Authors: Michael A. Stackpole
The ancient god stroked the wolf’s fur. It shimmered as his hand passed, then slowly evaporated. With each caress, more and more of Grija disappeared.
Worse yet, Jorim found it more difficult to recall Grija. Fresh memories dimmed. Old memories faded. Jorim found himself wondering how the wolf had gotten into Nessagafel’s hands and by the time he realized he didn’t know, the wolf had vanished and Jorim was uncertain what he’d been wondering about in the first place.
The ancient god turned to Jorim. “It was easy with him because I knew him so well. With you it will be more difficult, Wentoki, but you will be forgotten soon enough.”
Jorim stood, drawing back. “I won’t go easily.”
“Fight all you want, it won’t matter.”
Jorim’s flesh tingled hotly before he’d even begun to grasp the
mai
. Bits and pieces of his memory began to dissolve. Things he needed went missing. Words lay on the tip of his tongue. He saw people staring in horror, but couldn’t remember their names. He raised his hands, trembling. He wanted to ask for help, but who and how eluded him.
“You could have joined me, Wentoki, but all is lost now. As you unravel, I learn it all. I know everything.”
Jorim staggered and fell, suddenly having forgotten how to stand. He struggled to rise. “There’s one thing you don’t know.”
“No? Intrigue me, and perhaps I shall let you linger.”
“I didn’t make the Fennych to kill the Viruk.”
Nessagafel’s eyes narrowed. “Then why . . . ?”
“I made them to kill
you
.”
Shimik squeezed into the circle, having shifted his shape to get under the wall. He coiled like a snake and, growling, launched himself. Nessagafel spun, his right arm coming up. He deflected the Fenn.
Shimik’s serpentine body coiled around his arm and tensed. The limb snapped loudly. The Fenn’s thick fur blunted the Viruk’s slashing claws, while Shimik’s claws dug in at the shoulder, shredding bony flesh. The Fenn lunged again, his neck growing longer. His serrated teeth sank into Nessagafel’s throat. He tore most of it free with a jerk, then burrowed back in. He clung tightly even as Nessagafel went down.
He didn’t stop gnawing until the ancient god’s head rolled free.
Chapter 59
C
yron rolled to his feet, staring at the severed head. “Is he really dead?”
Tsiwen, having regained her color, nodded. “As dead as it is possible for him to be.”
Pyrust stepped forward as Shimik slid from the body and wriggled to Jorim’s side. “But there is no god of Death. I know this. There never has been.”
Tsiwen opened her hands. “Death, just like life, appears to operate independently of a patron god.”
The Viruk nodded. “Death existed before Nessagafel. A god of Death, were one to exist, would be the harvester of souls, arbitrating who is allowed to return to the world.”
Cyron frowned. “Then without such a god, Nessagafel could return.”
“As long as there are those who worship him, he could return. Only a god of Death could prevent it.”
Nirati crouched beside the body. “You needn’t worry about his returning. I won’t allow it.”
Cyron shook his head. “You can’t just appoint yourself a god.”
“I didn’t have to. Nelesquin created the Durrani and they worshipped me. Even now, if I listen, those fighting in Moriande offer prayers so they will not disgrace themselves.” She stood. “I shall be the goddess of Death. Nirati the fox. And I shall keep Nessagafel in a grave until the last of his followers comes to me.”
Tsiwen turned to her. “This is not a pleasant choice you are making.”
“You don’t understand, sister.” Nirati smiled easily. “All my life I sought my talent and never found it. Yet the one thing I did well was die. Death is my talent, and rebirth is the gift I can give to those who deserve it.”
Pyrust nodded. “I trust, in time, you’ll find I deserve it.”
“I find you already do. Rebirth, and an even greater reward.” Nirati waved a hand and Pyrust vanished.
Cyron stared at her. “You have taken to your powers quickly, Nirati. A talent indeed.”
Nirati bowed her head, then gestured again and Nessagafel’s corpse disappeared. “If you will excuse me, there are a few things to which I must attend. It would help me, brother and sister, if you could do something about the war.”
Nirati faded and Cyron stared after her. His eyes narrowed. “She said ‘brother and sister,’ but looked at me, not Jorim.”
Tsiwen linked her arm through his. “He is still her brother, and so are you, now.”
“What?”
“How is it that you came to be here, Cyron? Only a god surrendering a mortal sheath can appear here upon death.”
“I am no god.”
“People worship you. They attribute miracles to you.” Tsiwen led him toward Jorim. “You saw the offerings they left in your name, incense burned, relics displayed in those shrines. To those people, you
are
a god.”
“But what am I the god of?”
Her laughter came softly to his ears. “You are the god of your talent. You are the god we need. Nessagafel created his children to amuse him, but as it is on earth, so it is in the Heavens. We became a bureaucracy beneath him. You reformed the bureaucracy. You are Cyron, Prince of gods. You unite us and rule over us, bringing order to Chaos and paradise to the world.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“That’s the joy of being a god.
You
don’t have to believe. Others already do. Just listen.”
Cyron paused for a moment, and the voices did come to him. Prayers of thanks, panicked prayers asking for help, desperate prayers, and grieving prayers. Hundreds of thousands of voices, and not just human, but Viruk and Soth and creatures that Cyron never even knew existed.
And one desperate voice, coming from a few feet away.
Nauana knelt there, cradling Jorim’s head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, wiping away her own tears. Shimik sat beside her, holding Jorim’s hand. The bleeding had been stopped and the gashes healed. Jorim breathed steadily, but stared up blankly.
Cyron crouched and took his other hand. He patted it. “Jorim. Jorim Anturasi. Wake up.”
Tsiwen squeezed Cyron’s shoulder. “He doesn’t hear you.”
“I don’t understand.”
A tear rolled down Tsiwen’s cheek. “Nessagafel started to unmake him, but Jorim fought. He gave up little pieces of himself to protect the core. He’s in there, somewhere. Only he doesn’t have the words to communicate. He’s a child again, an infant.”
Nauana wiped her eyes. “But he can learn?”
Tsiwen nodded. “Yes, he can learn.”
Shimik grinned with a mouthful of golden teeth. “Jrima, Shimik learna, learna big.”
The dark-haired woman again stroked Jorim’s brow. “I shall take Tetcomchoa back to Nemehyan. I shall teach him. We all will. We will give him back his mind.”
Anaeda Gryst glanced over at Cyron. “I will take them back on the
Stormwolf
, if I have your permission, Highness.”
“It is no longer mine to give, but I think it is an excellent idea.” Cyron nodded. “Please take Nirati’s army with you and leave them on Anturasixan.”
“Anturasixan?” The ship’s captain eyed him suspiciously.
“A large continent. I doubt you’ll miss it.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Tsiwen beckoned Talrisaal to her. “You would go with Wentoki to help them care for him, no?”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“And I would grant you leave to do that, if you would do something else for me first.”
The Viruk bowed. “Whatever you command, Mistress.”
She gestured. A hole opened in the blackness. A simple garden appeared, with flowers in bloom and brightly colored birds singing in the trees. Cyron recognized things, then realized memory was an artifact of his mortality. His
knowing
, on the other hand, came from his new office.
Talrisaal staggered. “The garden. That was my home on Virukadeen.”
“So it is again. A gift from Wentoki’s mortal brother.”
“A
man
did that?”
“Indeed. You might be cautious about whom you enslave in the future.”
The Viruk nodded. “Why do you show me this, Mistress?”
“This is a man’s gift to the Viruk. I show you the garden so you will go there. I wish you to be my gift to the Viruk, to welcome your people back to their home.”
Talrisaal smiled. “Those flowers, the blue ones, they made us fertile. There were no more when Virukadeen died.”
“Then I suggest, Talrisaal, you spend your time well and recover all you need to know about child rearing, for that shall no longer be a lost art among the Viruk.”
“Forever shall I praise your name, Tsiwen, and pray often for your wisdom.” Talrisaal stepped through the window. Before it closed, he bent to sniff the blue flowers and smiled.
Tsiwen smiled. “Do you approve, brother?”
“You’re wise enough to know I do.” Cyron grinned. “But now, the war. Nirati wishes it stopped. Is there a way we can do this easily?”
“Easily, no.” She took his hand in hers. “Spectacularly, oh, yes.”
Chapter 60
T
hough Kaerinus had sealed my wounds and healed the broken bones, I was in no shape to fight. My arms still ached—full healing would take time. While Ciras had killed all the
kwajiin
, he’d not escaped unscathed. The chances of our getting to North Moriande alive were slender at best.
Neither I nor my companions were sanguine about our chances of survival, but we’d not voiced our doubts. I staggered to my feet and Ciras gathered my swords. I glanced at Nelesquin and made no effort to hear what Jekusmirwyn was whispering in his ear. “Will he remain dead this time?”
Kaerinus nodded. “This time there is no escape. Back then he had me separate his soul and hide it in a vessel. With it removed from his body, he couldn’t be fully dragged into the Hells. I’d put it in a ruby. Others transferred it from item to item until one of the
vanyesh
, in honor of Nelesquin, bound it to his gilded skull.”
The magician pointed at Qiro Anturasi, who lay slumped, drooling, against the wall. “Qiro visited Tolwreen and was given the skull to bring back here. He labored under its influence and created the place where Nelesquin could be brought back to life. Neither he nor Nelesquin knew where the soul resided, however. I did not know until recently—Qiro’s own magic masked the work on the skull. I still would not have known, save that I saw it in Qiro’s trophy room.”
Ciras frowned. “Why didn’t you destroy it then?”
“It would have killed me to do so—such was the magic I’d used in the first transfer.” Kaerinus opened his hands. “I had once worked for Nelesquin, and willingly. I began to doubt him after I worked the spell and he began to murder those who took custody of his spirit after me. Then I returned to the Nine and saw what had been unleashed, but by then I could do nothing until I located the person who could kill him.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Who was that?”
“The boy, Dunos.” Kaerinus smiled.
The Gloon’s words came back to me.
This mission can only be accomplished by someone who should be dead
.
“You recognized how special a child he is, Virisken. He destroyed the skull. That broke the link between Qiro and Nelesquin.”
Another voice, a familiar one, spoke. “It also broke the link between Nelesquin and a fallen god, Nessagafel.”
My jaw dropped open as the man materialized before us. “Prince Cyron?”
“In part, yes.” He clapped his hands once to emphasize how he had changed. “Nelesquin somehow fell under Nessagafel’s sway. His works in the mortal realm aided Nessagafel’s campaign to upset Heaven and start creation all over again.”
“How do you know . . . ?” That question seemed ridiculous. “Your arm?”
Cyron smiled. “There have been many changes, my friends.” He gestured and Nelesquin’s body rose in the air. “Do you mind if I borrow this?”
“If it pleases you.”
“For the moment it does.” He plucked the head from Jekusmirwyn’s bloody hands. “Thank you.”
I, like the others, bowed.
By the time I straightened up, he had left the tower and grown to the size of a giant. He soon dwarfed the largest of Nelesquin’s creatures and kept growing. Until we moved toward the portal in the north wall, all we could see was his kneecap and the black robe festooned with stars that covered him.
Cyron’s voice boomed. “Behold Nelesquin, the man who would have been Emperor.”
The corpse rested in the palm of his hand, with an arm and both legs dangling from between his fingers. We could not help but stare as the head floated above the body. Nelesquin looked like a broken toy, void of all power and pride, but suited to pity.
“He strove to upset the balance on earth, and thus sought to overthrow the reign of the gods. For any man to do thus is a crime against the Heavens, the Hells, and the mortal realm. His efforts have not pleased us. Those who supported him were deceived. Unto them no blame or guilt attains. All should realize that their own sins are known to Nirati the fox, and when they are taken, she will mete out justice in ways wonderful and terrible.
“Those who opposed Nelesquin are heroes. They have pleased us and their rewards will be in keeping with their efforts.”
Cyron, whose robe contained the circle of constellations on the breast, reached up into the sky, plunging his hand into a mass of stars between Quun and Chado. Cyron’s fingers stirred them. They blurred, then slowly resolved themselves into a new constellation—a crown. A different-color star burned on each of nine spikes to the crown, but at the brow, other stars formed an eye.
A wave of nausea twisted my guts. I looked up again. The stars on Cyron’s breast matched the Heavens. And though I thought I remembered having seen him stir the stars, even more strongly I had the impression that the stars had
always
been that way. In fact, the legend of the stirring of the stars was just that—forever connected with the god of the New Year’s Festival.
A woman in a robe with a bat crest caressed my brow and my confusion ebbed away. “There is value in many legends—so much so that the truth beneath them is often unimportant.”