Every twinge underscored this point. As they built and thrummed through him like bass notes, they reached and passed the point at which Jorim would have acquiesced to Nessagafel’s demands.
Jorim’s clarity of mind made one thing apparent: he had absolutely no clue how to release Nessagafel. Moreover, if the first god had been restrained with something that took Jorim’s divine nature to unlock, it stood to reason that whatever this last restraint was had nothing to do with Wentoki or Jorim. Another of the gods must have secretly restrained Nessagafel, trusting neither Grija nor Wentoki to keep him in check.
It had to be Tsiwen. Only the goddess of Wisdom would have such foresight. She was probably also wise enough to suspect something very strange was happening with Nessagafel. She would stay well away from him. Nessagafel would remain trapped and the world safe.
Clarity of mind allowed Jorim one other realization. No matter his physical pain, what truly tortured him was Grija’s simpering moans. When the blood cleared from Jorim’s eyes, the god of Death became visible. He lay on the ground like some discarded scrap of cloth. Even the ants marched around him, though they greedily devoured the dead vulture that had tried to nibble on Grija.
Eternal pain is one thing, but being trapped here with him is too much. Jorim would have told him to leave but the vine wrapped around his head and the thorns piercing his tongue severely limited his conversational abilities. He did manage a grunt, however.
The grey scrap rolled over, looking much like a doll that had been crushed beneath cart wheels. “It is your fault, Wentoki. If you would release him, he would free us. Can you not see how I am tortured?”
Jorim, who at that moment was having difficulty discouraging a vulture from plucking out an eyeball, wanted to laugh. Yet all he managed was a snort. He had never, in all his life, known anyone so pitiful-save, perhaps, his brother’s ex-fiancee.
Majiata actually had a lot in common with Grija. They both were self-centered schemers who accepted no blame and took no responsibility for their actions or the consequences thereof. Had he a choice, he’d have preferred to be trapped forever in Wangaxan with Grija only because her presence would mean she was a goddess-though he couldn’t imagine what her aspect would be.
He snorted another half laugh, then thought for a moment. Wangaxan was the Ninth Hell. It was the one meant for gods. But he was no longer a god. He was no longer Wentoki. He was just Jorim Anturasi-a cartographer, maybe a warrior, maybe a magician. Though a god couldn’t escape Wangaxan, a mortal couldn’t possibly be trapped there.
The paradox vibrated, engulfing him. Pressure built. His ears popped. He felt himself being squeezed, then the sphere imploded, crushing him. Stars exploded before his eyes. He was falling, then he hit the ground, bounced, and landed on his left arm.
He opened his eyes. He lay on a cracked and dry plain the color of amethyst. The moment he described his surroundings that way, a thousand amethyst crystals poked up through the earth. He moved carefully off them and they receded.
The sky was the color of sulfur. The pungent scent followed quickly so he changed his mind, likening the color to that of a zaomin flower. Oval petals began to drift down like snowflakes. The temperature began to drop as well, and wind whipped petals into drifts.
Hunching his shoulders against the cold, Jorim walked. The sky changed color-this time to a blood-red hue, which began to fall. It washed away the yellow snow and turned the purple earth into stinking mud, but only for a circle nine feet in diameter, centered on Jorim.
He wiped away the blood. “I am in Tolwreen, the Eighth Hell, the one designed for magicians.”
The place shifted constantly. New colors and sounds, new scents and tastes, gravity becoming heavier or lighter. It was designed to challenge magicians to imagine. Whatever they imagined became real and presented more challenges. The more clever you were, the more frustrating your torment. Imagine escape and you create a prison. Magicians would become trapped in a maze of their own invention.
You had a hand in this, Tsiwen, but you must have left a way out. Tsiwen’s wisdom would dictate that no torture should be eternal. If one could demonstrate a lesson had been learned, a reward would follow. Whatever misdeed had doomed a magician, regret, atonement, and change would certainly be sufficient for release.
Of course, one might have countless lessons to learn.
The blood rain abruptly ended, but from the last drops that hit, thirty-six ministry clerks sprang up, each with sheaves of rice paper. They peppered him with innumerable questions, never waiting for an answer. They pressed in on him, their voices rising, the questions becoming more and more absurd.
Jorim laughed. As daunting as they were, they were nothing compared to his grandfather. No, wait, don’t think…
Too late!
The clerks all flowed together into a colossal version of Qiro Anturasi. The giant stamped his foot, but Jorim dodged. The earth cracked and Jorim fell. He rolled, just avoiding another stomp. More earth cracked and Jorim latched on to the sound. He linked it with breaking ice.
Qiro stomped again and his foot went through. The giant plunged into an icy sea. The resulting wave pitched Jorim ninety feet. As he flew through the air he tried to think about growing feathers so he could flap his way to a soft landing.
When he did hit, it was on a bed of feathers, but they were all made of obsidian. They crackled and sliced, opening his flesh. He rolled off the bed and tried to blank his mind. He tried to think of nothing but pleasant thoughts. Still, the stinging cuts reminded him of the copper ants.
“No, anything but!”
His mind would have summoned the ants, but a gangling figure clawed its way over the edge of a nearby rise. The Viruk started to run, but he’d developed a limp. A cast-iron mask covered his face, blinding him. His ears rose through the metal and he swung his head side to side, listening for pursuit.
A half dozen Fenn came boiling after him. They snapped and hissed, totally feral. They’d shifted into a shape perfect for killing Viruk. Long claws would slice flesh. Their teeth-longer than he’d ever seen on Shimik-would punch through bony armor. Their shape even changed with the terrain, their limbs growing longer to speed them.
Being chased by Fennych was torture for a Viruk, but it would be paradise for the Fenn. Something was not right. The punishment was totally out of keeping with Tolwreen’s nature.
What’s happening here?
Facts cascaded together. Jorim cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Talrisaal, this way!”
The Viruk and his pursuers turned toward him. Jorim looked up and smiled. He imagined the sky looked the color of rice beer. Let’s make Tolwreen work for us.
Thunder cracked and sheets of the liquid sloshed up around his ankles. The Viruk slipped and slid past in the beer pond. The Fenn all happily dove into it, plunging their muzzles in deep. They greedily sucked up the frothy liquid then flopped onto their backs. Their little distended bellies pointed skyward. They opened their mouths, drank themselves insensible.
Jorim splashed over to the Viruk. “Let’s get the mask off.”
The Viruk held still while Jorim checked the mask. No seams. He applied magic, looking for the mask’s truth.
Very clever! He smiled. The mask didn’t really exist. It consisted entirely of resistance to Viruk magic. Talrisaal could never have removed it. Jorim rebalanced the mai and the mask vanished.
The Viruk stared at him, then rolled over and buried his face in the mud. “I thought hearing your voice was another illusion of this place. You have saved me again, Wentoki.”
“I’m not Wentoki, Talrisaal.” Jorim frowned. “I have been Wentoki, but now I am just a man, trapped just like you. Do you know how long…”
The Viruk looked up. Rice beer washed mud from his hair and face. “A long time. Nessagafel consigned me to this place. I betrayed him to you. He made your creatures my torment.”