‘I do not.’
‘Oh.’ And then Toc halted – or tried to, but his feet dragged onward – ‘Hold on, my soul was sworn to the Wolves—’
‘Too late. Your soul, Toc the Younger, was sworn to me. Long ago.’
‘Really? Who was the fool who did that?’
‘Your father,’ Hood replied. ‘Who, unlike Dassem Ultor, remained loyal.’
‘Which you rewarded by killing him? You bastard piece of pigsh—’
‘You will await him, Toc the Younger.’
‘He lives still?’
‘Death never lies.’
Toc the Younger tried to halt again. ‘Hood, a question – please.’
The god stopped, looked down at the mortal.
‘Hood, why do I still have only one eye?’
The God of Death, Reaper of Souls, made no reply. He had been wondering that himself.
Damned wolves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I have seen the face of sorrow
She looks away in the distance
Across all these bridges
From whence I came
And those spans, trussed and arched
Hold up our lives as we go back again
To how we thought then
To how we thought we thought then
I have seen sorrow’s face,
But she is ever turned away
And her words leave me blind
Her eyes make me mute
I do not understand what she says to me
I do not know if to obey
Or attempt a flood of tears
I have seen her face
She does not speak
She does not weep
She does not know me
For I am but a stone fitted in place
On the bridge where she walks
Lay of the Bridgeburners
Toc the Younger
Once, long ago, Onrack the broken committed a crime. He had professed his love for a woman in fashioning her likeness on the wall of a cave. There had been such talent in his hands, in his eyes, he had bound two souls into that stone. His own . . . that was his right, his choice. But the other soul, oh, the selfishness of that act, the cruelty of that theft . . .
He stood, now, before another wall of stone, within another cave, looking upon the array of paintings, the beasts with every line of muscle, every hint of motion, celebrating their veracity, the accuracy of genius. And in the midst of these great creatures of the world beyond, awkward stick figures, representing the Imass, cavorted in a poor mime of dance. Lifeless as the law demanded. He stood, then, still Broken, still the stealer of a woman’s life.
In the darkness of his captivity, long ago, someone had come to him, with gentle hands and yielding flesh. He so wanted to believe that it had been she, the one whose soul he had stolen. But such knowledge was now lost to him; so confused had the memory become, so infused with all that his heart wished to believe.
And, even if it had indeed been she, well, perhaps she had no choice. Imprisoned by his crime, helpless to defy his desire. In his own breaking, he had destroyed her as well.
He reached out, settled fingertips lightly upon one of the images. Ranag, pursued by an ay. In the torch’s wavering light both beasts seemed in motion, muscles rippling. In celebrating the world, which held no regrets, the Imass would gather shoulder to shoulder in this cavern, and with their voices they would beat out the rhythm of breaths, the huffing of the beasts; while others, positioned in selected concavities, pounded their hands on drums of hollowed-out wood and skin, until the echoes of hoofbeats thundered from all sides.
We are the witnesses. We are the eyes trapped for ever on the outside. We have been severed from the world. And this is at the heart of the law, the prohibition. We create ourselves as lifeless, awkward, apart. Once, we were as the beasts, and there was no inside, no outside. There was only the one, the one world, of which we were its flesh, its bone, flesh little different from grasses, lichens and trees. Bones little different from wood and stone. We were its blood, in which coursed rivers down to the lakes and seas.
We give voice to our sorrow, to our loss.
In discovering what it is to die, we have been cast out from the world.
In discovering beauty, we were made ugly.
We do not suffer in the manner that beasts suffer – for they surely do. We suffer with the memory of how it was before suffering came, and this deepens the wound, this tears open the pain. There is no beast that can match our anguish.
So sing, brothers. Sing, sisters. And in the torch’s light, floating free from the walls of our minds – of the caves within us – see all the faces of sorrow. See those who have died and left us. And sing your grief until the very beasts flee.
Onrack the Broken felt the tears on his cheeks, and cursed himself for a sentimental fool.
Behind him, Trull Sengar stood in silence. In humouring a foolish Imass, he was without impatience. Onrack knew he would simply wait, and wait. Until such time as Onrack might stir from his grim memories, recalling once more the gifts of the present. He would—
‘There was great skill in the painting of these beasts.’
The Imass, still facing the stone wall, still with his back to the Tiste Edur, found himself smiling. So, even here and now, I indulge silly fantasies that are, even if comforting, without much meaning. ‘Yes, Trull Sengar. True talent. Such skill is passed down in the blood, and with each generation there is the potential for . . . burgeoning. Into such as we see here.’
‘Is the artist among the clans here? Or were these painted long ago, by someone else?’
‘The artist,’ Onrack said, ‘is Ulshun Pral.’
‘And is it this talent that has earned him the right to rule?’
No. Never that. ‘This talent,’ the Imass replied, ‘is his weakness.’
‘Better than you, Onrack?’
He turned about, his smile now wry. ‘I see some flaws. I see hints of impatience. Of emotion free and savage as the beasts he paints. I see also, perhaps, signs of a talent he had lost and has not yet rediscovered.’
‘How does one lose talent like that?’
‘By dying, only to return.’
‘Onrack,’ and there was a new tone to Trull’s voice, a gravity that unnerved Onrack, ‘I have spoken with these Imass here. Many of them. With Ulshun himself. And I do not think they ever died. I do not think they were once T’lan, only to have forgotten in the countless generations of existence here.’
‘Yes, they say they are among those who did not join the Ritual. But this cannot be true, Trull Sengar. They must be ghosts, willed into flesh, held here by the timelessness of the Gate at the end of this cave. My friend, they do not know themselves.’ And then he paused. Can this be true?
‘Ulshun Pral says he remembers his mother. He says she is still alive. Although not here right now.’
‘Ulshun Pral is a hundred thousand years old, Trull Sengar. Or more. What he remembers is false, a delusion.’
‘I do not believe that, not any more. I think the mystery here is deeper than any of us realize.’
‘Let us go on,’ Onrack said. ‘I would see this Gate.’
They left the chamber of the beasts.
Trull was filled with unease. Something had been awakened in his friend – by the paintings – and its taste was bitter. He had seen, in the lines of Onrack’s back, his shoulders, a kind of slow collapse. The return of some ancient burden. And, seeing this, Trull had forced himself to speak, to break the silence before Onrack could destroy himself.
Yes. The paintings. The crime. Will you not smile again, Onrack? Not the smile you gave me when you turned to face me just now – too broken, too filled with sorrow – but the smile I have grown to treasure since coming to this realm.
‘Onrack.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do we still know what we are waiting for? Yes, threats approach. Will they come through the Gate? Or from across the hills beyo
nd the camp? Do we know in truth if these Imass are indeed threatened?’
‘Prepare yourself, Trull Sengar. Danger draws close . . . on all sides.’
‘Perhaps then we should return to Ulshun Pral.’
‘Rud Elalle is with them. There is time yet . . . to see this Gate.’
Moments later, they came to the edge of the vast, seemingly limitless cavern, and both halted.
Not one Gate. Many gates.
And all were seething with silent, wild fire.
‘Onrack,’ Trull said, unslinging his spear. ‘Best return to Rud Elalle and let him know – this is not what he described.’
Onrack pointed towards a central heap of stones. ‘She has failed. This realm, Trull Sengar, is dying. And when it dies . . .’
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Onrack said, ‘I will return quickly, my friend, so that you do not stand alone – against what may come through.’
‘I look forward to your company,’ Trull replied. ‘So . . . hurry.’
Forty-odd paces beyond the camp rose a modest hill, stretched out as if it had once been an atoll, assuming the plains had once been under water and that, Hedge told himself as he kicked his way through a ribbon of sand studded with broken shells, was a fair assumption. Reaching the elongated summit, he set down his oversized crossbow near an outcrop of sun-bleached limestone, then walked over to where Quick Ben sat cross-legged, facing the hills two thousand paces to the south.
‘You’re not meditating or something, are you?’
‘If I had been,’ the wizard snapped, ‘you’d have just ruined it and possibly killed us all.’
‘It’s all the posturing, Quick,’ Hedge said, flopping down onto the gravel beside him. ‘You turn picking your nose into a Hood-damned ritual, so it gets I just give up on knowing when to talk to you or not.’
‘If that’s the case, then don’t ever talk to me and we’ll both be happy.’
‘Miserable snake.’
‘Hairless rodent.’
The two sat in companionable silence for a time, then Hedge reached out and picked up a shard of dark brown flint. He peered at one serrated edge.
‘What are you doing?’ Quick Ben demanded.
‘Contemplating.’
‘Contemplating,’ Quick Ben mimed, head wagging from side to side in time with each syllable.
‘I could cut your throat with this. One swipe.’
‘We never did get along, did we? Gods, I can’t believe how we hugged and slapped each other on the back, down at that river—’
‘Stream.’
‘Watering hole.’
‘Spring.’
‘Will you please cut my throat now, Hedge?’
The sapper tossed the flint away and dusted his hands with brisk slaps. ‘What makes you so sure the baddies are coming up from the south?’
‘Who says I’m sure of anything?’
‘So we could be sitting in the wrong place. Facing the wrong direction. Maybe everybody’s getting butchered right now even as I speak.’
‘Well, Hedge, if you hadn’t of interrupted my meditating, maybe I’d have figured out where we should be right now!’
‘Oh, nice one, wizard.’
‘They’re coming from the south because it’s the best approach.’
‘As what, rabbits?’
‘No, as dragons, Hedge.’
The sapper squinted at the wizard. ‘There always was a smell of Soletaken about you, Quick. We finally gonna see what scrawny beastie you got hiding in there?’
‘That’s a rather appalling way of putting it, Hedge. And the answer is: no.’
‘You still feeling shaky?’
The wizard glanced over, his eyes bright and half mad – his normal look, in other words. ‘No. In fact, the very opposite.’
‘How so?’
‘I stretched myself, way more than I’d ever done before.
It’s made me . . . nastier.’
‘Really.’
‘Don’t sound so impressed, Hedge.’
‘All I know is,’ the sapper said, grunting to his feet, ‘when they roll over you, there’s just me and an endless supply of cussers. And that suits me just fine.’
‘Don’t blast my body to pieces, Hedge.’
‘Even if you’re already dead?’
‘Especially then, because I won’t be, will I? You’ll just think it, because thinking it is convenient, because then you can go wild with your damned cussers until you’re standing in a Hood-damned crater a Hood-damned league across!’
This last bit had been more or less a shriek.
Hedge continued his squinting. ‘No reason to get all testy,’ he said in a hurt tone, then turned and walked back to his crossbow, his beloved lobber. And said under his breath, ‘Oh, this is going to be so much fun, I can’t wait!’
‘Hedge!’
‘What?’
‘Someone’s coming.’
‘From where?’ the sapper demanded, readying a cusser in the cradle of the crossbow.
‘Ha ha. From the south, you bloated bladder of piss.’
‘I knew it,’ Hedge said, coming to the wizard’s side.
She had chosen to remain as she was, rather than veer into her Soletaken form. That would come later. And so she walked across the plain, through the high grasses of the basin. On a ridge directly ahead stood two figures. One was a ghost, but maybe something more than just a ghost. The other was a mage, and without question more than just a mage.
A sliver of disquiet stirred Menandore’s thoughts. Quickly swept away. If Rud Elalle had selected these two as allies, then she would accept that. Just as he had recruited the Tiste Edur and the one known as Onrack the Broken. All . . . complications, but she would not be alone in dealing with them, would she?
The two men watched as she ascended the gentle slope. One was cradling a bizarre crossbow of some kind. The other was playing with a handful of small polished stones, as if trying to choose one as his favourite.
They’re fools. Idiots.
And soon, they will both be dust.
She fixed on them her hardest glare as she drew up to the edge of the crest. ‘You two are pathetic. Why stand here – do you know who approaches? Do you know they will come from the south? Meaning that you two will be the first they see. And so, the first they kill.’
The taller, darker-skinned one turned slightly, then said, ‘Here comes your son, Menandore. With Ulshun Pral.’ He then frowned. ‘That’s a familiar walk . . . Wonder why I never noticed that before.’
Walk? Familiar walk? He is truly mad.
‘I have summoned them,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘We must prepare for the battle.’
The shorter one grunted, then said, ‘We don’t want any company. So pick somewhere else to do your fighting.’
‘I am tempted to crush your skull between my hands,’ Menandore said.
‘Doesn’t work,’ the wizard muttered. ‘Everything just pops back out.’
The one with the crossbow gave her a wide smile.
Menandore said, ‘I assure you, I have no intention of being anywhere near you, although it is my hope I will be within range to see your grisly deaths.’
‘What makes you so sure they’ll be grisly?’ the wizard asked, now studying one pebble in particular, holding it up to the light as if it was a gem of some sort, but Menandore could see that it was not a gem. Simply a stone, and an opaque one at that.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded.
He glanced across at her, then closed his hand round the stone and brought it down behind his back. ‘Nothing. Why? Anyway, I asked you a question.’
‘And I am obliged to answer it?’ She snorted.
Rud Elalle and Ulshun Pral arrived, halting a few paces behind the wizard and his companion.
Menandore saw the hard expression in her son’s face. Could I have seen anything else? No. Not for this. ‘Beloved son—’
‘I care nothing for the Finnest,’ Rud Elalle s
aid. ‘I will not join you in your fight, Mother.’
She stared, eyes widening even as they filled with burning rage. ‘You must! I cannot face them both!’
‘You have new allies,’ Rud Elalle said. ‘These two, who even now guard the approach—’
‘These brainless dolts? My son, you send me to my death!’
Rud Elalle straightened. ‘I am taking my Imass away from here, Mother. They are all that matters to me—’
‘More than the life of your mother?’
‘More than the fight she chooses for herself!’ he snapped. ‘This clash – this feud – it is not mine. It is yours. It was ever yours! I want nothing to do with it!’
Menandore flinched back at her son’s fury. Sought to hold his eyes, then failed and looked away. ‘So be it,’ she whispered. ‘Go then, my son, and take your chosen kin. Go!’
As Rud Elalle nodded and turned away, however, she spoke again, in a tone harder than anything that had come before. ‘But not him.’
Her son swung round, saw his mother pointing towards the Imass at his side.
Ulshun Pral.
Rud Elalle frowned. ‘What? I do not—’
‘No, my son, you do not. Ulshun Pral must remain. Here.’
‘I will not permit—’
And then the Bentract leader reached out a hand to stay Rud Elalle – who was moments from veering into his dragon form, to lock in battle with his own mother.
Menandore waited, outwardly calm, reposed, even as her heart thudded fierce in her chest.
‘She speaks true,’ Ulshun Pral said. ‘I must stay.’
‘But why?’
‘For the secret I possess, Rud Elalle. The secret they all seek. If I go with you, all will pursue. Do you understand? Now, I beg you, lead my people away from here, to a safe place. Lead them away, Rud Elalle, and quickly!’
‘Will you now fight at my side, my son?’ Menandore demanded. ‘To ensure the life of Ulshun Pral?’
But Ulshun Pral was already pushing Rud Elalle away. ‘Do as I ask,’ he said to Menandore’s son. ‘I cannot die fearing for my people – please, lead them away.’
The wizard then spoke up, ‘We’ll do our best to safeguard him, Rud Elalle.’
Menandore snorted her contempt. ‘You risk such a thing?’ she demanded of her son.
Rud Elalle stared across at the wizard, then at the smiling one with the crossbow, and she saw a strange calm slip over her son’s expression – and that sliver of disquiet returned to her, stinging.