“Me?”
Tsiwen patted his hand. “You loved our father and sought his attention. Yet you remained loyal to all of us, so when the true danger manifested, you opposed him.”
Jorim laughed. “Sounds like my grandfather Qiro.”
“In many ways they are linked.” The goddess of Wisdom smiled easily. “Allow yourself to think on the name Talrisaal.”
Jorim immediately recognized the name as being of Viruk origin, but his understanding stopped there. Yet concentration unlocked deeper memories. Before his mind’s eye, a scene unfolded deep in the jungles of Ummummorar. Jorim swooped down, his vision piercing the dense veil of leaves. As Men saw color and heard sound, likewise foreign emotions resonated through him.
Below, a band of Viruk raced along a twisting jungle trail. Full-grown warriors, save for one, they fled. One crashed through the brush ahead of the juvenile, while the half dozen others constantly tossed glances back at their pursuers. The warriors mumbled prayers to Kojai, the god of War, thinking he might be more merciful than the mighty and terrible Nessagafel.
But the young one, Talrisaal, prayed to Wentoki. He sought courage so he would not dishonor himself amid the company of warriors. He feared dishonor more than he feared death, and the fervency of his prayer attracted Wentoki’s attention.
Their pursuers boiled through the rain forest. Fennych moved in a vast band, low to the ground, teeth flashing and claws rending vegetation. When he had created the Fennych, Wentoki had made them gentle-a clownish crossing of small apes and bears. He did, however, imbue them with some magic, and it allowed them to change shape to adapt to new situations. In winter their coats might lighten, or if they hunted in caverns, their eyes would grow wide to sharpen their vision.
But in the presence of the Viruk, they lost all pretense of humor and became hardy predators. Viruk magic could not stop them, at least not directly. Warriors could kill them, but not easily; Fenn claws could shred their flesh as if it were smoke.
One warrior fell, then another as knots of Fenn pounced and rent them. The furred carpet of muscular bodies would have muffled any scream had the warriors time to voice one. Blood gushed and the Fenn anointed themselves before bounding off to kill more.
The Fenn advanced in a crescent with wings extending past the lead Viruk and closed slowly. The Viruk burst into a clearing. The scout plunged on through, reaching the tree line, then stumbled back with a half dozen Fenn tearing out mouthfuls of flesh. The two in the rear guard never even made it to the clearing, leaving the last two warriors warding the youth, staring out at the luminous eyes blinking from the shadows.
Though the warriors tried to restrain the youth, he stepped forward and spoke in a clear voice with no detectable fear. He described a circle with a finger and a wall of fire burst into existence around the three of them. The flames rose to the height of Talrisaal’s eyes. The warriors hunkered down, waiting and watching.
The Fenn drew the scout’s body into the forest.
The youth stood there, not cowering, but slowly turning to stare back at the Fenn. Fear still lurked within him, but he refused to surrender to it. He sought to project courage, and praised Wentoki’s name with every breath. He wanted the Fenn to know he would not run or scream. Though they might kill him, they would never break him, and even the Fenn seemed to acknowledge that as truth.
Wentoki manifested in the clearing as a man. The Viruk stared at him. Talrisaal could not hide his astonishment at a Viruk god choosing to assume the form of a slave. The youth dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.
“It gladdens my heart, oh Wentoki, that you would come see how your gift is spent.” The innocence of youth filled the words with sincerity. “I shall not dishonor your gift.”
Wentoki chose to ignore the warriors who still begged for his dog-brother’s intervention. “You’ve prayed for courage to die well, Talrisaal. You don’t need it.”
The Dragon god gestured and the flames vanished. Darkness fell, shot through with snarls and screams.
Then the flaming circle returned, smaller, with the youth kneeling at its heart. The blood of his companions had been splashed over him, but no other trace of them remained. The fire’s renewed light did not fill the clearing, and the Fennych had encroached to shadow’s edge.
“Do you test me to see if I will be unworthy of your gift?”
“You are days and weeks from home. You are alone. Have you sufficient wisdom to survive?”
The youth’s mouth gaped for a moment. “I do not even have the wisdom to know how to answer you.”
“Then you will pray to my sister, Tsiwen.” Wentoki opened both arms and the circle of Fenn parted. “You have no need for courage, but I should not hesitate to lend it to you if you did. Go now. Tell no one of our encounter; they would not believe you.”
The young Viruk got to his feet and, without looking back, began the long march to his home.
Wordlessly, Wentoki commanded the Fenn to escort him. Talrisaal traveled north in the company of forest spirits that guided him to freshwater, scared away predators, and watched over him while he slept. All of this Wentoki observed from afar.
Jorim blinked. “Talrisaal became a great sorcerer among the Viruk.”
Chado nodded. “When our father thought to remake the world, he chose nine of his Viruk to replace us. They were sorcerers all, well versed in the warping of reality. He revealed to them his plan to supplant the gods, and Talrisaal revealed the plan to you. With the courage you lent him, he rebelled. While our father was distracted fighting to preserve Viruk unity, we were able to strike and kill him.”
“But not destroy him completely.” Jorim glanced at Grija. “He was trapped in your realm, in a place of your creation, which was why he could not escape.”
“Not until your sister did.”
“How did she do that?”
Tsiwen gestured and the world spun beneath them. Out in the vast Eastern Sea loomed a new continent. “She is there, in a place called Kunjiqui, in the land of Anturasixan.”
Jorim stared down. “A continent named for my family. How?” He thought for a moment and pain radiated through his chest. “My grandfather, he has become a Mystic. He created this place and pulled Nirati into it instead of losing her.”
“Is that so hard to understand?” Grija snarled, baring his teeth. “You created human magic, and through it this place was created. We are barred from interfering there, but you are not. Go there, destroy her, and the threat of our father’s return can forever be ended.”
Chapter Five
6th day, Month of the Hawk, Year of the Rat
Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court
163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty
737th Year since the Cataclysm
Kelewan, Erumvirine
Prince Nelesquin dismounted before the walls of the Illustrated City. He would enter the capital of his empire on foot, unguarded. His new subjects might not believe he was that Prince Nelesquin, but as long as they knew he was both strong and fearless, that was all that mattered. Strong, because those who had conquered the city would bend their knees as he passed. Fearless, because he would walk through Kelewan’s streets unarmed.
The large man strode confidently toward the Violet Gate. It was the smallest of the city’s gates and only those of royal blood were allowed to pass. The massive purple doors slowly slid open and a dozen of his Durrani warriors fell crisply into ranks on either side. The dawning sun washed gold through their silver mail and lightened the blue of their flesh. The sharpened tips of ears appeared through thick, dark manes, and their amber eyes searched restlessly.
As he drew closer, the warriors dropped to a knee, hammered right fist against left shoulder, and bowed their heads. Not all at once, of course, but in sequence, so someone could always ward him. And beyond them, on the shadowed road, their commander waited, even more watchful.