“Yes, Urmyr, we have done well in pacifying the Three Kingdoms. From here we can take the five to the south, and northern wastes. It will be a bulwark against the return.”

The warrior bowed. “I will do all you ask, master, but I will not understand some of your pronouncements.”

Jorim felt himself laugh. “Content yourself that you will not. Some of these things are not meant for the mind of man.”

That vision shattered and flew away in a million sparks. Another flash came and he caught it. A vision of war washed over him, with eight-foot-tall reptiles raising obsidian-edged war clubs and charging at Amentzutl lines. The bipeds wore no armor over their leathery green skin, though they painted themselves with lurid colors in chaotic patterns. He knew these had to be the Ansatl, and that the patterns somehow bound magic to the creatures.

He raised his hands and concentrated. The balance shifted, and what had been cool became molten, flaring and searing. An Ansatl screamed and fell. His fellows came on, swords rising and falling…

Another image slammed into the first and exploded it. He found himself on another battlefield, this one in the Empire. He saw more armies and recognized the banners as current, though he did not know the place. What struck him as odd was that Virine and Desei troops were arrayed on one side, and other troops-alien troops-attacked them. Giant metal creatures, like gyanrigot but so much bigger, waded forth into the lines, casting broken soldiers about like a child scattering toy soldiers.

Image after image came to him. Memories and experiences and visions mixed and merged. At times, he heard nothing and was seared by stark visions. At others, everything seemed invisible, but he heard voices and sounds. Sometimes he was a man, and at least once he was a beast. Some things he experienced intimately, and others remained so distant that only by straining could he observe what was happening.

Everything came faster and faster. He tried to study it all, but it overwhelmed him. Colors swirled around him-a cyclone of experiences. Pain and peace, the shock of death and the comfort of release, the agony of life and the joy of having lived all pulsed through him. He felt lost and alone, and at the same time in the company of the most stalwart companions he could imagine, and they were all him.

At some point, when it all closed in, blackness overwhelmed him. He felt certain he did not pass out, but when he opened his eyes again he knew time had passed. How much he couldn’t tell, and the Witch-King was nowhere about to help him.

He lay there for a moment in the shallow hole that had once held the slab. The magic was because the slab was me, all of me, all the incarnations through all time. Tetcomchoa had divested himself of anything he did not need to be Taichun. That part of him had waited here to be reclaimed.

Jorim sat up and hugged his legs to his chest. I am a god. I’ve always been a god. He slowly shook his head. So, just what does that make the rest of my family?

Chapter Forty-six

7th day, Planting Season, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Moriande, Nalenyr

Grand Minister Pelut Vniel peered at Junel Aerynnor through the screened hole. The young man did not seem nervous at all, but then he never had. He projected a calmness that spoke well of his usefulness.

Vniel spoke through a thick woolen scarf to disguise his voice. “You positioned yourself well within the Vroan household. This pleases us.”

“It is only what you wished.”

“But pursued on your own initiative. Now, tell me, what have you heard of Prince Eiran?”

“Everyone knows he has gone missing. He is presumed dead-assassinated.” The slender man pointed off in the direction of the temple district. “Prince Cyron appeared at the Dragon Temple to burn incense. He clearly believes Eiran is dead. More important, there is no reason the Helosundians would just kidnap him. That serves no purpose. They slew him.”

Vniel wiped away tears with a handkerchief. The opium smoke stung his eyes, but the opium den was the most convenient place he knew of to keep the meeting completely confidential.

“You are certain Count Vroan did not order the Prince’s death?”

“He would have been happy to do so, but he saw no point to it. He was content to assume control of those troops himself, and would have been happy to have had the Prince turn them over to him. Vroan knows the value of leading armed men, and his return to prominence will remind people of past glory.”

“And positions him to take command in the event of an emergency.”

“That is his belief.”

Vniel watched the Desei carefully. “But the count is not averse to employing assassins?”

Aerynnor smiled. “Do you refer to him or me?”

“Both.”

“The answer is the same. He and I did speak of it, and he liked the idea of letting Nerot Scior assume responsibility for any assassin attacking Prince Cyron.”

“Whether he truly is involved or not?”

The man in the center of the room nodded.

Vniel closed his eyes for a moment and considered. He’d already met with the highest ministers in the Naleni bureaucracy, and all of them lamented the position the nation found itself in. He had been quite frank in describing the threat from the south, the agreement Pyrust had negotiated with the Helosundians, and his assessment of Prince Cyron’s inability to deal with either threat-much less two of them at once. To a man, the ministers agreed that if Cyron were to leave office so someone more capable could handle the crisis, it would be a blessing.

Which meant they all tacitly agreed to the use of an assassin. Prince Cyron, and even his father before him, had taken an unhealthy interest in the mechanisms of how the state functioned on a day-to-day basis. They established their exploration program outside the bureaucracy, minimized its interaction with the bureaucracy and, as a result, yielded far too little to the ministries in the way of power or wealth. The ministers resented Cyron for that, so they were more than willing to see him dead.

Especially if their hands would remain clean.

He did, however, find their lack of foresight rather shocking. Removing Cyron would not solve the problem of the threats from north and south. While Vroan might be able to keep the Desei in Helosunde, the fact was that their total control of Helosunde would not be overturned and Deseirion would become a serious power lurking on the border. Without constant vigilance, Pyrust would push south and Nalenyr would fall.

But the need for constant vigilance in the north meant that Vroan would be hard-pressed to fight against the invaders from the south. The Helosundian troops Cyron had moved down there did have a personal allegiance to Cyron. While Vroan had a Helosundian wife and child, Pyrust’s seizure of Helosunde and the call for all true Helosundians to return to their homeland would weigh heavily on the minds of those troops. Would they stay in the south and protect Nalenyr, or retreat to the Helos Mountains and protect their own homeland from invasion?

This Vniel didn’t know and couldn’t tell. But if Vroan were removed from the picture and Prince Pyrust assumed power in Nalenyr, all the resources from three nations could be directed toward fighting the invaders-even adding Erumvirine to the fold. Pyrust, while no friend of the ministries, would find himself very much dependent upon them to administer an empire.

And he is no more immortal than any princes before him.

Vniel opened his eyes again. “How difficult will it be to get Scior to purchase an assassin?”

“It would be simple.”

Vniel considered. Pyrust was likely only five days away with his army. “I would like it done soon.”