Chapter Seventeen

32nd 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

Jaidanxan (The Ninth Heaven)

Jorim gave Tsiwen as brave a smile as he could muster. “This will be for the best, sister. Thank you for convincing Grija.”

She gave him a dark-eyed look. “This will get you back to the mortal realm, but it does not settle how you shall deal with your sister. What will you do?”

He began pacing along his balcony, relishing the feel of cool stone. It didn’t matter that it was an illusion. “I do not know. Nirati might be convinced to go willingly into the Underworld to save reality.”

Tsiwen frowned. “That would solve the immediate problem but leave Grija with another. Having a mortal in the Underworld-someone with her physical form intact-is trouble.”

Jorim cocked an eyebrow. “This has happened before?”

“Several times. Human heroes seeking to free a loved one from our brother’s clutches. They generally beat Grija into submission or trick him, and he lets the soul loose.”

Jorim stopped and faced her. “A mortal has beaten Grija?”

“It happened with some frequency until we hid the gates to the Underworld. Our brother accepted dominion over the dead because the dead are not likely to outthink or overpower him.”

“But a mortal?”

The goddess of Wisdom smiled. “Mortal life is a power unto itself. Mortals will often appeal to you or me for divine aid, but you have seen how swiftly time passes down there. By the time I might notice an entreaty, the time to intervene is long past. And yet, somehow, those mortals figure out a solution, or find courage in themselves. They attribute it to us and give us thanks and praise, but we did nothing. If they knew their power, they might mount a campaign to unseat us, just as we threw down our father.”

Jorim rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You suggest that life itself is magic.”

“No suggestion. It is the way of things. The birth of a child is as much creation as making a world. Shaping a bow or mastering a sword cut, all of these things are creations.” Tsiwen’s smile grew. “Every act of creation, no matter how big or small, changes reality. The consequences of a change are all but impossible to calculate, which makes our position a precarious one. Once someone decides the gods do not exist, we may, in fact, cease to exist.”

The dragon god slowly nodded. “Those who create instead of destroy get used to expanding reality. There comes a time when their access to it expands. They gain control over it.”

“True, but too many see themselves as limited. You and your brother may have wondered what it would mean to become a Mystic cartographer, but that was to study a cup of water when you were submerged in an ocean.”

“So developing a skill is a means to an end, not an end in itself?”

“Not if one is capable of pushing beyond.” Tsiwen walked to him and enfolded him in a hug. “Our brother comes to strip you of all I love. I recall only too well the pain of the last time, so I shall not stay.”

Jorim lowered his head and kissed her brow. “Wait for me on the Stormwolf. I may need help navigating to Anturasixan.”

“I shall be glad to be of service.” In the blink of an eye she shrank into the form of a bat. She flapped hard and circled him twice before diving from his heavenly palace to the mortal plain below.

Jorim watched her go, only to turn and face Grija. Something looked different about him. He appeared less craven, more bold, but the difference was subtle and made Jorim wary.

“We have agreed, have we not, brother, that I shall remain in my physical body for a normal span of years, then return here?”

The god of Death nodded solemnly. “We have, brother. I will not cheat you of years, even though I know it is your intent to waste them in dalliance with the woman from the east.”

“You almost sound jealous.”

“Of the pleasures of the flesh? Never. Too fleeting.” Grija opened his hands. “Shall we begin?”

“Please.” Jorim let his brother precede him up the broad ivory stairs to a bedchamber. “We have agreed my essence shall remain here until my return?”

“I have already sworn there would be no trickery.”

“I wish I could remember if you made that same oath last time.” Jorim lay down on the bed and shifted until he felt comfortable. He knew he needn’t do that, since his discomfort was also an illusion, but the shifting was something he had done as Jorim. “I am ready.”

“Good.” Grija raised a finger and a long talon grew out of it. Light glinted from the edge. “Death is change. What I shall do is slice away all that is not Jorim Anturasi.”

“I will remember nothing of being a god?”

“You may retain some memories, but they will gradually fade. Once I’ve severed your divine essence, you will be unanchored. That piece of your soul which was shaped during your time in that identity will return to his physical form.”

“ My physical form, you mean.”

“Meat, skin, and bones, yes, yours.” Grija’s eyes hardened. “Shall we begin?”

Jorim nodded and closed his eyes. He willed himself to melt all the illusions. Gone was his sense of the physical, of heat and cold, of light. These things still existed, but they meant nothing to him. He sank into a dim void, then a rainbow of images danced before his eyes. One was a dragon, another was a Fennych. He saw himself as Jorim, and again as Tetcomchoa and the first Emperor, Taichun. All of the images floated around, connected by ethereal tendrils.

Then a claw swept through, severing his connection to the dragon. Pain such as he had never known ripped through him. Part of him remembered that it was all illusion, but even that knowledge was drifting away. A key piece of his essence grew dim, losing itself in the void.

The talon made another circuit and Jorim screamed. He could feel his throat ripping itself to pieces as Taichun vanished. More pain, molten and surging, pummeled him as Tetcomchoa disappeared. His blood burned like acid. His body shivered.

His mortal form, stiff and cold, was pulling him in.

Grija’s claw raked through his essence again and again. Each tendril parted with the twang of a tendon ripping free. Light exploded before Jorim’s eyes. Panic pounded through him. He’d lost who he was, what he was. He did not know himself anymore.

The part of him that was a god had vanished.

And his body accepted him again. Spasms wracked him and bowed his back. His arms fought. Fabric tore. His arms flailed, his legs kicked, then he landed hard on a solid surface. Sparks exploded before his eyes as his head hit. He struggled to suck in breath and finally succeeded in one grand wheeze.

He rolled onto his side and coughed. He tore at the cloth over his face. It ripped, freeing him. He inhaled again, hot air filling his lungs. He coughed explosively, tasting brimstone. Then he felt the heat of the stone and remembered that his body had been preserved in a barrel of oil. The rags binding him still reeked of it, but of the barrel there was no sign.

A low wail sounded from behind him. “Oh no, what have you done?”

Jorim rolled over and sat up. “Who? Grija?”

The god of Death looked every inch a starved cur. A thick black collar circled his neck, and a pair of black chains ran from it into infinity. The chains weighed him down, keeping his head low.

“What have you done?”

“I’ve done what you helped me do.” Jorim tore away the rags binding his legs. “I’ve returned to my body.”

“No, no, no, say you have not. I told you not to.”

“You did nothing of the sort.” Jorim stood over him and raised a fist. “You agreed to let me return.”

Grija cowered. “That was not me. That was Nessagafel in my place.”

“What? How is that possible?”

Grija wailed like an orphaned child.

Jorim almost slapped him. He dropped to a knee and lifted the chains. They didn’t seem heavy at all, but Grija was barely able to move. “You have to tell me what happened.”

“It was all your fault, you and the others.” Grija curled a lip back in a snarl, but it had no power or menace. “You all mocked me. You defied me worst of all. I punished you, but you did not care. The others laughed at me for it. I couldn’t abide that, you know, I couldn’t. No one admired me. No poems praised me. No songs favored me. All I got was fear. You cannot live on fear, Wentoki, you cannot.”

Jorim shook the chains and Grija yelped. “I need to know what you did.”

The god of Death looked through him. “You had all given Nessagafel to me and here he slept. You helped bind him and once he was gone, you chose to follow him, to become mortal, to live as he had lived. The others watched you, watched Men, enjoyed their antics, but could I? No. All I got was the shrieking souls coming here after they died. The dead are not peaceful. I do not visit torments upon them out of need. To torture one, all I need do is catch him in a mirrored sphere so he can watch the failures that shaped his life. Then, eventually, I release them so they live again. If they succeed, they dwell with you in the heavens. If they fail, they are mine again.”

Grija’s eyes focused. “But you know who did not scream or complain? Nessagafel. He knew peace, so I would steal here, to the Ninth Hell, the one we reserved for him and him alone. I would stay here, bask in his peace, and he began to speak to me. I talked back. He said we were wrong to kill him. He was not going to unmake everything. He wasn’t going to destroy us, not all of us anyway. Just some. Chado and Quun. They killed him. I convinced him that we were innocent, brother, you and I. We would have been fine.”

Jorim sensed the lies, but it really didn’t matter. He had sought to reenter his body so he could lead the way to Anturasixan and trap Nessagafel forever. Grija had resisted that plan-knowing Wentoki would insist on it. Whatever Grija had been planning had failed, and Jorim needed to know what his brother had intended.

“You meant for me to be trapped in my mortal form again, didn’t you? Why?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Jorim threw the chains down. Their weight choked Grija and forced him to the ground.

“Don’t lie to me. You wanted me to be mortal again. Why?”

Grija flashed fang. “I needed your essence. I needed the strength.”

“Then this thing with Nirati was a lie?”

“Yes, a ruse, and you fell for it. And Tsiwen, too. Not so wise, is she?”

Jorim stomped on the chains, again smashing Grija’s face against the ground.

The death god raised his muzzle, black blood oozing from his nose. “With your essence, brother, I could have controlled our father. He could have unmade some things and remade others. I would have been first among the gods. Then you would have feared me.”

“What use has Nessagafel for my essence?”

Grija laughed madly. “You helped imprison him here. Your essence was the key to his restraints. With it he regains his freedom. To acquire it, he replaced me.”

“But he wasn’t quite you.” There had been something off about Grija. “There was no simpering, no fear.”

“I do not simper.”

Jorim growled and Grija shrank back. “If our father could replace you, why hadn’t he done that earlier?”

“He had plans, brother, and they have come to fruition. He was never strong enough to rip your essence from you. You gave it freely.”

Did I? His memories of being a god weren’t fading. In sensing the changes in Grija, had he clung to them more tightly?

Grija peered at him closely. “You’re more than mortal, aren’t you?”

Jorim looked down over his body. It showed no sign of decay or the traumas he’d suffered before death. “I’m not sure what I am. Not a god. Perhaps a user of magic-unless Nessagafel healed me. Why would he do that?”

The craven god whimpered. “For his own terrible reasons.”

Jorim stood. “We’re in the Ninth Hell, you said. Wangaxan?”

“Yes, and there is no escaping it.”

“Ha!” Jorim looked around. A side from his brother there was nothing. “Nessagafel escaped. If he can do it, so can I.”

“You will have cause to reconsider that statement, Jorim Anturasi.” Nessagafel materialized as a Viruk. “After all, this place was meant to imprison gods. What chance has a mortal of escaping it? Especially when I have no intention of letting you get away.”

TheNewWorld