He began to laugh. His hand came away dry. The torn skin was not bleeding.
Nelesquin’s blue-eyed stare bore into him. “Poison, I assume?”
“A noxious venom. Some sea creature, I suspect. It will be painless.”
Nelesquin nodded. “I’m quite sure it would be. Have I anything to fear, Kaerinus?”
The cloaked man shook his head. “I can neutralize it, but what is the point?”
“True.” Nelesquin smiled and ran a finger over the torn flesh. In its wake the flesh had sealed itself. “You see, Prince Pyrust, when I decided to become Emperor, I did not wish to leave anything to chance. Not even death. I took precautions. Were I as shortsighted as you are, I should now be dead and you would be a hero.”
Nelesquin’s fingers weaved through a sigil. Purple fire illuminated the character for a heartbeat, then Pyrust’s silver ring heated up. It glowed, then melted through the Prince’s little finger.
Pyrust clutched his hand to his chest, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Blood dripped, but the robe absorbed it. Then something hit him in the back of his knees, driving him to the stone floor. Nelesquin grabbed a handful of his hair and jerked his head back.
“I would have given you much, had you but worshipped me.”
“What you would give, I would never want.”
Nelesquin stooped and drew the dagger from Pyrust’s sash. “Then I shall give you eternity to mull over your folly.”
The Desei Prince caught his face flashed in reflection on the steel. He smiled. His eyes betrayed no fear and remained clear, even as Nelesquin drove the dagger into his throat and lodged it in his spine.
Pelut Vniel stared at the dagger lying on his tea table. He looked down at his reflection. A haggard man looked back. Dark circles haunted his eyes. His flesh had taken on a pallid hue.
His gaze flicked from the dagger to the note that had come with it. Prince Cyron had written it himself. Pelut recognized his brushwork. None of the others had come in the Prince’s hand.
“The tragedy of battle now demands all take heart and unite to oppose the enemy. Those who do not do their utmost in opposing him, are complicit with him. Make this blade the sign of your commitment to the future.”
Pelut shivered. Others who had gotten daggers from the Prince had proudly slid them into their sashes. The Prince had won them over. Praising them. Rewarding them. Making them feel important, but in doing so he had overturned the natural order of things. He had destroyed the safeguards that prevented the nation from lurching into anarchy or despotism. It did not matter that his efforts seemed necessary to oppose an enemy. They transformed the state into something that would always need an enemy.
Once Nelesquin was defeated- if he was defeated-where would Cyron turn next? Cyrsa would occupy the throne, but it would be Cyron’s dream of empire that would be fulfilled. He would make his vision real, by hook or by crook, destroying the very structures that had kept humanity safe.
Every other minister’s dagger had been sheathed, but not the one sent to Pelut. Cyron acknowledges my threat. The others had been invited to join Cyron, but Pelut was invited to kill himself. That was what the bared blade meant. If Pelut wanted to provide his own scabbard, if he wanted to acquiesce to Cyron’s wishes and work with him, then he could be accepted.
My companions are all fools.
They failed to see the true import of the gift. They believed Cyron was raising them in status equal to warriors. He would allow them to wear a dagger in his presence-a privilege reserved for nobility and honored warriors. But this also bound them; Cyron could slay them if they failed. A few might have seen that, but they dismissed it. Nelesquin’s threat made Cyron’s plan seem acceptable.
It is not! I see the greater threat. Pelut reached for the hilt. In some ways it would be easier for him to pick it up and open a vein. He’d heard that cutting his wrists would be painless. Here, in a pristine room, wearing a white robe, his death could even be beautiful.
Far more beautiful than his current circumstance. He remained a minister of high rank, but in name only. Cyron had isolated him and hobbled him. Things were moving too swiftly to be controlled, and once the controls Pelut had labored his whole life to sustain were destroyed, they could never be slipped back into place.
So, there it is. The challenge. Join Cyron or kill myself.
Both options revolted him. Though he had been outmaneuvered, he had not been defeated. If he killed himself, the world he fought to preserve would die with him.
“You give me two choices, Prince Cyron. Join you or die.” Pelut picked up the dagger and watched himself smile. “I see a third. Fight you. The world cannot surrender to you, nor can it survive you. So fight I will-from the shadows, from behind a smile, but fight I shall.”
The man nodded to himself. “And when the time comes, this very blade will be your undoing.”
TheNewWorld
Chapter Twenty-two
2nd 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
Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)
Jorim backed away from Nessagafel, but his efforts put no distance between them. The other god had not moved, of course. The Viruk could have pounced on Jorim easily, but he refrained. He watched Jorim and fear trickled through Jorim’s belly.
“There is no escaping this place, Wentoki, nor is there any escaping me.” Nessagafel chuckled, raising gooseflesh on Jorim’s arms. “I think you should want me to escape. I shall manage that trick with your help.”
Jorim narrowed his eyes. “You want to destroy everything, kill everyone.”
“You listen to Grija and the others? You believe them?” The Viruk god shook his head. “ They have every right to fear, Grija most of all. He was my first, you know. My first child. I created him with a thought-a half thought, really. I was not paying much attention. I merely wanted a witness to my creation, and he was what I got.”
Grija cowered in a grey heap, which shrank away to nothingness as Jorim watched. “Is he?”
“Dead? No. As long as he is remembered a god can never really die. His place can be usurped, he can become obscure or irrelevant, but die? No. I didn’t allow for that.”
“But Quun and Chado killed you. The constellation that represented you was ripped to pieces.”
“As attacks go, it was masterfully done.” Nessagafel clasped his hands together. “Had you helped them, I might have been so shredded that I could never have brought myself together again. You know you are the most powerful of them all. You are my most complete creation.”
“Are you flattering me?”
“It is not flattery, Wentoki. They are limited. They take their aspects from ordinary animals, but you, you are a dragon. As a man, you have traveled the world enough to know there are no dragons, and yet you exist. Did you ever wonder why?”
“There are many creatures of myth.”
“But none of them are gods, Wentoki.” Nessagafel did not step closer, but the distance between them shrank. “When I chose to first visit my creation and walk in flesh, I made myself into a dragon. I did not visit often, but I found the Viruk and the Soth worshipping that image. I chose it for you, and I made you in that image. I made you in my image.”
“But you are a Viruk.”
Nessagafel shrugged. “When the Viruk became self-aware, they chose to believe that their god had made them in his image. I had made them, of course, and felt no need to disappoint them. Now this form suits me, but I can change.”
In an instant the Viruk vanished and a young human boy took his place. “This should be more comforting to you.”
“It won’t make me forget.”