The New World

Michael A. Stackpole

The New World

Chapter One

4th 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

Voraxan

Ciras Dejote sighed and wished that the peace of Voraxan might once again infect him. Instead he wandered the empty onyx streets, passing between buildings carved from ruby and emerald, topaz, lapis, and citrine, and felt nothing. The architecture reminded him of the grand palaces of the Empire-relics of a time when heroes walked and epic tales were born.

He had grown up listening to such stories and had dreamed of someday becoming a hero. He knew the path to such immortality would require achieving jaedun — the magic that transformed an ordinary warrior into a Mystic. Through diligent study and practice, he could become a superior swordsman. But as a Mystic, he would be supernaturally gifted.

He had set out with his master, Moraven Tolo, on a quest into the Wastes, where wild magic still warped the land. Then his mission had changed. He and the inventor, Borosan Gryst, had set off deep into Ixyll, to find Voraxan, the resting place of the Sleeping Empress. They were to awaken her and bring her army back to the very Empire she had sundered over seven centuries before.

Ciras paused beside a small emerald building. He ran his fingers over the characters gently carved into the lintel: Shan Tsiendao. Within the building he could see her recumbent form, sleeping, dreaming, waiting to be summoned once again to war. Though he felt drawn back to the Nine Principalities, he regretted the necessity of awakening any of these warriors.

His quest to be a hero had brought him to this grand city of the dead, with tombs carved of gems, styled to be homes. It was not, however, a place of misery and remorse. The streets and buildings all combined instead to make it into a peaceful haven. Given that the warriors resting therein had fought the greatest battle in the history of the world, it seemed appropriate.

Ciras walked on, wending his way back toward the onyx courtyard of the ruby palace that had been the Empress’ resting place. Trapped between the palace and a diamond fountain, Borosan Gryst sat tinkering with one of his magical machines. Despite the hardship of their journey together, the man remained overweight. He wore no sword and had neither martial skill nor sense. In Ciras’ world, those deficiencies would have made the dark-haired man beneath contempt.

And yet, on the journey, Borosan had proven himself clever. Almost too clever.

Ciras’ shadow fell over Borosan. “I ca

Borosan smiled indulgently. “It was not a matter of trust, Master Dejote. I had been given a secret mission by the Empress. I did not tell my father. I would not have told Prince Cyron, had he asked. You should not feel betrayed.”

The slender swordsman crouched beside his thickset companion, though he remained beyond the reach of the spiderlike thanaton on which Borosan worked. “I understand secrecy. Delivering the message to the people of Voraxan was very important. What would have happened if you had died on the way? The call would not have gone out.”

Borosan shrugged. Both arms were elbow deep in the i

The gyanridin ’s right hand emerged from the magical machine’s bowels and tossed Ciras a small, yellowed ivory cylinder with delicate script carved on it. “If I died, there was always this.”

Ciras caught it. The writing was in the old Imperial script and therefore taxing to read. “A poem?”

“By Jaor Dirxi. A meditation on the beauty of a woman who became the Empress.” Borosan nodded. “I was told he inscribed the ivory himself.”

The slender swordsman twisted the top and slid the end off. A small scroll of rice paper fell into his hand when he upended the cylinder. He unrolled it. It contained the message Borosan had delivered. “Unsheathe your claws, spread your wings, and answer the call you have waited so long to hear.”

The hand that had wielded the brush had been strong yet delicate. Something else struck him about the note, but he could not immediately identify it. Then he raised the note to his nose and breathed in.

Ciras’ head snapped up. “The scent. This wasn’t written by the Empress. This was written by the Lady of Jet and Jade. My master knows her. I caught the scent on his robes…”

Borosan shook his head. “You’re too quick to jump to conclusions. You’re correct in part. It was written by the Lady of Jet and Jade. Why would you assume that she is not also the Empress?”

Ciras rocked back and sat staring at the ruby palace. The Empress had led an army of Mystics to destroy the Turasynd horde raiding from the north. Their grand battle released untold amounts of magical energy, which swept over the continent, triggering the Time of Black Ice. The Nine Principalities had been devastated, and even now were only begi

The swordsman from Tirat frowned. “The Lady of Jet and Jade is a courtesan of incredible skill. She, too, is a Mystic, hence her longevity, but…”

“You must have known she became one of the last Emperor’s wives as a gift from a courtier. What did you think she had been previous to that?”

Ciras shook his head. “I know you people of Nalenyr think those of us from the islands are provincial, but we, too, have our houses of pleasure. I have no objection to the Lady of Jet and Jade, but she is no warrior, and yet, from the stories, I expected someone more like one of the Keru.”

Borosan laughed and closed the thanaton ’s body. “Yes, tall, strong, able to kill a charging elephant with a single spear thrust. Apparently skill at arms was not where her strength lay-and I don’t intend that as a pun. She had the world’s greatest warriors with her, many of whom are now being wakened from their Voraxan homes.”

“And they will answer her call.” Ciras shook his head. “I wonder what she will ask them to do?”

Borosan stood and brushed his hands off. “We will see when we return with them.”

Borosan bowed past Ciras to a slender man with a bald head. Ciras stood immediately and bowed as well. “Greetings, Master Laedhze.”

The warrior returned their bows. “I have news to impart and a favor to ask.”

“Of course.” Ciras answered for the both of them. “Whatever you need.”

Vlay Laedhze waved a hand back toward the city. Throughout, people could be seen stirring within their jeweled homes. “We are waking our companions, and many are consenting to answer the call.”

Ciras arched an eyebrow. “‘Many’? I would have thought they all wanted to answer.”

The tall man brought his hands together and hung his head with resignation. “I have little doubt they all intended to answer when they first lay themselves down. Over the years a few of them have done their duty when wakened and have departed Voraxan. Others returned to their homes here, and embraced the peace of this city. You have partaken of this.”

Ciras nodded. During his time in Voraxan he had slept very well. He had not once dreamed of violence or warfare. In dreams, he’d journeyed to far Tirat and visited his family. They knew nothing of his sojourns, but he was able to watch them and see that they were happy. That warmed his heart in a way quite beyond value.