The New World

Chapter Twenty-six

6th 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

Helosunde

Ciras Dejote laughed happily. “When Rekarafi found us, he told us you were alive. I scarcely believed he was able to find you, but I never should have doubted.”

“He tracked me from Ixyll to Felarati.” Keles coughed. “Such as it is, I am alive. Barely. My travels have not been kind.”

The swordsman nodded, keeping his true feeling hidden. When they first met, Keles Anturasi had been a quiet man. He had endured the hardships of traveling in the Wastes without complaint. He’d even accepted a bit of sword training from Ciras, despite the slender likelihood of ever needing it. The expedition had toughened Keles up some, but he had still been soft.

No more. Where there had once been hints of fat, bones were easily visible. His hands were not healing quickly. His body bore bruises. Wrinkles radiated from the corners of his bloodshot eyes. The cough, though dry, never really stopped. Where his flesh was not purple, brown, or yellow, it was grey. Strands of white shot through his brown hair.

Even Prince Eiran looks better than he does.

Scoan had wounded the Prince, but not mortally. The blade had to slice through the Prince’s knotted silk sash, his silk robe, and the garment beneath. Only the tip had caught flesh. The wound had been a handbreadth long, but had not run deep. No internal organs had been damaged. The wound had been stitched and, against his protests, Prince Eiran had been forced to travel on a stretcher borne by two of Borosan’s gyanrigot soldiers.

The pink of Eiran’s cheeks compared favorably with the pallor of Keles’ flesh, but both men needed rest. Getting through the mountains was not going to be easy, especially if the Council of Ministers had more hunters in the passes.

Ciras squeezed Keles’ shoulder. “Rest, my friend. We will see you safely to Moriande.”

Keles smiled weakly. “And you, Master Dejote.”

Ciras slipped away, threading through the camp. Tyressa nodded in passing. Keles had always been her charge, but her manner toward him had changed. Ciras would never have thought gentleness was a Keru trait, but Tyressa softened when she dealt with Keles.

I wonder if he knows how lucky he is? Ciras shook his head. How lucky we’ve all been?

The soldiers who had been under Scoan’s command quickly professed undying fealty to Prince Eiran, his sister, and the nation of Helosunde. They immediately offered up all they knew about plans for the fugitive’s capture and suggested routes for escape.

The various factions-Eiran’s rebels, the Voraxani, Jasai’s Desei, and the newly loyal Helosundians-made camp nearby and planned to travel to the Valley of Rubies in the morning. Borosan spent his time compiling all the geographical data he’d collected for Keles in Ixyll. Warriors set watches and an odd sort of normality settled over the camp.

Ciras sought out the Viruk and bowed. “Master Rekarafi, I would ask of you a question.”

The Viruk, who crouched with his back against the trunk of a huge oak, nodded. “You wish to know if I was aware of Voraxan’s location.”

“Yes.”

“I was. I helped them find it.” Rekarafi picked up an acorn and crushed it between thumb and forefinger. “I was with the Empress and her expedition.”

Ciras’ jaw dropped. “You fought with which side?”

“Neither side. This struggle between barbarians and civilized men has defined Men. You endure hardships because to surrender would somehow diminish the nobility of those who fought to protect you. This is nonsense. There was no nobility. Imperial forces and the vanyesh did as much to hurt one another as the Turasynd did; and even they had their squabbles between bands.”

“But the vanyesh were evil.”

“Perhaps, yes, but what does it matter to me? I am Viruk. I have lived since before Virukadeen destroyed itself. I remember a time when the Viruk could bear children. I remember a time when Men were our slaves-cherished, yes, but no more to me than a horse or a barn cat might be to you. Your ideas of good and evil are meaningless.”

Ciras’ eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

Rekarafi waved his comment away. “I would not waste a lie on you.”

“You lie to yourself.” Ciras pointed back toward the encampment. “You would not have gone to watch the battle if you had no feeling for those fighting. You were acquainted with Prince Nelesquin. You knew Virisken Soshir.”

The Viruk nodded. “The one you knew as Moraven Tolo, your master.”

The confirmation of what Vlay Laedhze had said surprised Ciras. “You knew, and you said nothing?”

“If he chose no longer to be known by that name, who was I to chain him to it again?” Rekarafi half lidded his eyes. “Perhaps I have lied to myself. I did care for the outcome. I grieved for the dead. I helped those who survived.”

“Did you know that the Empress had left Voraxan and returned to the Nine?”

“It does not matter, Ciras Dejote. Your path was meant to touch Voraxan. It has.”

“I don’t understand. Can you see the future?”

“I am not a Gloon. I have just lived many of your lifetimes. Just as dogs circle before they lie down in grasses, so the affairs of Men circle. There are currents in time, and roles that must be played.”

Ciras shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe that. In the past, I struck Virisken Soshir down, but I would never dishonor my master that way.”

“But, in the past, Virisken Soshir was not your master.”

“Who was?”

“It does not matter.” Starlight sparkled in the Viruk’s dark eyes. “All that matters is who your master is now.”

You’re upset at being called a Gloon, but then you give me a Gloon’s riddle!

Rekarafi’s parting comment puzzled Ciras. He could come up with a half dozen ways to apply that question and get three times as many answers-none of which made the future any more clear. To complicate matters, travel south was hopelessly uneventful, which left him plenty of time to ponder the permutations.

That changed at dusk on the second day. Ciras had been with the vanguard scouting the road, and had sent back reports of what they had found. Now he took some delight in seeing the Viruk’s green flesh turn as grey as Keles’ as he beheld the phenomenon.

“Here’s a riddle better than yours, Rekarafi.”

The cartographer slipped from the rear of the wagon. “This isn’t supposed to be here.”

“I didn’t think so.”

Keles crouched and looked south. The land had been torn in half. Bits of turf and trees on the far side still fell from jagged edges. No river had softened the banks or carved the rift. A god must have pulled the land apart, splitting it suddenly. There could be no other explanation.

The cartographer looked up. “At least a mile across, and half of that down. No trails. Did you look into it?”

Ciras nodded slowly. “I did not like it.”

“Me, neither. There are spots where the bottom doesn’t exist.” Keles threw off the blanket and rocked forward onto his knees. He stripped off his bandages, then rubbed his palms together. He shifted his shoulders, then placed both his hands flat on the ground.

His eyes closed for a second, then he recoiled, jerking his hands up as if burned.

“What’s the matter?”

Keles looked at his hands. “When I touched the earth, it felt wounded. Slashed open like Prince Eiran’s belly.”

Rekarafi crouched. He extended a single talon and scraped a circle around Keles. “Try it now.”

The cartographer gingerly put one hand down. His fingers lightly stroked the ground. Keles pressed that hand flat, then carefully put the other hand down. Then his eyes closed and his body jerked. It jerked again, but he hunched his shoulders and blood slowly drained from his face.

He knelt there for a minute or more, then his eyes fluttered open. “There is something very wrong here.”

Ciras crouched. “You have a gift for the obvious.”

Keles laughed. “Your voice, my grandfather’s words.”

“What is it?”

Keles scratched the back of his neck, smearing dirt. “I don’t know. When I touch the ground, I can usually get a sense of the surrounding area. Everything is where it is meant to be. Does that make any sense?”

Ciras nodded.

“This is the opposite. If an earthquake had opened this rift, it would feel natural. Or if a river had carved it. Whatever did this wasn’t natural.”

Keles flipped a small stone into the rift. “The really bad thing-the thing that hurts — is the thing at the bottom. I’ve never felt anything like it before. It is wrong, blasphemous. And I can’t tell you what it is because it really isn’t anything. It’s the absence of anything. It’s as if, down there, nothing has ever been.”

Ciras stood again. “I guess we camp here, then look for a way around tomorrow.”

Keles shook his head. “There is no way around. It travels in both directions.”

“From the Dark Sea to the ocean?” The swordsman stared in disbelief. “The continent has been split? Will water fill it?”

“Eventually, if it does not drain out through the bottom.” Keles chuckled. “At least we have trees to build some ships to sail across.”

“That won’t do.” Ciras raked fingers through his hair. “We have to get south. The vanyesh have doubtless already reached Nelesquin. We have to reach the Empress. We’ve got to get to Moriande.”

Keles began wrapping his hands again. “There is nothing I can do, Ciras.”

Rekarafi toed the edge of the rift, then looked at the cartographer. “Yes, there is. Make this elsewhere.”

“What?” Keles frowned.

“You did it in Ixyll.”

“This isn’t Ixyll. We were moved, I moved us back. And this isn’t like Tsatol Pelyn. I just remade a fortress that had fallen to ruin.” He held up his hands. “I’m still healing from that.”

“In one, you reconnected things that had been severed. In the other, you rebuilt something that was broken.” The Viruk pointed at the rift. “This is severed and broken. Fix it.”

“You don’t understand, Rekarafi…”

The Viruk crouched. “I understand you are stopping yourself from succeeding.”

“This rift is a mile across and…and at least six hundred miles long. Do you have any idea of how many tons of stone and earth that is?”

“Don’t tell yourself why you cannot do this, Keles. All you need to do is see how it can be done. Make it connect again.”

Keles massaged his brow, smearing dirt over his forehead. “There is no way… ” He leaned forward, again placing his hands on the roadway. His chest heaved and his breathing slowed. His head came up and he looked across the rift, to the Viruk, then nodded.

“All right, maybe. There’s a chance. Get rid of this circle.”

Ciras scuffed half of it away. “What else do you need?”

Keles screwed his eyes shut. “We need everyone ready to travel quickly. This isn’t going to be an easy path. If Borosan can outfit some of his gyanrigot with ropes or some of the soldiers with axes, that will help. The wagons might not make it.”

Ciras nodded. “I will get things started.”

“Good. This is going to take a while.” Keles smiled bravely. “Oh, one more thing. Remove everyone from the edge.”

The Viruk nodded. “Did you figure out how to heal the land?”

“Not exactly. Not the way you’re thinking. But my mother’s talent is for plants. See those flutterleaf trees? They propagate when suckers grow up off the roots. Roots were snapped when the land came apart, and it is time to connect things again.”

Keles pressed his hands to the ground and Ciras’ skin tingled as the magic flowed.

Flutterleaf trees grew with incredible rapidity. Roots spread, suckers rose and flourished. Older trees fell, ripping great root balls from the earth. Some of the trees slid into the rift. Others toppled in after them, rolling to a stop parallel to the rift. They trapped falling dirt. New suckers grew up on the narrow terraces. Other trees fell and crossed them.

The sun set and the gyanrigot moved in, shaping the trail into the rift. With ax blades for hands, they chopped trees and pruned branches. They carved earth from the canyon walls and packed it down with flat metal feet. They dragged tall trees to bridge the gap above the slowly closing rift. Bobbing blue lights on their chests marked their passage. By the time the black moon had completed half its journey through the sky, they were hard at work on the path up the other side.

By midmorning, trees grew at the rift’s far side. Before noon, the first of the refugees began the trek across. The void had closed, but the trees that had grown above it had been stunted and twisted. A few bore fruit which, while perfect in shape, stank of rotted meat. Dying crows twitched below, their sharp beaks melted away.

Save for a single narrow column, the rift’s edge had eroded. Keles sat hunched on it and the Viruk crouched over him, steadying him. Ciras couldn’t tell if Keles were alive or dead, and Rekarafi might as well have been a statue.

Then, finally, the rear guard started the journey across and Ciras with them. The track they traveled twisted back and forth, torturously and treacherously steep at points. The different shades of the earthen layers and the different scents surprised him. Likewise did the itching of his flesh as he descended.

Before he ascended the other side, Rekarafi caught up with him, bearing a limp Keles. Tyressa covered a look of horror quickly and raced on to prepare a litter for Keles.

The swordsman’s eyes narrowed. “He’s not dead, is he?”

The Viruk shook his head. “Exhausted. Imagine growing a forest. The work of a lifetime in one night.”

Ciras shivered. “It would be like fighting a war forever.”

“This is a conclusion you can test, Master Dejote. When Nelesquin lays siege to Moriande, it will seem as if you’ve been fighting him for all time.”