‘I shall,’ Rud Elalle then said, and he reached out to Ulshun Pral. A gentle gesture, a hand resting lightly against one side of the Imass’s face. Rud Elalle then stepped back, swung round, and set off back for the camp.
Menandore spun on the two remaining men. ‘You damned fools!’
‘Just for that,’ the wizard said, ‘I’m not giving you my favourite stone.’
Hedge and Quick Ben watched her march back down the slope.
‘That was odd,’ the sapper muttered.
‘Wasn’t it.’
They were silent for another hundred heartbeats, then Hedge turned to Quick Ben. ‘So what do you think?’
‘You know exactly what I’m thinking, Hedge.’
‘Same as me, then.’
‘The same.’
‘Tell me something, Quick.’
‘What?’
‘Was that really your favourite stone?’
‘Do you mean the one I had in my hand? Or the one I slipped into her fancy white cloak?’
With skin wrinkled and stained by millennia buried in peat, Sheltatha Lore did indeed present an iconic figure of dusk. In keeping now with her reddish hair and the murky hue of her eyes, she wore a cloak of deep burgundy, black leather leggings and boots. Bronze-studded vest drawn tight across her chest.
At her side – like Sheltatha facing the hills – stood Sukul Ankhadu, Dapple, the mottling of her skin visible on her bared hands and forearms. On her slim shoulders a Letherii night-cloak, as was worn now by the noble born and the women of the Tiste Edur in the empire, although this one was somewhat worse for wear.
‘Soon,’ said Sheltatha Lore, ‘this realm shall be dust.’
‘This pleases you, sister?’
‘Perhaps not as much as it pleases you, Sukul. Why is this place an abomination in your eyes?’
‘I have no love for Imass. Imagine, a people grubbing in the dirt of caves for hundreds of thousands of years. Building nothing. All history trapped as memory, twisted as tales sung in rhyme every night. They are flawed. In their souls, there must be a flaw, a failing. And these ones here, they have deluded themselves into believing that they actually exist.’
‘Not all of them, Sukul.’
Dapple waved dismissively. ‘The greatest failing here, Sheltatha, lies with the Lord of Death. If not for Hood’s indifference, this realm could never have lasted as long as it has. It irritates me, such carelessness.’
‘So,’ Sheltatha Lore said with a smile, ‘you will hasten the demise of these Imass, even though, with the realm dying anyway, they are already doomed.’
‘You do not understand. The situation has . . . changed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Their conceit,’ said Sukul, ‘has made them real. Mortal, now. Blood, flesh and bone. Capable of bleeding, of dying. Yet they remain ignorant of their world’s imminent extinction.
My slaughtering them, sister, will be an act of mercy.’
Sheltatha Lore grunted. ‘I cannot wait to hear them thank you.’
At that moment a gold and white dragon rose into view before them, sailing low over the crests of the hills.
Sukul Ankhadu sighed. ‘It begins.’
The Soletaken glided down the slope directly towards them. Looming huge, yet still fifty paces away, the dragon tilted its wings back, crooked them as its hind limbs reached downwards, then settled onto the ground.
A blurring swirl enveloped the beast, and a moment later Menandore walked out from that spice-laden disturbance.
Sheltatha Lore and Sukul Ankhadu waited, saying nothing, their faces expressionless, while Menandore approached, finally halting five paces from them, her blazing eyes moving from one sister to the other, then back again. She said, ‘Are we still agreed, then?’
‘Such glorious precedent, this moment,’ Sheltatha Lore observed.
Menandore frowned. ‘Necessity. At least we should be understood on that matter. I cannot stand alone, cannot guard the soul of Scabandari. The Finnest must not fall in his hands.’
A slight catch of breath from Sukul. ‘Is he near, then?’
‘Oh yes. I have stolen the eyes of one travelling with him. Again and again. They even now draw to the last gate, and look upon its wound, and stand before the torn corpse of that foolish Imass Bonecaster who thought she could seal it with her own soul.’ Menandore sneered. ‘Imagine such effrontery. Starvald Demelain! The very chambers of K’rul’s heart! Did she not know how that weakened him? Weakened everything?’
‘So we three kill Silchas Ruin,’ Sheltatha Lore said. ‘And then the Imass.’
‘My son chooses to oppose us in that last detail,’ Menandore said. ‘But the Imass have outlived their usefulness. We shall wound Rud if we must, but we do not kill him. Understood? I will have your word on this. Again. Here and now, sisters.’
‘Agreed,’ Sheltatha Lore said.
‘Yes,’ said Sukul Ankhadu, ‘although it will make matters more difficult.’
‘We must live with that,’ Menandore said, and then turned. ‘It is time.’
‘Already?’
‘A few pathetic mortals seek to stand in our way – we must crush them first. And Silchas Ruin has allies. Our day’s work begins now, sisters.’
With that she walked towards the hills, and began veering into her dragon form.
Behind her, Sheltatha Lore and Sukul Ankhadu exchanged a look, and then they moved apart, giving themselves the room they needed.
Veering into dragons.
Dawn, Dusk and the one known as Dapple. A dragon of gold and white. One stained brown and looking half-rotted. The last mottled, neither light nor dark, but the uneasy interplay between the two. Soletaken with the blood of Tiam, the Mother. Sail-winged and serpent-necked, taloned and scaled, the blood of Eleint.
Lifting into the air on gusts of raw sorcery. Menandore leading the wedge formation. Sheltatha Lore on her left. Sukul Ankhadu on her right.
The hills before them, now dropping away as they heaved their massive bulks yet higher.
Clearing the crests, the ancient ridge of an ancient shore, and the sun caught gleaming scales, bloomed through the membranes of wings, while beneath three shadows raced over grass and rock, shadows that sent small mammals scurrying for cover, that launched birds into screeching flight, that made hares freeze in their tracks.
Beasts in the sky were hunting, and nothing on the ground was safe.
A flat landscape studded with humped mounds – dead dragons, ghastly as broken barrows, from which bones jutted, webbed by desiccated skin and sinew. Wings snapped like the wreckage of foundered ships. Necks twisted on the ground, heads from which the skin had contracted, pulled back to reveal gaunt hollows in the eye sockets and beneath the cheekbones. Fangs coated in grey dust were bared as if in eternal defiance.
Seren Pedac had not believed there had once been so many dragons. Had not, in truth, believed that the creatures even existed, barring those who could create such a form from their own bodies, like Silchas Ruin. Were these, she had first wondered, all Soletaken? For some reason, she knew the answer to be no.
True dragons, of which Silchas Ruin, in his dread winged shape, was but a mockery. Devoid of majesty, of purity.
The shattering of bones and wings had come from age, not violence. None of these beasts were sprawled out in death. None revealed gaping wounds. They had each settled into their final postures.
‘Like blue flies on the sill of a window,’ Udinaas had said. ‘Wrong side, trying to get out. But the window stayed closed. To them, maybe to everyone, every thing. Or . . . maybe not every thing.’ And then he had smiled, as if the thought had amused him.
They had seen the gate that was clearly their destination from a great distance away, and indeed it seemed the dragon mounds were more numerous the closer they came, crowding in on all sides. The flanks of that arch were high as towers, thin to the point of skeletal, while the arch itself seemed twisted, like a vast cobweb wrapped around a dead branch. Enclo
sed by this structure was a wall smooth and grey, yet vaguely swirling widdershins – the way through, to another world. Where, it was now understood by all, would be found the remnant soul of Scabandari, Father Shadow, the Betrayer. Bloodeye.
The lifeless air tasted foul to Seren Pedac, as if immeasurable grief tainted every breath drawn in this realm, a bleak redolence that would not fade even after countless millennia. It sickened her, sapped the strength from her limbs, from her very spirit. Daunting as that portal was, she longed to claw through the grey, formless barrier. Longed for an end to this. All of it.
There was a way, she was convinced – there had to be a way – of negotiating through the confrontation fast approaching. Was this not her sole talent, the singular skill she would permit herself to acknowledge? Three strides ahead of her, Udinaas and Kettle walked, her tiny hand nestled in his much larger, much more battered one. The sight – which had preceded her virtually since their arrival in this grim place – was yet another source of anguish and unease. Was he alone capable of setting aside all his nightmares, to comfort this lone, lost child?
Long ago, at the very beginning of this journey, Kettle had held herself close to Silchas Ruin. For he had been the one who had spoken to her through the dying Azath. And he had made vows to protect her and the burgeoning life that had come to her. And so she had looked upon her benefactor with all the adoration one might expect of a foundling in such a circumstance.
This was no longer true. Oh, Seren Pedac saw enough small gestures to underscore that old allegiance, the threads linking these two so-different beings – their shared place of birth, the precious mutual recognition that was solitude, estrangement from all others. But Silchas Ruin had . . . revealed more of himself. Had revealed, in his cold disregard, a brutality that could take one’s breath away. Oh, and how different is that from Kettle’s tales of murdering people in Letheras? Of draining their blood, feeding their corpses into the hungry, needy grounds of the Azath? Still, Kettle expressed none of those desires any more. In returning to life, she had abandoned her old ways, had become, with each passing day, more and more simply a young girl. An orphan.
Witness, again and again, to her adopted family’s endless quarrelling and bickering. To the undeniable threats, the promises of murder. Yes, this is what we have offered her.
And Silchas Ruin is hardly above all of that, is he?
But what of Udinaas? Revealing no great talent, no terrible power. Revealing, in truth, naught but a profound vulnerability.
Ah, and this is what draws her to him. What he gifts back to her in that clasping of hands, the soft smile that reaches even his sad eyes.
Udinaas, Seren Pedac realized with a shock, was the only truly likeable member of their party.
She could in no way include herself as one with even the potential for genuine feelings of warmth from any of the others, not since her rape of Udinaas’s mind. But even before then, she had revealed her paucity of skills in the area of camaraderie. Ever brooding, prone to despondency – these were the legacies of all she had done – and not done – in her life.
Kicking through dust, with Clip and Silchas Ruin well ahead of the others, with the massive humps of dead dragons on all sides, they drew yet closer to that towering gate. Fear Sengar, who had been walking two strides behind her on her left, now came alongside. His hand was on the grip of his sword.
‘Do not be a fool,’ she hissed at him.
His face was set in stern lines, lips tight.
Ahead, Clip and Silchas reached the gate and there they halted. Both seemed to be looking down at a vague, smallish form on the ground.
Udinaas slowed as the child whose hand he was holding began pulling back. Seren Pedac saw him look down and say something in a very low tone.
If Kettle replied it was in a whisper.
The ex-slave nodded then, and a moment later they carried on, Kettle keeping pace without any seeming reluctance.
What had made her shrink away?
What had he said to so easily draw her onward once more?
They came closer, and Seren Pedac heard a low sigh from Fear Sengar. ‘They look upon a body,’ he said.
Oh, Errant protect us.
‘Acquitor,’ continued the Tiste Edur, so low that only she could hear.
‘Yes?’
‘I must know . . . how you will choose.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ she snapped in sudden irritation. ‘Do we come all this way together only to kill each other now?’
He grunted in wry amusement. ‘Are we that evenly matched?’
‘Then, if it is truly hopeless, why attempt anything at all?’
‘Have I come this far only to step away, then? Acquitor, I must do what I must. Will you stand with me?’
They had halted, well back from the others, all of whom were now gathered around that corpse. Seren Pedac unstrapped her helm and pulled it off, then clawed at her greasy hair.
‘Acquitor,’ Fear persisted, ‘you have shown power – you are no longer the weakest among us. What you choose may prove the difference between our living and dying.’
‘Fear, what is it you seek with the soul of Scabandari?’
‘Redemption,’ he answered immediately. ‘For the Tiste Edur.’
‘And how do you imagine Scabandari’s broken, tattered soul will grant you such redemption?’
‘I will awaken it, Acquitor – and together we will purge Kurald Emurlahn. We will drive out the poison that afflicts us. And we will, perhaps, shatter my brother’s cursed sword.’
Too vague, you damned fool. Even if you awaken Scabandari, might he not in turn be enslaved by that poison, and its promise of power? And what of his own desires, hungers – what of the vengeance he himself will seek? ‘Fear,’ she said in sudden, near-crippling weariness, ‘your dream is hopeless.’
And saw him flinch back, saw the terrible retreat in his eyes.
She offered him a faint smile. ‘Yes, let this break your vow, Fear Sengar. I am not worth protecting, especially in the name of a dead brother. I trust you see that now.’
‘Yes,’ he whispered.
And in that word was such anguish that Seren Pedac almost cried out. Then railed at herself. It is what I wanted! Damn it! What I wanted. Needed. It is what must be!
Oh, blessed Errant, how you have hurt him, Seren Pedac. Even this one. No different from all the others.
And she knew, then, that there would be no negotiation.
No way through what was to come.
So be it. Do not count on me, Fear Sengar. I do not even know my power, nor my control of it. So, do not count on me.
But I shall do, for you, what I can.
A promise, yet one she would not voice out loud, for it was too late for that. She could see as much in his now cold eyes, his now hardened face.
Better that he expect nothing, yes. So that, should I fail . . .
But she could not finish that thought, not with every word to follow so brightly painted in her mind – with cowardice.
Fear Sengar set out, leaving her behind. She saw, as she followed, that he no longer held on to his sword. Indeed, he suddenly seemed looser, more relaxed, than she had ever seen him before.
She did not, at that moment, understand the significance of such a transformation. In a warrior. In a warrior who knew how to kill.
Perhaps he had always known where this journey would end. Perhaps that seemingly accidental visit the first time had been anything but, and Udinaas had been shown where his every decision in the interval would take him, as inevitable as the tide. And now, at last, here he had washed up, detritus in the silt-laden water.
Will I soon be dining on ranag calf? I think not.
The body of the female Imass was a piteous thing. Desiccated, limbs drawn up as tendons contracted. The wild masses of her hair had grown like roots from a dead tree, the nails of her stubby fingers like flattened talons the hue of tortoiseshell. The smudged garnets that were her eyes had sunk deep within the
ir sockets, yet still seemed to stare balefully at the sky.
Yes, the Bonecaster. The witch who gave her soul to staunch the wound. So noble, this failed, useless sacrifice. No, woman, for you I will not weep. You should have found another way. You should have stayed alive, among your tribe, guiding them out from their dark cave of blissful ignorance.
‘The world beyond dies,’ said Clip, sounding very nearly pleased by the prospect. Rings sang out on the ends of the chain. One silver, one gold, spinning in blurs.
Silchas Ruin eyed his fellow Tiste Andii. ‘Clip, you remain blind to . . . necessity.’
A faint, derisive smile. ‘Hardly, O White Crow. Hardly.’
The albino warrior then turned to fix his uncanny red-rimmed eyes upon Udinaas. ‘Is she still with us?’
Kettle’s hand tightened in the ex-slave’s, and it was all he could do to squeeze back in reassurance. ‘She gauged our location moments ago,’ Udinaas replied, earning a hiss from Clip. ‘But now, no.’
Silchas Ruin faced the gate. ‘She prepares for us, then. On the other side.’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘I imagine so.’
Seren Pedac stirred and asked, ‘Does that mean she holds the Finnest? Silchas? Udinaas?’
But Silchas Ruin shook his head. ‘No. That would not have been tolerated. Not by her sisters. Not by the powerful ascendants who saw it fashioned in the first place—’
‘Then why aren’t they here?’ Seren demanded. ‘What makes you think they’ll accept your possessing it, Silchas Ruin, when they will not stand for Menandore’s owning it – we are speaking of Menandore, aren’t we?’
Udinaas snorted. ‘Left no stone unturned in my brain, did you, Acquitor?’
Silchas did not reply to her questions.
The ex-slave glanced over at Fear Sengar, and saw a warrior about to go into battle. Yes, we are that close, aren’t we? Oh, Fear Sengar, I do not hate you. In fact, I probably even like you. I may mock the honour you possess. I may scorn this path you’ve chosen.
As I scorned this Bonecaster’s, and yes, Edur, for entirely the same reasons.