The New World

Chapter Fifty-three

4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

River Dragon Inn, South Moriande

Imperial Nalenyr

Ciras nodded and shuttered the lamp, plunging the Inn’s cellar into darkness. He kept his voice to a whisper. “When I first arrived, I checked the ground floor. I saw nothing. A stone had blasted through a corner, but the street looked empty, too.”

“That’s all good, but we may have been betrayed. Ranai and some of the others tried to come with me. They knew where I’d be.”

“How is that possible?”

“An educated guess. A clerk somewhere made a note, and once into the bureaucracy…” Moraven snorted. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Master.” Ciras hesitated. “Master, you don’t think I’ve betrayed you, do you?”

“Because of Jogot Yirxan?” A hand found his upper arm and squeezed. “No. In fact, I hoped you would be here-at least at my side in the battle against Nelesquin.”

“Is that why you sent the boy to watch me?”

“Sometimes there are things we learn best when others watch and we teach-even if we don’t know we’re teaching. Dunos is a brave boy, and he would learn much from you. And you would learn from him, as I learned, teaching you.”

“You learned from me?”

“I did. You maintain the idealism of youth. Older heads would say that such idealism is impractical and must give way to pragmatism and compromise. But compromise that strips virtue and rewards vice is evil. I learned that from you.”

Ciras nodded, unseen. “You sent the boy to remind me who I was.”

“Who you are, Ciras.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Moraven squeezed his arm again. “I think it is time we show Nelesquin who we are.”

They crept up the stairs to the Inn’s ground floor. Tables and stools had been scattered haphazardly. They picked their way through the disarray and waited at the eastern door. The street outside remained dark and quiet, save for the occasional rattle of an arrow against cobblestones.

Ciras searched the opposite skyline for signs of the enemy. He saw nothing. Moraven shook his head, so they slipped through the doorway and padded quietly along the wooden sidewalk. At the corner, they darted across the street, heading southwest toward Quunkun.

The trap closed about them on the second block. Men slipped from the shadows bearing long tiger-spears. With twin barbed heads on either end of a curved shaft and wooden haft, they more closely resembled pitchforks than weapons. They’d been chosen more to mock Moraven than for their efficacy. Kwajiin warriors commanded each squad, and Virine archers appeared on rooftops. They nocked thickheaded, blunted arrows that would batter and stun.

Ciras and Moraven immediately drew their swords and stood back to back-two men and three swords facing a horde of misshapen creatures that would have sent the demons of the Fifth Hell running. Their kwajiin leaders rested hands on sword hilts, obviously eager to test themselves.

“You bear two swords, Master, so I expect you will kill twice as many as I do.”

“But I am older than you. Once you’ve dispatched your third, feel free to help me with mine.”

A tall, slender man in a dark cloak appeared and walked through the horde of tiger hunters. He clapped his hands, then paused and bowed respectfully.

“Master Soshir, welcome to imperial Moriande.”

The swordsman straightened from the first Wolf form. “You are most kind, Kaerinus. I remember your healing touch at last year’s festival. I have yet to decide if I should thank you or not.”

“Thank a vanyesh. I think not. We have unfinished business.”

“We can finish it here and now.”

“Tempting, but His Imperial Majesty Nelesquin the Ninth awaits.”

“The Ninth?” Moraven returned both of his swords to their scabbards. “There were not eight emperors of that name before him, nor have their been any since the time of his death. How comes he by that designation?”

“This you will have to ask of him.” Kaerinus spread his arms. “He knows you came here to kill him, and has sent this escort to make sure you get the chance. But, first, he wishes you to be his guests at a very special event. You’ll be able to see it clearly from Quunkun, I assure you.”

“And what would that be?”

The vanyesh smiled. “The destruction of the rest of Moriande.”

“Put your sword away, Ciras. We have an audience with the Prince.”

Kaerinus led the procession to the Bear Tower. An imposing structure, it had been built due north of Kelewan as a miniature copy of the Imperial capitol. Quunkun functioned as the Virine embassy and housed the Virine Prince on state visits.

The tiger hunters maintained a respectful distance, save one or two who growled and came closer to jab with their spears. Moraven ignored them, but Ciras batted a spear aside with his metal arm. The clang surprised the wildmen, and attracted the attention of their masters. They put a stop to further displays of bravery, which made the trip quicker.

Kaerinus conducted them up the broad sweep of stairs to the Crown Chamber, which featured a scaled-down version of the Virine throne. A wretched-looking man sat at the base of it, bound to it by a slender gold collar and chain. A celestial disk backed the throne, recalling the days of the Empire. A half dozen kwajiin flanked it left and right.

Nelesquin, thickly built and bearded, sat on the throne. He wore a gold robe and a simple crown. His expression brightened for just a heartbeat, then his eyes narrowed and he straightened up in the chair. He flashed a smile.

He was big enough that, even seated, he would have been quite impressive, save for what had been done to the wall behind the throne. The Virine penchant for murals had been given full vent in the chamber, displaying heroic scenes from Virine history. The chamber’s rear wall, however, had been completely whitewashed. Over that, a fairly simple map of Moriande had been drawn and a tall, slender man with white hair stood by, apparently intent on continuing his work.

Nelesquin rose to greet them. “My dear brother. So kind of you to visit. You’ve brought a friend.”

Moraven bowed, though neither deep nor long. “Ciras Dejote, of Tirat. Once my apprentice, and now jaecaiserr.”

“If you can’t kill me, he will?”

Ciras lifted his chin. “I came merely to witness my master’s victory.” He carefully slid his scabbarded sword from his robe’s sash and set it on the ground.

“I regret then, Master Dejote, to author your disappointment.” Nelesquin waved a hand toward the tower’s northern wall. “Behold my masterwork.”

Ciras’ flesh tingled as magic played. Where no window had existed before, the northern wall drew back. Two small pillars, splitting the vista into three parts, provided an unobstructed view of Moriande centered on the Dragon Bridge, yet extended wide enough to display the entire length of the river.

Nelesquin smiled. “The conquest of North Moriande begins now.” He turned and nodded to the white-haired man. “Master Anturasi, please.”

The man bowed, then his icy blue eyes rolled up in his head and he picked up a brush.

Keles sat bolt upright in bed. He threw off his nightclothes. The cold air shocked him. His flesh felt as if it were on fire. He understood immediately what that meant.

Ever since the river had started to narrow, he’d felt magic pulsing through the land. That pulse had become a pounding, like a spike being driven into his skull. It amazed him that tables and chairs were not bouncing. He shivered, less now from the cool air puckering his flesh, than from identifying the magic’s source.

Qiro.

He lay back down, closed his eyes, and forced his consciousness within. He sought the pulses and visualized them as waves crashing on the shore of the moat at Tsatol Pelyn. He pushed inside the waves, joined them, and they propelled him into a new world.

He found himself a giant standing astride Shirikun. The moons combed his hair. Below him people scurried about, tiny points of light, twinkling like stars.

Contempt filled his grandfather’s voice. “You have finally decided to defy me openly.”

Keles looked up. Qiro likewise rose as a giant above Moriande. His blue eyes had become novae that blazed with cold intensity. The old man appeared hale and hearty-years younger than when Keles had last seen him.

He extended a brush toward the river.

“No. Stop.”

The unholy light in Qiro’s eyes flared. “By what stretch of the imagination do you believe you can command me?”

“What you are doing is wrong.”

“Wrong? Wrong? How dare you?” Qiro doubled in size and glared down at him. “I am Qiro Anturasi. I created this world. Nothing exists unless I make it so.”

“That’s not true.” Keles steeled himself for Qiro’s fury. He hated the timorous note in his voice. He felt like a child again, cringing as Qiro berated one of his cousins. He’d always vowed he’d not find himself on the sharp side of his grandfather’s tongue.

And yet here I am.

“Not true? No? Who are you to say so? What are you, Keles?” Qiro’s angry words cut Keles’ flesh. “Are you anything that I did not make you? I taught you all you know, but you have been a poor student.”

“No, I have learned more than you know.”

“Have you?” Qiro’s tone sharpened. “I saved your sister from death. You couldn’t do that for the woman you loved, nor your mother.”

“No, but…”

Qiro’s laughter battered him, knocking him clear of Moriande and into the new northern swamp. “No qualifiers. No explanations. No excuses. You are nothing. This world is mine. I do with it as I wish.”

And though Keles knew it was impossible, Qiro dipped his brush in the Gold River, and began to paint in stone.

If not for the urgency burning in his breast, Dunos would have felt ashamed of himself. Horns blared and drums pounded, calling everyone to their posts. People shouted orders. The thunder of marching feet and the groan of ballistae being cocked echoed throughout the city. Something was happening. Something terrible. He should be there alongside Ranai and Deshiel.

But his master needed him.

Dunos had never known anything more clearly in his entire life. If he didn’t follow Moraven Tolo, all would be lost. He believed that with the pure and innocent conviction unknown to adults-the loss of which too often goes unlamented.

He ran into the Inn of Nine Fishes and plunged into the sewers. He swam to where he found the rope and, taking hold with his good hand, began the long journey beneath the Gold River.