Chapter Forty-three

7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Wentokikun, Moriande

Nalenyr

Prince Cyron paused in front of the enclosure housing the clouded linsang. With the owl-moon just rising, the slender tan creature with black stripes and spots should have emerged. He caught a quick flash of tan at the hole, then saw two dark eyes peering out at him.

The Prince smiled and slowly raised the basket he held in his left hand. He plucked a small blue egg from it and extended it toward the linsang. The creature’s face appeared at the hole. His nose twitched, then he hid his face again.

Cyron, shaking his head, returned the egg to the basket and set it on the ground. The sanctuary staff would come by later and feed the creature.

The Prince turned to his companion. “Perhaps I should let you try to feed him.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade politely refused with a shake of her head. “Perhaps he is not hungry, Highness.”

“He’s hungry. My gamekeeper believes the linsangs have mated, and Jorim Anturasi’s notes indicated the male would be hunting more. He tucks the eggs into his cheeks and brings them back to the den.” Cyron sighed and glanced at his left arm. “Linsangs have sensitive noses. He smells the rot.”

“I would counsel against your taking this as an omen.”

“And you are doubtlessly right, but the fact of rot cannot be denied. My arm, everything else.”

The Prince’s wound had not healed well. The Lord of Shadows had stabbed all the way through his forearm, as the Prince had directed. Such was his skill that he avoided nerves, tendons, and blood vessels. It had hurt, but the Prince’s physician, Geselkir, had been confident it would not suppurate.

It did, however. The Prince had tried to ignore the pain, and had not summoned his physician to look at it in a timely manner. Then, in the middle of the night, the pain had been such that Cyron, hot with fever, had risen from bed to get water and to summon help. He fainted and fell on the arm, reopening the wound.

Geselkir had done what he could, cleaning the wound and packing it in poultices. The Viruk ambassador had even come in and offered to work magic to help. Others had suggested that the Prince send a message to Kaerinus to get him to effect a healing, but a half dozen messages to the vanyesh survivor had gone unanswered.

Which is an answer in and of itself.

The Lord of Shadows had offered to kill himself for what he had done, but the Prince had refused him. Geselkir worked very hard and was confident he had the infection under control. The Viruk had suggested sewing maggots into the wound to let them devour the dead flesh, but Cyron had refused that idea. I already feel dead inside. How would they know when to stop eating?

The Prince gestured gingerly with his left arm. “I don’t know which hurts more: the wound in my arm or the wound in my heart.”

She nodded solemnly. “Both are grievous, Highness. Do not feel you would burden me if you chose to speak your mind. You know that though your words will reach my ears, they will never reach my tongue.”

“I know.”

He reached down and gently grasped his left wrist. Earlier in the day he’d learned that Prince Eiran had gone missing from the Helosundian border. While neither the messenger, his Lord of Shadows, nor the Grand Minister could tell him if Eiran had been assassinated, there seemed little question. The Helosundian Minister of Foreign Relations—a man Cyron had no liking for at all—had been killed in Moriande. It seemed as if the Helosundians had not yet tired of killing each other.

“Here, in my sanctuary, barely three months ago, I shamed Eiran and challenged him. I thought he would break, but he rose to that challenge. He proved himself a loyal and valuable ally. Had I gotten to know him better, we would have become great friends.”

The courtesan smiled and slipped her hand through his good arm, leading him deeper into the sanctuary. “He stopped Count Turcol from reaching you, Highness.”

Cyron laughed lightly. “It was your foot that stopped Turcol.”

“And his that made certain the man did not rise again.” She gave his arm a slight squeeze. “Eiran was devoted to you. Had he lived, he would have been a strong ally.”

“And it was that possibility that killed him.” Cyron ducked beneath a tree branch laden with green buds. “As he grew stronger, his legitimacy as the Prince of Helosunde likewise increased. This made him a rival for the Council of Ministers. His sister’s marriage to Pyrust means that Eiran’s legitimacy would transfer to her children if he died without heir. It would seem someone killed him to cut her children off and bar Pyrust from any legitimate claim to Helosunde.”

He glanced at her. “My ministers say they hear nothing of Pyrust and his planning, but they’re lying. They dare not say what they’re hearing because they know I’ll have to act. They’re concealing bits of news from me, hoping clarifications will undercut their fears. The problem is that their very worst fear is that I will act.”

The Lady of Jet and Jade looked up at him. “You are certain Pyrust is ready to attack Helosunde again?”

“He already has. I can feel it.” Cyron hesitated, afraid to say anything more. Then the absurdity of it all struck him, and he laughed aloud.

“What amuses my lord?”

Cyron stopped and turned to face her. “Your beauty is ageless, which makes it easy for me to forget you have lived many lifetimes. I know you are jaecailyss. The times we have spent together in communion likely have not extended my lifetime, but have enriched it immeasurably. Your mastery of the art of love is, I am certain, unparalleled.”

“You are quite kind, Highness, but how does this bear on the point you were making?”

“You are also a remarkable judge of human nature. You knew how to read Turcol and acted so you could draw close enough to him to strike. Don’t deny it. I would not presume on your affections enough to assume you would have struck for me, but certainly against him.”

She glanced down. “You underestimate your charms, Highness.”

“And that comment eases some of my pain.” Cyron smiled. “The fact is that Pyrust has always been a wolf. I called him as much when we met here. I offered him grain to hold his forces at bay, but I knew that would be intolerable. He surprised me when he took Jasai to wife. I had expected him to marry a Virine princess, thereby creating a link between nations that would get him whatever he needed—including an ally with little love for Nalenyr.”

“Prince Pyrust is most dangerous, Highness, because he is capable of planning ahead and acting swiftly to seize an opportunity.”

“And I fear moving troops south may have seemed such an opportunity.” Cyron shook his head. “More so if he knows what is happening in Erumvirine.”

She nodded, her voice becoming a soft whisper. “And you have to assume that he does.”

“I have other choices, but each is more stupid than the preceding. If I assume he has remained north of the Black River, I won’t be able to stop him when he moves south. So, I have issued a call to the westron lords for troops, and I’ve gathered all those I can in the east. The latter I have sent south because I can trust them. The westrons, I can’t.”

Cyron sighed and sat on one of the sanctuary’s stone benches. The Lady of Jet and Jade, wearing a white silk gown trimmed in emerald and embroidered with black dragons, looked a vision of loveliness that eased his heart somewhat. She reached up and plucked a blue blossom from a tree branch and tucked it behind an ear. Her silver eyes flashed playfully and his heart leaped.

“Were my brother still alive, he would have a solution to this problem. He’d pull troops back from the passes in the Helos Mountains, luring Pyrust down.”

“What are the chances that Pyrust would accept the challenge and invade Nalenyr?”

“Knowing my brother, none.” Cyron smiled. “My brother would have our troops in the south and would quickly smash the invaders, then move an army north to punish Pyrust. Aralias would have been able to get Count Vroan to lead the army of the south and keep the invaders occupied. That was his strength, inspiring troops. He was a leader.”

“You inspire as well, Highness.”

“Yes, but what I inspire does not seem to bear on this situation.”

“Do you see no solution at all, Highness?”

The Prince leaned forward, wincing as he rested his left forearm on his thigh. “This is the one problem the Empress Cyrsa did not anticipate. She assumed that by splitting the Empire into the principalities she would guarantee no one was powerful enough to reunite it in her absence. Setting aside the effects of the Time of Black Ice, her plan has proven sensible. No one predominates, so no one launches a large-scale war. The masses avoid the hardships and the chances of triggering another Cataclysm are minimized.

“The difficulty right now is this: outsiders who may be strong enough to take principalities have attacked. We’ve no news from Erumvirine, and none from the Five Princes. If the enemy has overwhelmed all of them, taking the northern principalities is not a matter of if but when.

The courtesan slipped her hands into the opposite sleeves of her robe. “Were the Empire intact, there would have been a solid response that could have crushed the invasion.”

“I think so.”

“Then why don’t you make Prince Pyrust an offer of unity? Certainly Nalenyr, Helosunde, and Deseirion united could oppose the invaders.”

“That would be my hope, but it is not something I can agree to in good conscience. The war against the invaders would likely be fought here, in Nalenyr. It would lay waste to my nation.”

“But that is likely to happen anyway, isn’t it?”

“True, but I have to hope we can hold them in the mountains. Pyrust and his troops would be of great value there, or even pushing into Erumvirine. I do not doubt his skills as a general—I respect them enough to fear them.” He sighed with exhaustion. “To put him on my southern border, however, requires him to pass through Nalenyr. It is inviting the wolf into your house to help rid it of vermin. The wolf may not choose to leave again. If he were to drive into Erumvirine and liberate it, he would not put the Telanyn family back on the throne. Nalenyr and Helosunde would be trapped. Helosunde would fall because of his wife. Nalenyr would be next, and the Five Princes after that.”

She smiled bravely. “Perhaps that is just your take on things. He may see things differently.”

“No, he’s read things the same way. Likely he read them before I did. He’s coming, and I have to act to save my nation or save my people. It’s a difficult choice, because I cannot save both.”

“Is there no other possible solution?”

He smiled indulgently. “The Stormwolf could return from the other side of the world with a fleet bristling with warriors.”

“Is that so impossible?”

“Perhaps not.” He nodded, then levered himself off the bench with his good hand. “It is a dream that is worth having, I suppose.”

“You don’t think it likely?”

He shook his head. “Most likely is that the invaders learned of us because of the expedition. The Stormwolf found the new continent, which Qiro Anturasi named after himself. I’ve seen the map. He even may have tried to warn us. In his own blood he wrote, ‘Here there be monsters.’ ”

The Lady of Jet and Jade came to him and caressed his temple. “Be careful, Highness, that you let no monsters dwell here. What you face are men. If they were utterly wise or invincible, they would have long since reunited the Empire. That they have not, that Nalenyr yet exists, means there is hope for a solution.”

“Do you truly believe that?”

“Have I any choice?” She took his hand in hers and kissed it. “Your true enemy is despair. Surrender to it, and the gods themselves could not save you or your nation.”

 

Chapter Forty-four

7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Kunjiqui, Anturasixan

“Yes, my lord, it is magnificent.” Nirati’s eyes shone brightly as she hung on Nelesquin’s arm and stared up at the huge ship. In design, it reminded her very much of the Stormwolf, yet this ship was bigger in every dimension. The figurehead was a bear rampant, clawing the air as if, by the strength of his massive arms alone, he could drag the ship through the waves. “What will you call it?”

Nelesquin chuckled warmly. “This is the Crown Bear. I’m having my smiths create a crown of gold for the figurehead.”

She looked up, surprised. “What if it falls off?”

He turned to her and took her face in his large hands. “What if it does? Anturasixan could produce a crown for every person in the Empire—nine times over. The riches in this land know no equal—and the greatest treasure here is you, my love.”

She smiled and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “You are too kind, my lord.”

“Only to you, Nirati.”

She smiled and looked back at the ship, secretly acknowledging the truth of his comment. Nelesquin had moved heaven and earth for his building projects. He’d required Qiro to find a slice of his continent where vast forests could be raised, then another where creatures suited to harvesting them could be created. Once that work had been done, mountains rose to create the valleys through which rivers would flow to carry the wood to the coast, and there the shipwrights could begin their work. Back in the mountains, yet other creatures burrowed, and fires burned within the mountains as smiths worked day and night—both of which passed swiftly there—fulfilling the demands of Nelesquin’s army.

Nelesquin drove everyone hard, and while he did grant them rewards for their successes, his punishments were often cruel and final. He tolerated no revolt, accepted few excuses, and seemed more content to have her grandfather create a new race that would bend to his will than retraining those who had already failed him.

Only once had she seen his darker side directed at her. Her fondness for Takwee had inspired her to set aside a portion of Anturasixan where surviving members of the races he’d destroyed could live in peace. Ever practical, Nelesquin would not destroy one group until another was ready to take their place, which gave her time to spirit a small population away.

When he discovered what she’d done, his fury had been monumental. She’d quailed and Takwee had bristled, baring her teeth. This show of defiance seemed to amuse him and broke his mood. From that point forward, he allowed Nirati her sanctuary. He referred to it as the Land of Lost Toys, and seemed further amused by what these creatures did when left to their own devices.

Fortunately, he did not have much time to observe them. “The Crown Bear will be magnificent, and I cannot wait to be on the ocean again. I used to love it so. Wind in the face, spray washing the deck. I was quite the mariner in my youth, but then other interests and politics drew me home to Erumvirine.”

He smiled, but his eyes focused differently. “Before the Turasynd ever threatened the Empire, the Dark Sea pirates bedeviled us. A great deal of trade came through Ixyll to Dolosan ports and across the Dark Sea to the Empire. The pirates preyed on all of it. The Emperor tasked me, among others, to crush the pirates. Fight them we did, and ended their scourge. I was part of the conquest of Dreonath.”

Nirati shook her head. “I know nothing of that, my lord.”

“No?” Nelesquin drew her down with him to sit on the grasses in the Crown Bear’s shadow. “I can barely believe subsequent events have eclipsed what was the greatest naval campaign ever waged. The pirates had gathered under one leader, a Viruk named Dosaarch. Outlaws all, and renegades against Imperial authority, they fought us tooth, claw, and blade.

“We chased them from the sea to Dreonath. The Viruk claimed a ruined fortress, saying it had once been a family holding. I don’t know the truth of that or not, but it was an evil place—a fell warren full of traps and sorceries that killed many a valiant man and hero alike.”

His face tightened as he spoke. “In that campaign, your Cataclysm was born—and had I known what would have resulted in years hence, I would have counseled my father to show mercy to the pirates. Whatever they could take in raids would be a small price to pay for the preservation of his Empire.”

Nirati caressed his cheek. “You could not have known the future, beloved.”

“Perhaps not, for men’s hearts can be as black as Gol’dun and we have no way of knowing.” He glanced down and snorted a laugh, rocking back slightly. “Back then, I was young and had many a companion I counted as good friends—men I would trust with my life; and not just men. As we went into Dreonath, a Viruk named Rekarafi was at my right hand, and Virisken Soshir was at my left. A few of those who would join me in the vanyesh were there as well. Some meant to win glory, but for many others the glory was in serving.”

She smiled despite recognizing the name of the Viruk who had attacked her brother, and kissed Nelesquin’s shoulder. “Serving with you should have been glory enough for any.”

“You’re right, of course, but many could not see the wisdom in that.” He frowned for a moment. “Back then, the provinces you now call the Nine were just provinces. You didn’t think of yourself as Naleni or Morythian; you were just of the Empire. You might owe your allegiance to a Naleni noble, but that was just a geographical descriptor, not any sense of nationality. In fact, generals and administrators often bore a title from one place, but served in another, which made it difficult for anyone to gather enough power to rival the Emperor.”

He smiled at remembering. “My father had two types of wives—just like the Emperors before him. Wives of blood were the daughters of nobles whom he married in formal ceremonies. Their children would be princes and princesses, and he could designate any of them to be his heirs. I was third from the throne when I went to fight pirates, and I shall admit I had hopes of moving up were we successful.

“His other wives were wives of pleasure. They, too, might be the daughters of nobles, but more often were highly trained courtesans who were gifted to the Emperor to curry favor. Their children, if there were any, were bastards who drew titles from their mothers, or earned them through merit. Despite their illegitimacy, however, they were treated equally at court with the rest of us, and many were the schools that vied to have them join up for training.”

Nelesquin’s smile split his black beard. “We had adventures in the Empire, but facing the pirates, that was to be the grandest of all. And so off we went, getting our feet wet with water and blood. While our fleet landed an army in the north, I took three companies in from the east. Rekarafi knew a way into the pirate stronghold and while their eyes were on the roads from the north, we attacked. We chased them down through that warren and I harvested Dosaarch’s head myself. I presented it to my father and he made me Crown Prince.”

“A position you certainly deserved, Highness.”

Nelesquin took her right hand in his and kissed her palm. “You flatter me, for you do not know how much I’ve lied in this recital.”

“I think you were far too modest.” She smiled. “If you were Crown Prince, why did your father not send you out to deal with the Turasynd threat?”

“There were many reasons, complicated reasons.” Nelesquin sighed. “My father was very good at paying attention to details—more suited to the bureaucracy than leading the country. The pirates threatened how smoothly his Empire ran; they did not threaten the Empire. The Turasynd did both, and while my father scrambled to keep the Empire running, he didn’t have enough perspective to see how to deal with the threat.

“And then there was politics to contend with.” His voice shrank. “I shall not deceive you, Nirati; I played at politics. My position was not assured, so I took steps to solidify it. My friend, Virisken Soshir, was rewarded with the leadership of my father’s bodyguard. I courted other factions and became initiated in the ways of the vanyesh. This frightened some nobles, and they conspired to turn my father against me. When he most needed my counsel, I was not permitted to see him. He made no decision when one was sorely needed. He dithered and Cyrsa, one of his pleasure wives, murdered him and usurped his throne.”

“Then she sundered the empire and headed off into the wilderness to face the Turasynd.”

“Exactly.” Nelesquin’s lips pressed tightly together, then he looked away. A tear glistened on his left cheek. “I joined her, bringing all those who felt loyalty to me. She’d humored me by making me Prince of Erumvirine. She mocked me. She gave me and the vanyesh an impossible task, then betrayed us, and we were defeated. And we had to be, since her usurpation would never have withstood my return.”

“You sought the best for the Empire, my love.” Nirati reached up and brushed the tear away with a finger. She brought that finger to her mouth and tasted the tear. “I know that you do what is best now as well.”

“There are wrongs that must be made right. I have waited a long time for that.”

She listened to him, but only distantly. While he spoke sweetly, she tasted bitterness in his tear and knew he had not told her everything. She did not imagine he was lying to her. While she had no doubt he was capable of deception, she also knew he would not willingly deceive her.

By the same token, what he had told her did not easily reconcile with the stories she’d grown up hearing. The vanyesh were evil and, therefore, their leader must have been evil. Empress Cyrsa was a heroine for saving the Empire. While she was willing to accept that there might be more than one point of view, and that those who survived the Cataclysm had a vested interest in casting the status quo as legitimate, it seemed that truth lay closer to what she had learned as a child.

She had no difficulty in imagining a prince choosing to patronize those bards who sang tales that vilified Nelesquin. If Nelesquin were correct, had he returned, their claim to power would have evaporated. Just as what her grandfather drew on maps determined how the world was seen, couldn’t history likewise be shaped?

Her brothers had enjoyed the tales of Amenis Dukao, one of the soldiers who had ventured to the west with the Empress. The stories of his adventures had been labeled as fiction, though many of the observations in them, especially about the Wastes, were deemed accurate by those who had traveled to such places. What if the stories were true, and just deemed fiction to render them impotent?

And what if I choose not to remember dying so I can rob death of its potency? A shiver shook her. Kunjiqui had always been her paradise, a perfect place conjured of dreams that had been a sanctuary when she was a girl. Her grandfather had somehow made it real to provide her a retreat from something horrible in life. And after my death have I accepted this place as a heaven to which I am entitled?

Nelesquin reached out and gently took her chin in his hand. “What is it, beloved? You shivered.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

She looked up into his eyes and saw them brimming with compassion. “I have died, and I cannot remember why or how.”

He nodded slowly. “I have died as well, and I do recall the circumstances. Be comforted that you do not.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He lifted her chin. “I have been remiss. There is a task I’ve meant to perform, but I have neglected it. I beg of you forgiveness and permission to act.”

Nirati frowned, puzzled. “To do what, my lord?”

“To do for you what I have been doing for myself.” He gestured with his left hand, closed it, then opened his fist. A beautiful green butterfly with wings edged in black flapped peacefully there.

Nirati smiled. “Oh, my lord, it’s lovely.”

“And it shall serve you well.” He raised it to his mouth, whispered something she could not hear, then launched it skyward. The insect fluttered about for a moment, then began a lazy, meandering flight toward the north.

“What is it doing?”

“I have been devoting myself to righting the wrong that destroyed the Empire. Now I’ve just set about righting the wrong of your death.” He bent his head and kissed her. With his lips brushing hers, he added, “The person who killed you will soon find himself dead.”

Nirati kissed him back, softly and fleetingly. The idea of violence being done in her name bothered her, but slaying the person who killed her did seem just. “It will be quick?”

“From one perspective, yes.” Nelesquin pulled back and smiled. “From his, probably not.”

She considered for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is my pleasure.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Come, my love, I shall show you the grand cabin we shall share as we sail north. This ship shall take us home and allow me to reclaim the throne that has long been meant to be mine.”

 

Chapter Forty-five

7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Maicana-netlyan, Caxyan

Had it not been for his facility with languages, Jorim would have spent the rest of his life on the floor of the Witch-King’s home, staring at the silver-white slab. As that thought came to him, he smiled, because what he had learned might guarantee he did. I’ll be here eternally if this does not work.

Cencopitzul helped as he could. While sympathetic to Jorim’s plight, he did not enjoy languages. He politely listened to Jorim’s discoveries—and having to explain his conclusions helped Jorim immeasurably. He would have been angry that he was not getting more help from Cencopitzul, but one discovery provided a reason why that might have been impossible.

Jorim had looked up from the slab and its shifting scripts. “You made a comment about time not always flowing in one direction here.”

The Witch-King had nodded. “I relive days—the boring ones, alas. When something interesting happens, I enjoy it, but then I fall back into a cycle of tedious days. It has occurred to me that when I focus, I am able to counteract the effects of timeshifting, and when I am bored I surrender to it.”

Jorim nodded, then pointed at the slab. “I think this is the source of the timeshifting.”

“What do you mean?”

The Naleni cartographer pointed to a pile of skins on which he had written words in charcoal. “We’ve been watching the sigils change over the face of the slab, and we have assumed that the characters are shifting their shape. I think there is another solution. We’ve identified five different scripts, and there are two others we can’t identify.”

Cencopitzul nodded. “The Viruk variant and the Writhings.”

“Right. Now the same message appears to be written in each language, and covers the slab entirely. While the words appear randomly in time, they always show in the same spot on the slab.”

“Exactly. The same phrase is repeated endlessly and the phrases revealed themselves at different times.”

“I’ve figured something else out.” Jorim stretched. “The slab has eight surface layers: one for each language and a blank one. We see portions of each surface at different times—a Viruk word, then Imperial, then a blank. We see all the layers at the same time, but only little pieces of them.”

The vanyesh had stopped to consider that. “It’s conceivable that could happen, but the power and control it would have required is almost unbelievable. It’s certainly beyond the ability of a man to do it.”

“But not a god, right?”

“I would not presume to define a god’s power.” The Witch-King shrugged. “I think your analysis is sound, however. The magic would also explain the timeshifting problems.”

Jorim had painstakingly written down and checked the messages. They’d managed to identify five scripts: Imperial, Viruk, Soth, Amentzutl, and an Imperial variant that the vanyesh said had been used by the sorcerers for recording magic formulae. Jorim could only translate the Imperial and Amentzutl, and Cencopitzul agreed that the vanyesh message matched.

In Imperial, the phrase consisted of two lines and six words: Open in out/Closed out in. The formulation marked it as an old Imperial puzzle and the format had survived to Jorim’s childhood. In fact, every child over the age of five knew the answer was door.

That realization left Jorim little better off than before. “It could mean the obvious, or have many meanings.”

The Witch-King had sliced a green fruit in half, revealing a large seed and a fragrant orange flesh that dripped with sweet juice. “Assuming for a moment that you are Tetcomchoa and you decided to leave something here for yourself, would you want to make the solution simple, or complex and incredibly idiosyncratic?”

“Both, probably.” Jorim had taken a bite of the fruit, then licked juice from his hand. “We both know this was a riddle because we’ve seen that style of thing in the Nine. Do the Amentzutl have that same riddling tradition?”

“Not in that format. Their riddles are usually six lines or twelve, and they usually have two answers.”

“So, Tetcomchoa leaves this message here, knowing he’s going to found an empire and someday he will return to the world through the person of someone born in the Nine, who will come here and discover he’s left a riddle.” Jorim winced. “That’s assuming an awful lot.”

“What if a god only knows that things will work, but not how or when or even why?”

“You mean just trust that door is the key and not worry about anything else?”

Cencopitzul lifted his chin and sucked juice off his lower lip. “Is that what you meant yourself to think?”

“You’re not much help.”

“Forgive me. I think door is the portal to the solution. It’s simple enough to reach, but unlocking the truth of it is going to be more difficult. That might be something that only Tetcomchoa’s reincarnation can manage.”

Jorim had almost dismissed that comment as glib persiflage, but something in it started resonating. Perhaps only he could work the solution to the problem the slab presented. Not knowing exactly how to define that problem made things more difficult, but Jorim did know that hidden within or beneath the slab lay something he was meant to have. I have to get in there.

This realization took him back to the puzzle again. He analyzed it, then watched the slab, and finally saw something he’d not seen before. He caught it in the Amentzutl script, and in the Soth. Both languages dealt with pictograms that remained very graphic and recognizable. The Imperial script, like the Viruk, also dealt with pictograms, but they had become highly stylized and no longer looked like the words they represented.

Both the Soth and Amentzutl scripts could be read from right to left, or left to right. Scribes usually recorded things from left to right, but architects and those decorating buildings would swap the facing of letters so they could have inscriptions that were symmetrical. The meaning would not change, and could easily be deciphered if you read toward the mouths of the people and animals represented. The conversation is face to face, yours and theirs.

The Soth and Amentzutl scripts changed directions, but the phrases remained in their places on the slab. This meant there had not been eight faces, with one blank, but ten. The repetition of the phrases in those two languages had to be significant, so Jorim played the riddle forward and backward in his mind, and hit upon a solution.

Cencopitzul looked down at him. “I think what you’re going to attempt is possible, but only if you are correct in your thinking. If you are not, it will kill you.”

“Better be correct, then.” Jorim stretched himself out on the slab. He’d removed all of his clothing. The stone chilled him, but he couldn’t feel the writing change against his back. That was just as well, as his flesh was crawling anyway.

The Witch-King gave him a formal bow. “I hope you know your own mind. Or both of them.” He straightened up, then smiled. “I shall leave you to this.”

“Thank you. You’ll know if it works.”

Jorim closed his eyes, shifted his shoulders, and got comfortable. He reached with his mind and sought the slab. He had tried to identify it through the mai before, but it had eluded definition. Until he had considered the puzzle more deeply, his problem with the slab made no sense because it was as difficult to define as a living creature.

And that’s not because it’s living, but because it is matched to someone who is living.

In running the riddle forward and backward, he turned it into a circle. The door was closed to the outside, which meant only something within could open it. Once opened, the door would admit something from the outside. That thing then would become the key inside and able to open the door. This meant that the key within and without were identical, and their merging would be what unlocked the puzzle.

Setting himself, he touched the mai, then, as he had done with Nauana, he projected his own essence into the slab.

Agony wracked him, spasming every muscle tight. His back bowed and his body convulsed. Sparks exploded in front of his eyes and blood flowed in his mouth from where he’d bitten his tongue. He wanted to panic, he wanted to flee, but he hung on. He pushed his essence harder, armoring it with the mai, and punched it past the initial resistance.

His sense of self pushed in quickly, then hit another barrier. This time his blood turned to acid in his veins. His brain felt as if it was boiling and his eyes were set to burst. Images of what he’d done to the Mozoyan tortured him. He felt as if he were burning and freezing at the same time; as if only arcs of pain bound his body together.

He pushed himself past that, then almost lost control. What had been himself, what he had seen as one solid shaft of white light piercing the slab, fractured into a rainbow of selves. Each ray shot off and hit something else, then each of those rays thickened and brightened. They plunged back at all angles, converging at one point, and when they collided, they exploded in a blinding burst of light.

Jorim felt himself drifting and he struggled to surface. He did not so much feel he was drowning as buried. He felt no distress at that fact, just a desire to orient himself.

Colors flashed past and he reached out for them. He couldn’t see a hand, but he could feel something. Sometimes it was a hand, other times a claw. He tried again and again to pull in one of the lights, but they eluded him.

Then he caught one and found himself in the world again, standing atop a building he recognized as Imperial, but ancient. He stood there, looking up at the sky. He recognized Chado the tiger and Quun the bear, each of whom had sunk his claws into the spray of stars they shared as prey.

Someone spoke behind him. He turned and smiled at the armored man standing there. Though he wore the sort of armor that was common in the Empire, and his coloration and features were Imperial, the design painted on his breastplate and the way he wore his hair were purely Amentzutl.

“Yes, Urmyr, we have done well in pacifying the Three Kingdoms. From here we can take the five to the south, and northern wastes. It will be a bulwark against the return.”

The warrior bowed. “I will do all you ask, master, but I will not understand some of your pronouncements.”

Jorim felt himself laugh. “Content yourself that you will not. Some of these things are not meant for the mind of man.”

That vision shattered and flew away in a million sparks. Another flash came and he caught it. A vision of war washed over him, with eight-foot-tall reptiles raising obsidian-edged war clubs and charging at Amentzutl lines. The bipeds wore no armor over their leathery green skin, though they painted themselves with lurid colors in chaotic patterns. He knew these had to be the Ansatl, and that the patterns somehow bound magic to the creatures.

He raised his hands and concentrated. The balance shifted, and what had been cool became molten, flaring and searing. An Ansatl screamed and fell. His fellows came on, swords rising and falling . . .

Another image slammed into the first and exploded it. He found himself on another battlefield, this one in the Empire. He saw more armies and recognized the banners as current, though he did not know the place. What struck him as odd was that Virine and Desei troops were arrayed on one side, and other troops—alien troops—attacked them. Giant metal creatures, like gyanrigot but so much bigger, waded forth into the lines, casting broken soldiers about like a child scattering toy soldiers.

Image after image came to him. Memories and experiences and visions mixed and merged. At times, he heard nothing and was seared by stark visions. At others, everything seemed invisible, but he heard voices and sounds. Sometimes he was a man, and at least once he was a beast. Some things he experienced intimately, and others remained so distant that only by straining could he observe what was happening.

Everything came faster and faster. He tried to study it all, but it overwhelmed him. Colors swirled around him—a cyclone of experiences. Pain and peace, the shock of death and the comfort of release, the agony of life and the joy of having lived all pulsed through him. He felt lost and alone, and at the same time in the company of the most stalwart companions he could imagine, and they were all him.

At some point, when it all closed in, blackness overwhelmed him. He felt certain he did not pass out, but when he opened his eyes again he knew time had passed. How much he couldn’t tell, and the Witch-King was nowhere about to help him.

He lay there for a moment in the shallow hole that had once held the slab. The magic was because the slab was me, all of me, all the incarnations through all time. Tetcomchoa had divested himself of anything he did not need to be Taichun. That part of him had waited here to be reclaimed.

Jorim sat up and hugged his legs to his chest. I am a god. I’ve always been a god. He slowly shook his head. So, just what does that make the rest of my family?