned the ants, but a gangling figure clawed its way over the edge of a nearby rise. The Viruk started to run, but he’d developed a limp. A cast-iron mask covered his face, blinding him. His ears rose through the metal and he swung his head side to side, listening for pursuit.
A half dozen Fenn came boiling after him. They snapped and hissed, totally feral. They’d shifted into a shape perfect for killing Viruk. Long claws would slice flesh. Their teeth-longer than he’d ever seen on Shimik-would punch through bony armor. Their shape even changed with the terrain, their limbs growing longer to speed them.
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