Vroan watched him carefully. “I’m not certain I follow.”
“It is simple, my lord. An assassin is the best solution to the problem of Prince Cyron. He has no heir. With his death you can step forward and accept the mantle of the Prince to save your nation.” Junel raised a finger. “However, if the plot were to be discovered, you would be tainted and likely face a revolt in the east.”
“There is wisdom in what you say, but this still leaves Cyron on the throne.”
Junel nodded. “True, but Nerot Scior is the sort of schemer who likely could be convinced to press for an assassin. Regardless, he is the sort who could be positioned to accept the blame. Once the Prince is gone, you expose him, kill him, and step into that vacuum yourself. Until then, given your ties to Helosunde and your concern for Nalenyr, you can raise a force and be prepared to intervene in the coming war. Even if Cyron does not die, he comes to rely on you and you supplant him later with the blessing of a grateful nation.
“And then, my lord, if you have occasion to push north into Helosunde, you are simply doing so for your daughter. If you retake Helosunde, I can assure you, Deseirion will fall soon after.”
Vroan folded his arms over his chest. “How much of this do you think is truly possible?”
“Uniting three realms? I believe it will be done in my lifetime.” Junel shrugged. “Killing Cyron and getting Nerot to take blame for it will be simple. With proper coaching he could even stand up and proclaim his complicity, believing he has rid the nation of a tyrant.”
“True. He could be made to see how that would work to his advantage.” The westron lord smiled. “And you, Count Aerynnor, what would be to your benefit if events were to unfold as you describe them?”
“My lord, I am a modest man and not one given to ambition. I have learned to be thankful that I am alive. I should very much like to see the Desei Hawk with its wings broken, but that is the extent of my desire.”
“But you believe I would be grateful for your aid.”
“Your lordship has already showed me the hospitality of his house, the bounty of his cellars. My reward would be to be of continued help to you. You will rise to heights I can only dream of.”
Vroan snorted, then recovered his cup and drank. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I don’t believe you are modest or that you lack ambition. I think you do want more than you say, and I know you’ll end up with it.”
“My lord is kind to say so.”
“I do, and I would be willing to guarantee it, provided we agree on one thing.”
“And that is, my lord?”
“That your advance is not at my expense.”
Junel lifted his cup. “Done and done, my lord.”
“Good.” Vroan refilled his cup and drank. “Now, let us plan how Nerot will murder Prince Cyron and pave the way for our ascent.”
Chapter Thirty-eight
34th day, Month of the Dragon, 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 (Lair of the Witch-King), Caxyan
Visiting the Amentzutl Witch-King was not as simple as visiting even the Naleni Prince. Jorim underwent a full week of purification rituals paralleling those he performed before beginning to learn magic. During that time he could converse with others, but was strictly forbidden to touch or be touched—which put Shimik and Nauana off-limits.
In those nine days, he did manage to scrub off all traces of dead skin and found that what lay beneath was healthy. In fact, it seemed healthier than he remembered. Though still quite young, the time he’d spent out under the sun, exploring the world, had begun to take its toll. He’d had dragon talons at the corners of his eyes, but now they’d vanished. Moreover, a number of the scars he’d picked up on his travels disappeared, as did an Ummummorari tribal tattoo on his right hip.
His hair and beard remained white, but did not have the brittle quality of an old man’s hair. Most unsettling were his eyes—and, try as he might, he could not get used to them. It was more the lozenge shape of his pupil than the fiery corona that bothered him. It reminded him too much of dragons and snakes, which reminded him he was supposed to be a god reborn.
He still fought that idea, because he’d seen the sort of naked power that might be at his command. If he was a god, he could do anything with it, provided he could control it. If he was just a deluded man, then control would be an illusion, and the probable result of his actions would be evil. Certainly, his first true use of such overwhelming power had been to destroy an enemy, but what would happen if people displeased him? I’ve been accused of being quick-tempered in the past. That’s not a good trait in a god.
He was still wrestling with the problem of who he was and how much he wanted to accept when he was packed up for the trip to Maicana-netlyan. The Witch-King lived in a mountain two days away to the southeast. Once the party arrived, Jorim would have one day to get cleaned up, then he, alone, would enter the Witch-King’s lair.
Anaeda Gryst had to restrain Shimik at Jorim’s leave-taking. The Fenn had gotten over any fear he had, and Jorim envied him being able to forget so quickly. He would have loved to take Shimik with him, but his only companions would be two of the eldest maicana sorcerers.
Anaeda nodded. “We’ll care for him and make certain he does not follow you.”
Jorim nodded. “Shimik, stay here. Guard Stormwolf. You.”
The Fenn stopped struggling in Anaeda’s arms. “Jrima, Shimik mourna sad.”
“Don’t be sad. Jrima return soon.” He winked at the creature. “I’ll teach you a magic trick when I get back.”
Shimik’s eyes widened. “Shimik guard good-good.”
“What I expect.” Jorim looked at Anaeda. “I hope he won’t be too much trouble.”
“Not likely, until you teach him how to make fire.”
Shimik nodded happily at that suggestion.
“I’ll think of something else. I don’t know how long this will take.”
“As long as it takes.” She glanced north out over the plains before Nemehyan and beyond the skull pyramid. “I have troops out scouting for the Mozoyan. It will give us warning and we’ll be able to hold them off. At least, that’s the plan.”
“I’m sure it will work.” Jorim bowed to her, then turned to Nauana. “Will you walk with me a short way?”
“As my Lord Tetcomchoa desires.” The slender woman fell in beside him and they started off on the road toward Maicana-netlyan. The two maicana who would join him on the trip had two cunya laden with supplies in tow and followed discreetly.
Jorim frowned and looked down at his hands. “I want to apologize for how I’ve acted.”
“Gods need not apologize.”
He shot her a quick glance. “Maybe not, but they should. You opened a wonderful world to me, but one that scared me. Where I come from, magic such as the maicana wield is a frightening thing. You showed me, in little bits and pieces, that it was not evil. I accepted that, but when I acted out there, I . . .”
“. . . you became yourself.”
Jorim shook his head. “Part of me is afraid you’re right.”
“Why afraid, Lord Tetcomchoa?” Nauana reached out for him, then held back. “You should rejoice in discovering who you are. When you were first with us, you were wise enough to know we would have to show you the whole of your glory. We have been faithful to you for cycles of years. You honor us by learning.”
“And shame you by retreating?”
“I have done my best to teach you.” She glanced down, tears glistening in her eyes.
Jorim wanted nothing so much as to brush those tears away, but he was forbidden from touching her. Then, without thinking, he touched the mai and floated the tears away, merging them with the air. If I can give comfort through magic, it cannot be all I have feared. I just have to be more than I fear I might be.
Nauana brushed a hand over her cheek. “Tha
nk you for that kindness, my lord.”
“Understand something, Nauana. You taught me as I needed to be taught, and all I needed to learn. Had you not done that job well, the Mozoyan would have killed everyone on the Blackshark. Our victory, that day, was your victory.”
“Thank you.”
“And know something else.” Jorim lowered his voice. “Your opening yourself to me is what reminds me of who I am, who I have been, and why I am here. Your openness shall be my shield against fears. I don’t know what I am: man, god, or some mix; but the being I am is better for your efforts.”
He smiled at her and she returned the smile. “I think, my lord, you believe this.”
“I do. I shall remember it, no matter what.” He sighed. “Now, you best depart before I touch you and need another week of cleansing.”
“As you desire, my lord. I shall be waiting for your return.”
“It will not come soon enough.”
The trip to the mountain of the Witch-King passed uneventfully. His companions said barely a word outside of prayers and commands to the pack beasts. At a time when he would have relished distraction, they were determined not to disturb his thoughts.
So, Jorim did what he always did when not wanting to think about things that were too serious: he studied the flora and fauna, mentally cataloguing them for his journals when he got back to Nemehyan. His companions did take notice of his preoccupation and he feared that this would be translated by some as Lord Tetcomchoa’s taking note of every living thing, its condition, and determining if it would survive the time of centenco.
Maybe I am. Thoughts like that were about as far as he was willing to go in analyzing his situation. He told himself it was because he wanted to consult with the Witch-King and get the benefit of his wisdom. It was as good an excuse as any, and so he used it.
After a final day of rest and ritual cleansing, Jorim donned his robes from the Stormwolf. Purple silk edged with gold, the robe bore the Naleni dragon on breasts, sleeves, and back. He carried no weapon with him, and aside from having braided his side locks, he was otherwise undecorated. Bowing a farewell to his guides, he walked a serpentine trail through the rain forest to a cavern at the foot of the mountain and began the long journey up. While the first part of the cavern appeared to be natural, it quickly gave way to carved steps that twisted forward and back, up, down, and around in a circuitous route that seemed designed only to exhaust anyone following it.
Then he came to a break in the path. The mountain had split at some time, and by the look of the sharp edges on the broken stone, it had done so recently. A good twelve feet of the pathway had fallen onto a pile of debris three hundred feet below. He recalled seeing it in one of the lower chambers, but hadn’t thought about its significance.
Jorim shrugged, backed up a dozen steps and ran. He reached the gap and effortlessly cleared it. He crouched upon landing, then looked back at the gap and smiled. Doing that simple thing, and again observing life on the journey, had reminded him about the simple pleasures of nature. There are just times we make things far too complex.
He rose and walked forward and, as the stair climbed away to the left, he kept walking forward. His feet stepped through the stone, then he pushed on through what had been a wall. He felt a tingle as he passed through, but no fear, no ill effects. Entering a short, dark passage, he turned around and could see the stairs and gap clearly. It was an illusion. I wonder how that was done?
He continued on and passed into a huge domed chamber, which opened onto an even larger chamber to the north. They both had been shaped by the hand of man and decorated with paintings after the Amentzutl fashion. He looked up at the dome and found the stars arrayed in the Amentzutl Zodiac, with the sun poised to be moving out of the sign of Tetcomchoa.
As he entered the chamber, a man wearing nothing more than a loincloth smiled down at him from the larger chamber. Jorim couldn’t even guess at his age, because his body seemed young and slender and his brown hair hadn’t even a hint of grey. Still, his hazel eyes held years beyond numbering. There was something else odd about the man, but exactly what it was eluded him for a moment.
The Witch-King smiled. “I have been expecting you, Tetcomchoa, and am honored by your visit.” He paused for a moment and his smiled broadened. “Shall we converse in the Amentzutl tongue, or will you indulge me in my desire to hear the Imperial language again?”
“What?” Jorim’s jaw dropped. “You speak Imperial?”
“I do, and I’m certain I would have forgotten it save that time here seems to flow in odd currents.” His right hand came around and a gorgeous butterfly with wings of emerald outlined in black rested on a finger. “And I should have been more prepared to greet you, but I was distracted. I thought you’d use magic to bridge the gap and I would have warning of your arrival.”
“I just leaped it, then walked through your illusion.”
“My illusion? Fascinating.” The man lifted his hand and the butterfly fluttered off. “Perhaps you are Tetcomchoa after all.”
Jorim held a hand out, but the butterfly ignored him. “Beautiful specimen. I’ve not seen one like it before.”
“And likely won’t again.” The Witch-King executed a formal and respectful bow. “I welcome you to my humble dwelling. I am known as Cencopitzul here. I already know you are Tetcomchoa.”
“Jorim Anturasi. I came with a Naleni exploration fleet.” Jorim mounted the steps to the central chamber. “How is it that you are here?”
Cencopitzul waved him to a pair of rough-hewn wooden chairs. “That’s not really what you want to know, but it’s a good place to start. I found myself here during the last time of centenco. I was able to help them survive the years of no summer. The maicana-netl then decided I was not Tetcomchoa, but his envoy, and he chose me to be his heir. Here I have dwelt since that time.”
“How were you able to help them?”
The Witch-King smiled. “You know the answer to that question, and that answer raises many more. I was schooled in the use of magic. You thus suppose I was one of the vanyesh, and you would be correct. You would therefore assume I must be insane, and I would counter that I am no more insane than a Naleni cartographer who thinks he might be a god born again.”
“But if you were one of the vanyesh . . .”
Cencopitzul raised a hand, then slid into the chair across from Jorim. “I did not summon you here to discuss me and my fate, but to address yours. You know Tetcomchoa’s history: he arrived, he taught the Amentzutl magic so they could defeat the Ansatl, then he sailed west with his most trusted warriors. Taichun arrived from the east and carved the Empire out of the warring states that had been the domain of Men after they destroyed the remnants of the Viruk Empire.”
Jorim nodded. “That’s what I have been told.”
“Then you should have two questions. The first is whether or not Tetcomchoa was a god-made-man, and the second is if you are Tetcomchoa-reborn.” The Witch-King sat back. “I’ve given this much thought. We have ample tales of gods visiting the world as all sorts of creatures, including men and women. There is no reason to suppose Tetcomchoa was not a god—one of ours, one of theirs, a new god, it doesn’t really matter which is true. There also seems no dispute that he taught the Amentzutl magic.”
The cartographer leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can accept that.”
“Further accept this: there is no historical record in the Empire indicating that anyone save the Viruk employed magic in the sense of invocations. While jaedun always appears to have been possible, during the Viruk Empire the only training humans got was limited to useful tasks, and any Mystic slave was valued. Humans were not put under arms, so they did not develop the skills needed to become Mystical warriors.”
“I can see the sense in that.”
“Good.” Cencopitzul smiled easily. “The next is my speculation. The centenco prior to Taichun’s arrival heralded the invasion of True Men. They overthrew what was left of the Viruk
Empire, freeing the slaves. They may have come down from the Turasynd Wastes, or in through the Spice Route. Again, we have no record of their using magic beyond jaedun; and the Viruk, for reasons known only to themselves, do not seem to have used magic to oppose them. At the next centenco Taichun arrives from the sea, and is able to establish an empire. That would seem to be difficult, wouldn’t it?”
Jorim nodded. “Yes, though with all the warring states, he just had to play one off against another to win.”
“Easier said than done, my boy. The Nine are still nine despite the same dynamic prevailing. My point is that as nearly as can be determined, Taichun also brought magic to the Empire, and the magic I learned well enough to join the vanyesh was magic instantly recognized by the maicana-netl as being in the tradition of Tetcomchoa.”
The Witch-King’s recital of facts held together well enough to make Jorim recast history in its light. “If all this is true, then my question would be, why would Tetcomchoa choose this time to be reborn?”
“That’s simple—the invasion of the new god.”
Jorim frowned. “He foresaw that and arranged to be reborn in Moriande as a precaution?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
Jorim stopped, his mouth hanging open. “I don’t know.”
“I hope you figure it out.” Cencopitzul stood and pulled his chair back, then pointed to the center of the large chamber floor. A silvery-white stone slab had been set in the floor. It measured roughly six feet long and three across. As Jorim looked at it, what had appeared to be scratches on the surface resolved themselves into writing of some form, which shifted and writhed as if it were alive.
The Witch-King waved him toward the block. “Before he left, Tetcomchoa sealed something in this stone. I have no idea what it is. Legend has it that only his reincarnation can unlock the stone and fully claim his heritage.”
Jorim folded his arms over his chest. “And if I fail, I die?”
“Nothing so dramatic. Trying hasn’t killed me yet.” The Witch-King shrugged. “Then again, in seven hundred years of trying, I’m no closer to a solution than I was at the start.”