Standing a step below the Empress, Prince Cyron raised his arms-emphasizing his deformity. Pelut did not doubt the Prince had planned the gesture to make some other sort of point, but it was moot. The lot of them looked like the ghosts they would be soon.

“People of Moriande, Nalenyr, Deseirion, Helosunde, and Erumvirine-people of the True Empire-today we release the spirit and soul of Prince Pyrust of Deseirion. Prince Pyrust’s greatest wish was the re-creation of the Empire sundered so long ago. The Jaeshi Dynasty came closer than any other to accomplishing this task. Just over a month ago he arrived here, ready and able to add Nalenyr to his realm. I would have been slain by his hand. His vision of the future would have prevailed.”

Cyron half turned toward the Empress. “The Empress revealed her presence to the both of us-I had no more knowledge of her identity than he did-and drafted us both into her service. We both gladly agreed. Pyrust’s dream had come true, and he accepted the charge to be her warlord. His goal was to preserve the Empire and this he fought to do against an evil so ancient and potent, even Death could not contain it.”

Cyron faced the pyre again and lowered his arms. “There is no one within the sound of my voice who did not, in some way, fear Prince Pyrust. I did. When he came to kill me, I saw the fire in his eyes, the steel in his spine, the strength of his dream. He came to unite Deseirion, Helosunde, and Nalenyr, not only to reestablish the Empire, but to face a greater threat. He never intended to be defeated by it, or to surrender to it, but to destroy it. That his effort did not bring success is not a failing on his part but a mark of the cunning of our enemy. Prince Pyrust killed many of them. He bought us time that will guarantee our victory.”

Pelut dug his fingernails into his palms to keep from falling asleep. Of course Cyron had to deify Pyrust. That would appease the cowardly Desei troops who let their prince die. It might even convince them to die for Nalenyr-Cyron all but ceded it to Pyrust in his eulogy. And the rest of the people learned that while Pyrust had been bad, Nelesquin was worse. The message was clear: all the energy you’d have put into resisting Pyrust must be redoubled to resist Nelesquin.

But the people had done nothing to resist Pyrust. The Lords of the West had allied themselves with him against their own ruler. Cyron should have ceded the westrons to Nelesquin outright, since they’d cause nothing but trouble. And, ultimately, Cyron was telling everyone that things would be fine since he was in charge of things-he and a whore, plus the man who lost Tsatol Deraelkun. He might be speaking from Wentoki’s Temple, but those words wouldn’t inspire courage.

Cyron finished speaking and accepted a torch from the hand of Wentoki’s high priest. He descended the steps slowly-thwarting Pelut’s desire that he trip-and respectfully approached the pyre. He, at least, spared the crowd the maudlin display of looking upward and uttering unheard words that thousands of wags would be happy to invent.

In fact…

Pelut turned to a notoriously gossipy minister standing next to him. “What do you think it was that Prince Cyron just said to Prince Pyrust?”

The light of crackling flames illuminated the surprise on the man’s face. “I do not believe, Grand Minister, I heard him say anything.”

“No, of course you didn’t. He spoke too softly.” Pelut glanced at the pyre and the thick, white smoke rising from all the burning prayers. “But just before he lit the pyre, he looked up and said something. I couldn’t hear, but his expression, it wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?”

“Appropriate.” Pelut shook his head. “You must have seen that flash of jealousy. Maybe it was fear. What did you think it was?”

The man shuddered. “I don’t think I could say.”

“No, of course not, best for the morale of the people we forget it.” Pelut nodded conspiratorially. “It would not do for the people to know Cyron thinks all is lost.”

“No, Grand Minister, it would not.”

“Good. Be certain to squelch that rumor whenever you hear it.”

“Of course, Grand Minister.”

Pelut turned away, fighting to appear impassive. Whatever gains Cyron had made in the temple square would be eroded in the public houses. The mere act of correcting an impression would give it life. By the end of the day, that minister and any he talked to would remember seeing Cyron lift his face and say something to his vanquished foe. That would undercut the nobility of his sentiments and wither his support.

Never once did it occur to Pelut Vniel that weakening Cyron might hasten the fall of Moriande. The Grand Minister had already assumed Moriande would fall. The white city would be bathed in blood. But as long as it was Cyron’s blood and not his, both he and the ministries would survive.

And, he was certain, that was something of which both the gods and Emperor Nelesquin would approve.

TheNewWorld

14th 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)

Nessagafel understood very little about his children. He forced Jorim to maintain full clarity of mind during torture. Every ant bite, every twist of the thorned ivy, each rake of a talon, remained stark in Jorim’s mind. He could catalog them and sort them, rank them and order them.

Nessagafel intended the torture to be unendurable. Clarity of mind provided a means for putting the tortures in context. The context was simple: the agony would endure until Jorim released Nessagafel.

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.