The New World

Chapter Thirty-five

27th 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

Mungdok, The Seventh Hell

Talrisaal and Jorim emerged from the depths of the pool and dried off almost instantly. The landscape shifted, swallowing the pool. A dark, apparently well-trodden, road appeared beneath their feet.

Mungdok itself felt very small, as if it existed no further than they could see in the darkness. With each step along the road, Jorim imagined the shadows gobbling up reality behind them.

The Viruk squatted and sniffed the air. “Something is cooking around the bend.”

“Maybe that’s the nature of this Hell-we’ll be hungry and the meal will always be around the corner.”

“Given the nature of the people sent here, I do not think it is a suitable punishment.”

“Good point.” Jorim led the way down the road and shortly rounded a bend. The landscape opened into a widening valley dotted with thousands of lights. Each light marked a building, and each building was a public house. The structures varied, from dugout hovels roofed with scrap to incredibly ornate places easily mistaken for a prince’s palace.

The Viruk pointed at the first few places. “They have a path, but no door.”

Jorim rubbed a hand over his chin. “Perhaps we’re not welcome there. Maybe we won’t be welcome anywhere.”

Talrisaal laughed. “The only people who have never felt predatory hunger would be unwelcome here. I wish I could say I did not belong, but I have taken advantage of others.”

“By that measure, I definitely belong.” Jorim sighed. He’d used his status as Qiro’s grandson to get cousins to do his work. And, more than once, he’d let his family’s status bedazzle a woman into his bed. On a scale where the most heinous acts were murder and torture, his offenses might barely register, but he certainly was not innocent.

He shivered. “Was anything you did sufficient to keep you here?”

“I hope not.”

“Good.” Jorim smiled. “The faster we get through, the more I’ll like it.”

“Haste will make it more difficult for Nessagafel to find you.”

Jorim looked around quickly. It did strike him as odd that Nessagafel hadn’t come after him. The irregular flow of time might have meant he wasn’t missed yet. He couldn’t count on being that lucky.

“Perhaps he’ll come hunting and get trapped along the way. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

The Viruk bobbed his head in agreement. They hurried on through the town. A couple of the taverns had doors, but while they looked inviting, the travelers continued past. As they progressed toward a luminous silver sea, the establishments became bigger and more spectacular. They found themselves irresistibly drawn to the largest, since it alone allowed access to the sea.

Jorim paused, reading the sign over the open door. “‘The Broken Crown.’ It conjures images. I’m not sure I like them.”

“In Viruka it is ‘Nesdorei.’” The magician’s dark eyes glittered. “It means the place where the mighty have fallen, and not in a good way. It is the spot where the arrogant have been brought low.”

“I’m going to have to study Viruka. Lots of nuance there.”

“Viruka’s time is long past. The world no longer welcomes nuance.”

“A pity, but you’re right.” Jorim stepped back. “After you.”

The palatial Broken Crown was immense in every respect. Whole trees had been stripped of bark and transformed into pillars whose branches supported vaulted ceilings. The golden wood floor appeared seamless, as if a single log had been peeled into a continuous surface. Along the walls, and down the center, massive stone hearths blazed. Rough wooden tables-some set with benches and others with heavy chairs-packed the floor. The vast hall defied any attempt to count tables.

Meat roasted on spits. Servants bearing trays groaning beneath the weight of cups of ale and wine or steaming platters of meat wandered through the endless hall. Occasionally a servant would pause, pass his burden to a patron, then slip into that patron’s place at a table.

“It would appear, Wentoki, that those condemned for using others are made to serve them.”

“That’s part of it, certainly.” Jorim drifted forward, trying to recognize some of the patrons. A couple of the crests seemed familiar. They marked minor tyrants or ministers who had thrived on corruption. Often as not, the patrons wore no crest at all, marking them as anonymous abusers, murderers, and pedophiles whose crimes had gone unnoticed by anyone save the gods and their victims.

“Trying to find an acquaintance probably isn’t the most intelligent strategy.”

“I agree.” Talrisaal’s eyes narrowed. “I would also suggest we do not sit down, do not take a tray, nor partake of food or drink. We can pass through, but if we become involved, we could be trapped.”

“Agreed.”

Jorim’s wanderings brought him close enough to a hearth. The warmth proved inviting, and the scent made his stomach rumble. He began to smile, then he got a look at what the servants were roasting.

A patron stripped off his clothes and bent over. Another thrust an iron skewer through him. The spike completely transfixed him, emerging with a gush of blood at an angle from the man’s neck. Other spikes secured him tightly to the skewer. Two servants carried him to a set of hooks, then bound him up like a suckling pig. Two more people, grimy and glowing with sweat, hefted the man into the hearth. His flesh began to sizzle as he slowly rotated on the spit.

Jorim didn’t know that man, but the one next to him, the man whose flesh was blackened save where cooks had sliced off long strips, looked familiar. “Count Aerynnor?”

The roasted man thrust his hands toward the sound, cracking flesh at elbow and shoulder. “Who’s there?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’m innocent. I didn’t murder any of them. Not my family, not Majiata, not Nirati, none of the others! Help me.”

“Nirati?” Jorim’s stomach knotted. “Nirati Anturasi?”

“Not her, not her. I’m innocent!”

Jorim’s eyes narrowed. He’d accepted that his sister was dead but hearing that news as Wentoki had stripped it of all emotion. It was just a fact-one tempered by her still being “not-dead.” He’d never even wondered about the circumstances of her death. An accident or illness he could have understood. He’d even assumed that much.

But murder?

Aerynnor’s denial trivialized her death. He’d done it, else he’d not have been roasting. The utter lack of remorse in Aerynnor’s voice chilled Jorim’s blood. He was well and truly deserving of his punishment.

The person beside Aerynnor had been carved to the bone. Servants dumped the bones into a pile. The skeleton began to move and collect itself. Several more servants rushed food and drink to it. The skeleton quaffed ale and gobbled down great hunks of meat. Instead of splashing to the floor, the masticated victuals flowed over the bones, sheathing them in muscle and flesh. The transformation revealed the skeleton as female.

Again whole, with lustrous long, dark hair, she picked up the robe the most recent patron had discarded. At her touch it became a brilliant green silk, bearing a gold tiger crest. She cinched it around her waist with a golden sash, then moved through the crowd and joined a table.

“It would appear, Talrisaal, they serve and serve again.”

The Viruk pointed after the woman. “No one seems particularly distressed at either serving or roasting. It is not much of a punishment.”

“True.” Jorim cut through the tables and made his way to the table where the woman had taken a seat. Based on her crest and the style of embroidery, she was some minor Moryth princess. There were stories about a branch of the royal family who indulged in unnatural vices with peasants and later murdered them. The princess sat with others of royal blood, one of whom was well known in Nalenyr.

Prince Araylis?

Prince Cyron’s older brother had a breadth of chest and robustness of features not found in Nalenyr’s current ruler. He bore no sign of the sword cut that had split his skull, though he did sound a bit nasal. He wore a robe with the Naleni crest and an Imperial crown hovered above the dragon.

“If only I had been more patient. I think that is it, really. The Desei were weak and would have grown weaker had I waited. Pyrust could not have held his throne much longer. I could have done it. I could have forced him out of Helosunde and brought that realm fully under my control.”

Jorim frowned. He’d been a child when Araylis died. He’d worked on some of the maps the Prince had carried on his campaign. Curiously, the campaign had only ever been praised as one in which the Prince would free the Helosundians from the shackles of Desei domination. There was no hint of taking Helosunde for Nalenyr.

“No, no, patience would have availed you nothing.” The man who spoke wore a brown robe with a white hawk in flight. “The battle goes to the swift. I made my mistake in waiting. I wanted your dynasty to fall apart in civil strife. I wanted you weakened, but it did not happen. If only I had struck when your grandfather first took the throne. Quick, decisive action would have won me your nation.”

Another woman focused on a reality only she saw. “If only I had not forced peasants to grow blue lilies. Then that child would not have been stung by the bee and died. And his parents would not have started the rebellion. My family would yet rule…”

“No, that’s not right.” Prince Araylis wiped spittle on his sleeve. “If only I had been patient. That would have been the thing. The Desei would have weakened…”

Jorim slowly backed away. Doing so, he picked up other snippets of conversation. Everyone had a complaint. Each one of them had a regret-some trivial, some monumental-which they cited as their undoing.

But Prince Araylis was wrong. Impatience hadn’t killed him. Arrogance had. The same arrogance that told him that he could take Helosunde was what told him he could defeat Prince Pyrust. No matter how long he waited he’d probably never have been able to defeat his Desei rival.

Jorim turned to Talrisaal. “The punishment here is not serving or even being roasted alive. It’s reliving your failures over and over, for all time.”

“Does it fit the crime?”

“I suppose. These people went through life without second-guessing themselves. They believed in their infallibility. They acted based on it.” Jorim shook his head. “Forced to relive mistakes without finding a solution. I can’t imagine.”

One of the servants, bowed by the weight of a sloshing tray of cups, cackled. “If you can’t imagine, you’ll be back here soon enough. As you serve, you see what fools they all are. What a fool you were. And there is no escape.”

Talrisaal pulled Jorim back. “Do not engage him. He would trade places with you, much as they all seek to foist blame on others.”

“What a terrible place.”

The Viruk nodded. “Being roasted and carved must be the most acute punishment, but I would suffer beneath the rest as well.”

“I hope all their victims know pleasures equal to the pains down here.”

“We must move on, Wentoki.”

“True. The door is over there. I’ll meet you.”

The Viruk regarded him curiously. “What are you going to do?”

“Magic will work here, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good, this will only take a minute.”

True to his word, Jorim rejoined the Viruk and they marched to the sea. They waded into it and dove down, heading for the Sixth Hell. It was only as the waters closed over his head that the screams of Junel Aerynnor left Jorim’s ears. The man had asked for help, and Jorim had been glad to oblige. The healing spell had taken immediate effect, returning his flesh to pink and sealing the wounds left by the carving knife.

And it would continue working, forever, so Nirati’s murderer would spend eternity on a spit, screaming out his innocence for any who cared to listen.