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

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.”

“Forget what?”

“That you tricked me into divesting myself of my divine nature.”

“That was unavoidable.” The boy held up his right hand and flicked the little finger. A black ring circled the base of it, pinching the flesh. “I used your nature to unlock the chains binding me here. This ring is all that keeps me from my full power.”

“It stops you from unmaking everything?”

Nessagafel nodded. “In fact, it does, but this should not be your concern. I would never unmake you.”

Jorim arched an eyebrow. “No? Why not?”

“Because I need you. Do you know why I created you last?”

“No.” Jorim watched Nessagafel and listened to his words. From the way the elder god was taking him into his confidence, the words were meant to beguile him. Flattery combined with sincerity and respect were intended to slip past Jorim’s guard, and might well have, save for his Anturasi upbringing. Countless sea captains had used the same tricks to win charts from him, and Jorim had never surrendered so much as a sketch.

“Grija, incomplete as he was, was suspicious. He talked to the others and plotted with them. I knew they would come after me. They had to. The old and the new cannot exist together. So, I created you in my image, to be my ally and my revenge. By failing to join with them, you allowed me to return from the void. Together we can sweep them from the heavens. Had they killed me, you know they would have turned on you, too. But I made you strong enough to defeat them.”

“If I could destroy them, I could destroy you.”

The child-god smiled. “Yes, exactly. I meant you to be my rival. Think of it, Wentoki. You wanted to be so much like me because I made you so much like me. I became flesh; so did you. I created the Viruk; you created the Fennych to kill my Viruk. I know it was a symbolic attack on me, but I’ve forgiven you that excess because we are so alike. I gave the Viruk magic; you gave Men magic. You have made me very proud.” His voice sank into a whisper. “And you have made them very jealous.”

Nessagafel slipped his hand into Jorim’s, and the dark void in which they stood melted as night before dawn. Green grasses grew up, and flowers thrust red and yellow blossoms skyward. To the right lay a swath of rain forest akin to that of Ummummorar. To the left the forests of Nalenyr. In the meadow, spotted antelope grazed. A clouded-leopard lounged in a thick tree branch. From the distance came the trumpeting of an elephant, and the coughed roar of a maned cat answering.

“When the others are swept away, Wentoki, we will reorder the world. You know that is what you have been doing. It’s what your grandfather has been doing: making things over again. He’s really doing my work- our work. We will make the world the way it is supposed to be. You and I, we can do that.”

“What about those I love?”

The child’s face brightened innocently. “We shall save them! We shall give them all they wish for. We will make them happy-happier than if they had died and gone to the appropriate heaven. We will do for them whatever you want. All you need do is unlock this last little restraint.”