And he had thought the Tiste Edur strange. They were nothing compared to these Tiste Andii, who had carried dour regard to unhuman extremes.
It was no wonder, though. The Andara was a crumbling blackstone edifice at the base of a refuse-cluttered gorge. As isolated as a prison. The cliff walls were honeycombed with caves, pocked with irregular chambers, like giant burst bubbles along the course of winding tunnels. There were bottomless pits, dead ends, passages so steep they could not be traversed without rope ladders. Hollowed-out towers rose like inverted spires through solid bedrock; while over subterranean chasms arched narrow bridges of white pumice, carved into amorphous shapes and set without mortar. In one place there was a lake of hardened lava, smoother than wind-polished ice, the obsidian streaked with red, and this was the Amass Chamber, where the entire population could gather – barefooted – to witness the endless wrangling of the Reve Masters, otherwise known as the Onyx Wizards.
Master of the Rock, of the Air, of the Root, of the Dark Water, of the Night. Five wizards in all, squabbling over orders of procession, hierarchies of propitiation, proper hem-length of the Onyx robes and Errant knew what else. With these half-mad neurotics any burr in the cloth became a mass of wrinkles and creases.
From what Udinaas had come to understand, no more than fourteen of the half-thousand or so denizens – beyond the wizards themselves – were pure Tiste Andii, and of those, only three had ever seen daylight – which they quaintly called the blinded stars – only three had ever climbed to the world above.
No wonder they’d all lost their minds.
‘Why is it,’ Udinaas said, ‘when some people laugh it sounds more like crying?’
Seren Pedac glanced up from the sword bridging her knees, the oil-stained cloth in her long-fingered hands. ‘I don’t hear anyone laughing. Or crying.’
‘I didn’t necessarily mean out loud,’ he replied.
A snort from Fear Sengar, where he sat on a stone bench near the portal way. ‘Boredom is stealing the last fragments of sanity in your mind, slave. I for one will not miss them.’
‘The wizards and Silchas are probably arguing the manner of your execution, Fear Sengar,’ Udinaas said. ‘You are their most hated enemy, after all. Child of the Betrayer, spawn of lies and all that. It suits your grand quest, for the moment at least, doesn’t it? Into the viper’s den – every hero needs to do that, right? And moments before your doom arrives, out hisses your enchanted sword and evil minions die by the score. Ever wondered what the aftermath of such slaughter must be? Dread depopulation, shattered families, wailing babes – and should that crucial threshold be crossed, then inevitable extinction is assured, hovering before them like a grisly spectre. Oh yes, I heard my share when I was a child, of epic tales and poems and all the rest. But I always started worrying . . . about those evil minions, the victims of those bright heroes and their intractable righteousness. I mean, someone invades your hide-out, your cherished home, and of course you try to kill and eat them. Who wouldn’t? There they were, nominally ugly and shifty-looking, busy with their own little lives, plaiting nooses or some such thing. Then shock! The alarms are raised! The intruders have somehow slipped their chains and death is a whirlwind in every corridor!’
Seren Pedac sheathed the sword. ‘I think I would like to hear your version of such stories, Udinaas. How you would like them to turn out. At the very least, it will pass the time.’
‘I’d rather not singe Kettle’s innocent ears—’
‘She’s asleep. Something she does a lot of these days.’
‘Perhaps she’s ill.’
‘Perhaps she knows how to wait things out,’ the Acquitor responded. ‘Go on, Udinaas, how does the heroic epic of yours, your revised version, turn out?’
‘Well, first, the hidden lair of the evil ones. There’s a crisis brewing. Their priorities got all mixed up – some past evil ruler with no management skills or something. So, they’ve got dungeons and ingenious but ultimately ineffective torture devices. They have steaming chambers with huge cauldrons, awaiting human flesh to sweeten the pot – but alas, nobody’s been by of late. After all, the lair is reputedly cursed, a place whence no adventurer ever returns – all dubious propaganda, of course. In fact, the lair’s a good market for the local woodcutters and the pitch-sloppers – huge hearths and torches and murky oil lamps – that’s the problem with underground lairs – they’re dark. Worse than that, everyone’s been sharing a cold for the past eight hundred years. Anyway, even an evil lair needs the necessities of reasonable existence. Vegetables, bushels of berries, spices and medicines, cloth and pottery, hides and well-gnawed leather, evil-looking hats. Of course I’ve not even mentioned all the weapons and intimidating uniforms.’
‘You have stumbled from your narrative trail, Udinaas,’ Seren Pedac observed.
‘So I have, and that too is an essential point. Life is like that. We stumble astray. Just like those evil minions. A crisis – no new prisoners, no fresh meat. Children are starving. It’s an unmitigated disaster.’
‘What’s the solution?’
‘Why, they invent a story. A magical item in their possession, something to lure fools into the lair. It’s reasonable, if you consider it. Every hook needs a wriggling worm. And then they choose one among them to play the role of the Insane Master, the one seeking to unlock the dire powers of that magical item and so bring about a utopia of animated corpses stumbling through a realm of ash and rejected tailings. Now, if this doesn’t bring heroes in by the drove, nothing will.’
‘Do they succeed?’
‘For a time, but recall those ill-conceived torture implements. Invariably, some enterprising and lucky fool gets free, then crushes the skull of a dozing guard or three, and mayhem is let loose. Endless slaughter – hundreds, then thousands of untrained evil warriors who forgot to sharpen their swords and never mind the birch-bark shields that woodcutter with the hump sold them.’
Even Fear Sengar grunted a laugh at that. ‘All right, Udinaas, you win. I think I prefer your version after all.’
Udinaas, surprised into silence, stared across at Seren Pedac, who smiled and said, ‘You have revealed your true talent, Udinaas. So the hero wins free. Then what?’
‘The hero does nothing of the sort. Instead, the hero catches a chill down in those dank tunnels. Makes it out alive, however, and retreats to a nearby city, where the plague he carries spreads and kills everyone. And for thousands of years thereafter, that hero’s name is a curse to both people living above ground and those below.’
After a moment, Fear spoke. ‘Ah, even your version has an implicit warning, slave. And this is what you would have me heed, but that leads me to wonder – what do you care for my fate? You call me your enemy, your lifelong foe, for all the injustices my people have delivered upon you. Do you truly wish me to take note of your message?’
‘As you like, Edur,’ Udinaas replied, ‘but my faith runs deeper than you imagine, and on an entirely different course from what you clearly think. I said the hero wins clear, at least momentarily, but I mentioned nothing of his hapless followers, his brave companions.’
‘All of whom died in the lair.’
‘Not at all. In the aftermath there was dire need for new blood. They were one and all adopted by the evil ones, who were only evil in a relative sense, being sickly and miserable and hungry and not too bright. In any case, there was a great renaissance in the lair’s culture, producing the finest art and treasures the world had ever seen.’
‘And what happened then?’ Seren asked.
‘It lasted until a new hero arrived, but that’s another tale for another time. I have talked myself hoarse.’
‘Among the women of the Tiste Edur,’ Fear Sengar said then, ‘is told the tale that Father Shadow, Scabandari Bloodeye, chose of his own free will to die, freeing his soul to journey down the Grey Road, a journey in search of absolution, for such was the guilt of what he had done on the plains of the Kechra.’
‘Now that
is a convenient version.’
‘Now it is you who lack subtlety, Udinaas. This alternative interpretation is itself allegorical, for what it truly represents is our guilt. For Scabandari’s crime. We cannot take back the deeds of Father Shadow; nor were we in any position, ever, to gainsay him. He led, the Edur followed. Could we have defied him? Possibly. But not likely. As such, we are left with a guilt that cannot be appeased, except in an allegorical sense. And so we hold to legends of redemption.’
Seren Pedac rose and walked over to set her scabbarded sword down beside the food pack. ‘Yet this was a tale held in private by the women of your tribes, Fear. Setting aside for the moment the curious fact that you know of it, how is it the promise of redemption belongs only to the women?’
‘The warriors follow another path,’ Fear replied. ‘That I know of the story – and the truth of Scabandari – is due to my mother, who rejected the tradition of secrecy. Uruth does not flee knowledge, and she would her sons do not either—’
‘Then how do you explain Rhulad?’ Udinaas asked.
‘Do not bait him,’ Seren Pedac said to the slave. ‘Rhulad is accursed. By the sword in his hand, by the god who made that sword.’
‘Rhulad was young,’ Fear said, unconsciously wringing his hands as he stared at the chamber’s worn floor. ‘There was so much still to teach him. He sought to become a great warrior, a heroic warrior. He was discomfited in the shadows of his three older brothers, and this made him precipitate.’
‘I think the god chose him . . . over Hannan Mosag,’ said Udinaas. ‘Rhulad had no choice.’
Fear studied Udinaas for a long moment, then he nodded. ‘If that is your belief, then you are far more generous towards Rhulad than any Tiste Edur. Again and again, Udinaas, you leave me unbalanced.’
Udinaas closed his eyes as he leaned back against the rough wall. ‘He spoke to me, Fear, because I listened. Something the rest of you never bothered doing – which isn’t that surprising, since your vaunted family order had just been shattered. Your precious hierarchy was in disarray. Shocking. Terrible. So, while he could not speak to you, you in turn were unwilling to hear him. He was silent and you were deaf to that silence. A typical mess – I don’t regret having no family.’
‘You lay all the blame at the foot of the chaotic god.’
Udinaas opened his eyes, blinked for a moment, then smiled. ‘Too convenient by far. Now, if I was seeking redemption, I’d leap on the back of that one, and ride the beast all the way – to the cliff ‘s edge, then right over, amen.’
‘Then . . . what?’
‘What to blame? Well, how should I know? I’m just a worn-out slave. But if I had to guess, I’d look first at that rigid hierarchy I mentioned earlier. It traps everyone, and everyone makes sure it traps everyone else. Until none of you can move, not side to side, not up either. You can move down, of course – just do something no-one else likes. Disapproval kicks out every rung of the ladder, and down you go.’
‘So it is the way of living among the Tiste Edur.’ Fear snorted, looked away.
‘All right,’ Udinaas said, sighing, ‘let me ask you this. Why wasn’t that sword offered to some Letherii – a brilliant officer of an army, a cold-blooded merchant prince? Why not Ezgara himself? Or better still, his son, Quillas? Now there was ambition and stupidity in perfect balance. And if not a Letherii, then why not a Nerek shaman? Or a Fent or a Tarthenal? Of course, all those others, well, those tribes were mostly obliterated – at least, all the taboos, traditions and rules of every sort that kept people in line – all gone, thanks to the Letherii.’
‘Very well,’ Seren Pedac said, ‘why not a Letherii?’
Udinaas shrugged. ‘The wrong fatal flaws, obviously. The Chained One recognized the absolute perfection of the Tiste Edur – their politics, their history, their culture and their political situation.’
‘Now I understand,’ Fear murmured, his arms crossed.
‘Understand what?’
‘Why Rhulad so valued you, Udinaas. You were wasted scraping fish scales all day when by the measure of your intelligence and your vision, you could sit tall on any kingdom’s throne.’
The slave’s grin was hard with malice. ‘Damn you, Fear Sengar.’
‘How did that offend you?’
‘You just stated the central argument – both for and against the institution of slavery. I was wasted, was I? Or of necessity kept under firm heel. Too many people like me on the loose and no ruler, tyrant or otherwise, could sit assured on a throne. We would stir things up, again and again. We would challenge, we would protest, we would defy. By being enlightened, we would cause utter mayhem. So, Fear, kick another basket of fish over here, it’s better for everyone.’
‘Except you.’
‘No, even me. This way, all my brilliance remains ineffectual, harmless to anyone and therefore especially to myself, lest my lofty ideas loose a torrent of blood.’
Seren Pedac grunted, ‘You are frightened by your own ideas, Udinaas?’
‘All the time, Acquitor. Aren’t you?’
She said nothing.
‘Listen,’ Fear said. ‘The chanting has stopped.’
As usual, the debate ended with everyone losing. The clash of intractable views produced no harmony, just exhaustion and an ache in the back of the skull. Clip, seated with his legs propped up on the back of the next lower bench, in the gloom of the uppermost tier overlooking the absurdly named Disc of Concordance on which stood five glowering Onyx Wizards, struggled to awaken his mind as the wizards turned as one to face Silchas Ruin.
Ordant Brid, Reve of the Rock, who had sent Clip to retrieve these fell wanderers, was the first to speak. ‘Silchas Ruin, brother of blood to our Black-Winged Lord, we know what you seek.’
‘Then you also know not to get in my way.’
At these cold words, Clip sat straighter.
‘It is as I warned!’ cried Rin Varalath, Reve of the Night, in his high-pitched, grating voice. ‘He arrives like a leviathan of destruction! Which of the brothers was gifted the greater share of deliberation and wisdom? Well, the answer is clear!’
‘Calm down,’ said Penith Vinandas.
Clip smiled to himself, wondering yet again if the Reve aspects created the personalities of their masters – or, in the case of Penith, mistress – or was it the other way round? Of course the Mistress of the Root would advise calm, a settling of wild wills, for she was so assuredly . . . rooted.
‘I am calm!’ snarled Rin Varalath. He jabbed a finger at Silchas Ruin. ‘We must not yield to this one, else all that we have achieved will be brought down upon our very heads. The balance is all that keeps us alive, and each of you knows that. And if you do not, then you are more lost than I ever imagined.’
Draxos Hulch, Reve of the Dark Water, spoke in his depthless baritone. ‘The issue, my fellow wizards, is less open to debate than you would hope. Unless, of course, we can explain to this warrior the nature of our struggle and the uneasy balance we have but recently won.’
‘Why should he be interested?’ Rin Varalath asked. ‘If this all collapses it is nothing to him. He will move on, uncaring – our deaths will be meaningless as far as he is concerned.’
Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘I am not insensitive to the battle you have waged here, wizards. But your success is due entirely to the inevitable disintegration of the Jaghut’s ritual.’ He scanned the faces before him. ‘You are no match for Omtose Phellack, when its wielder was none other than Gothos. In any case, the balance you believe you have achieved is illusory. The ritual fails. Ice, which had been held in check, held timeless, has begun to move once more. It falters in the warmth of this age, yet its volume is so vast that, even melted, it will effect vast change. As for the glaciers bound in the highest reaches of the mountains of Bluerose – those to the north – well, they have already begun their migration. Unmindful of the distant ocean’s assault, they draw power from a wayward flow of cold air. These glaciers, wizards, still hold the spear of the
ritual, and soon it will drive for your heart. The Andara is doomed.’
‘We care nothing for the Andara,’ said Gestallin Aros, Reve of the Air. ‘The balance you speak of is not the one that matters to us. Silchas Ruin, the Jaghut’s ritual was of ice only in the manner that fire is of wood – it was the means of achieving a specific goal, and that goal was the freezing in place of time. Of life, and of death.’
Clip’s gaze narrowed on Silchas Ruin, as the albino Andii slowly cocked his head, then said, ‘You speak of a different failing, yet the two are linked—’
‘We are aware of that,’ cut in Ordant Brid. Then, with a faint smile, ‘Perhaps more so than you. You speak of a spear of ice, of Omtose Phellack’s very core, still living, still powerful. That spear, Silchas Ruin, casts a shadow, and it is within that shadow that you will find what you seek. Although not, I think, in the way you desire.’
‘Explain.’
‘We will not,’ snapped Rin Varalath. ‘If you wish to understand, then look to your kin.’
‘My kin? Are you then able to summon Anomander?’
‘Not him,’ replied Ordant Brid. He hesitated, then continued. ‘We were visited, not so long ago, by an ascendant. Menandore. Sister Dawn—’
If anything, Ruin’s voice grew even colder as he demanded, ‘What has she to do with this?’
‘Balance, you ignorant fool!’ Rin Varalath’s shriek echoed in the chamber.
‘Where is she now?’ Silchas Ruin asked.
‘Alas,’ replied Draxos Hulch, ‘we do not know. But she is close, for reasons that are entirely her own. She will, I fear, oppose you, should you decide to force your way past us.’
‘I seek the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. I do not understand that you would object to such a goal.’
‘We see the truth of that,’ said Ordant Brid.