But you preferred shedding blood in my name. My words just got in your way, my cries for mercy for your fellow citizens – oh, how that enraged you.
His thoughts fell silent. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. What is this? I am not alone.
A soft laugh from one of the passageways. He slowly turned.
The man crouched there was more ogre than human, broad shoulders covered in bristly black hair, a bullet head thrust forward on a short neck. The bottom half of the face was strangely pronounced beneath long, curling moustache and beard, and large yellowed tusks jutted from the lower jaw, pushing clear of lip and thick, ringleted hair. Stubby, battered hands hung down from long arms, the knuckles on the floor.
From the apparition came a bestial, rank stench.
The Errant squinted, seeking to pierce the gloom beneath the heavy brows, where small narrow-set eyes glittered dull as rough garnets. ‘This is my temple,’ he said. ‘I do not recall an open invitation to . . . guests.’
Another low laugh, but there was no humour in it, the Errant realized. Bitterness, as thick and pungent as the smell stinging the god’s nostrils.
‘I remember you,’ came the creature’s voice, low and rumbling. ‘And I knew this place. I knew what it had been.
It was . . . safe. Who recalls the Holds, after all? Who knew enough to suspect? Oh, they can hunt me down all they want – yes, they will find me in the end – I know this. Soon, maybe. Sooner, now that you have found me, Master of the Tiles. He might have returned me, you know, along with other . . . gifts. But he has failed.’ Another laugh, this time harsh. ‘A common demise among mortals.’
Though he spoke, no words emerged from the ogre’s mouth. That heavy, awkward voice was in the Errant’s head, which was all for the best – those tusks would have brutalized every utterance into near incomprehensibility. ‘You are a god.’
More laughter. ‘I am.’
‘You walked into the world.’
‘Not by choice, Master of the Tiles. Not like you.’
‘Ah.’
‘And so my followers died – oh, how they have died. Across half the world, their blood soaked the earth. And I could do nothing. I can do nothing.’
‘It is something,’ the Errant observed, ‘to hold yourself to such a modest form. But how much longer will that control last? How soon before you burst the confines of this temple of mine? How long before you heave yourself into the view of all, shouldering aside the clouds, shaking mountains to dust—’
‘I will be long from here before then, Master of the Tiles.’
The Errant’s smile was wry. ‘That is a relief, god.’
‘You have survived,’ the god now said. ‘For so long. How?’
‘Alas,’ said the Errant, ‘my advice to you would be useless. My power quickly dissipated. It had already been terribly wounded – the Forkrul Assail’s pogroms against my faithful saw to that. The thought of another failure like that one was too much . . . so I willingly relinquished most of what remained to me. It made me ineffectual, beyond, perhaps, this city and a modest stretch of river. And so not a threat to anyone.’ Not even you, tusked one. ‘You, however, cannot make a similar choice. They will want the raw power within you – in your blood – and they will need it spilled before they can drink, before they can bathe in what’s left of you.’
‘Yes. One last battle awaits me. That much, at least, I do not regret.’
Lucky you. ‘A battle. And . . . a war?’
Amusement in his thoughts, then, ‘Oh, indeed, Master of the Tiles. A war – enough to make my heart surge with life, with hunger. How could it not? I am the Boar of Summer, Lord of the Hosts on the Field of Battle. The chorus of the dying to come . . . ah, Master, be glad it will be nowhere close—’
‘I am not so sure of that.’
A shrug.
The Errant frowned, then asked, ‘How long do you intend to remain here, then?’
‘Why, as long as I can, before my control crumbles – or I am summoned to my battle, my death, I mean. Unless, of course, you choose to banish me.’
‘I would not risk the power revealed by that,’ the Errant said.
A rumbling laugh. ‘You think I would not go quietly?’
‘I know it, Boar of Summer.’
‘True enough.’ Hesitation, then the war god said, ‘Offer me sanctuary, Errant, and I will yield to you a gift.’
‘Very well.’
‘No bargaining?’
‘No. I’ve not the energy. What is this gift, then?’
‘This: the Hold of the Beasts is awakened. I was driven out, you see, and there was need, necessity, insistence that some inheritor arise to take my place – to assume the voices of war. Treach was too young, too weak. And so the Wolves awoke. They flank the throne now – no, they are the throne.’
The Errant could barely draw breath at this revelation. A Hold, awakened? From a mouth gone dry as dust, he said, ‘Sanctuary is yours, Boar of Summer. And, for your trail here, my fullest efforts at . . . misdirection. None shall know, none shall even suspect.’
‘Please, then, block those who call on me still. Their cries fill my skull – it is too much—’
‘Yes, I know. I will do what I can. Your name – do they call upon the Boar of Summer?’
‘Not often,’ the god replied. ‘Fener. They call upon Fener.’
The Errant nodded, then bowed low.
He passed through the stone wall and once more found himself in the disused corridor of the Old Palace. Awakened? Abyss below . . . no wonder the Cedance whirls in chaos. Wolves? Could it be . . .
This is chaos! It makes no sense! Feather Witch stared down at the chipped tiles scattered on the stone floor before her. Axe, bound to both Saviour and Betrayer of the Empty Hold. Knuckles and the White Crow circle the Ice Throne like leaves in a whirlpool. Elder of Beast Hold stands at the Portal of the Azath Hold. Gate of the Dragon and Blood-Drinker converge on the Watcher of the Empty Hold – but no, this is all madness.
The Dragon Hold was virtually dead. Everyone knew this, every Caster of the Tiles, every Dreamer of the Ages. Yet here it vied for dominance with the Empty Hold – and what of Ice? Timeless, unchanging, that throne had been dead for millennia. White Crow – yes, I have heard. Some bandit in the reaches of the Bluerose Mountains now claims that title. Hunted by Hannan Mosag – that tells me there is power to that bandit’s bold claim. I must speak again to the Warlock King, the bent, broken bastard.
She leaned back on her haunches, wiped chilled sweat from her brow. Udinaas had claimed to see a white crow, centuries ago it seemed now, there on the strand beside the village. A white crow in the dusk. And she had called upon the Wyval, her lust for power overwhelming all caution. Udinaas – he had stolen so much from her. She dreamed of the day he was finally captured, alive, helpless in chains.
The fool thought he loved me – I could have used that. I should have. My own set of chains to snap shut on his ankles and wrists, to drag him down. Together, we could have destroyed Rhulad long before he came to his power. She stared down at the tiles, at the ones that had fallen face up – none of the others were in play, as the fates had decreed. Yet the Errant is nowhere to be seen – how can that be? She reached down to one of the face-down tiles and picked it up, looked at its hidden side. Shapefinder. See, even here, the Errant does not show his hand. She squinted at the tile. Fiery Dawn, these hints are new . . . Menandore. And I was thinking about Udinaas – yes, I see now. You waited for me to pick you up from this field. You are the secret link to all of this.
She recalled the scene, the terrible vision of her dream, that horrendous witch taking Udinaas and . . . Maybe the chains on him now belong to her. I did not think of that. True, he was raped, but men sometimes find pleasure in being such a victim. What if she is protecting him now? An immortal . . . rival. The Wyval chose him, didn’t it? That must mean something – it’s why she took him, after all. It must be.
In a sudden gesture she swept up the t
iles, replacing them in their wooden box, then wrapping the box in strips of hide before pushing the package beneath her cot. She then drew from a niche in one wall a leather-bound volume, easing back its stained, mouldy cover. Her trembling fingers worked through a dozen brittle vellum pages before she reached the place where she had previously left off memorizing the names listed within – names that filled the entire volume.
Compendium of the Gods.
The brush of cool air. Feather Witch looked up, glared about. Nothing. No-one at the entrance, no unwelcome shadows in the corners – lanterns burned on all sides. There had been a taint to that unseemly breath, something like wax . . .
She shut the book and slid it back onto its shelf, then, heartbeat rapid in her chest, she hurried over to a single pavestone in the room’s centre, wherein she had earlier inscribed, with an iron stylus, an intricate pattern. Capture. ‘The Holds are before me,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘I see Tracker of the Beasts, footfalls padding on the trail of the one who hides, who thinks to flee. But no escape is possible. The quarry circles and circles, yet is drawn ever closer to the trap. It pulls, it drags – the creature screams, but no succour is possible – none but my mercy – and that is never free! ‘ She opened her eyes, and saw a smudge of mist bound within the confines of the inscribed pattern. ‘I have you! Ghost, spy – show yourself!’
Soft laughter.
The mist spun, wavered, then settled once more, tendrils reaching out tentatively – beyond the carved borders.
Feather Witch gasped. ‘You mock me with your power – yet, coward that you are, you dare not show yourself.’
‘Dear girl, this game will eat you alive.’ The words, the faintest whisper – the touch of breath along both ears. She started, glared about, sensed a presence behind her and spun round – no-one.
‘Who is here?’ she demanded.
‘Beware the gathering of names . . . it is . . . premature . . .’
‘Name yourself, ghost! I command it.’
‘Oh, compulsion is ever the weapon of the undeserving. Let us instead bargain in faith. That severed finger you keep round your neck, Caster, what do you intend with it?’
She clutched at the object. ‘I will not tell you—’
‘Then I in turn will reveal to you the same – nothing.’
She hesitated. ‘Can you not guess?’
‘Ah, and have I guessed correctly?’
‘Yes.’
‘Premature.’
‘I am biding my time, ghost – I am no fool.’
‘No indeed,’ the ghost replied. ‘Even so, let us extend the bargain—’
‘Why? You have revealed nothing of yourself—’
‘Patience. Caster of the Tiles, await my . . . encouragement. Before you do what you intend. Await me, and I will assist you.’
She snorted. ‘You are a ghost. You have no power—’
‘I am a ghost, and that is precisely why I have power. For what you seek, that is.’
‘Why should I believe you? Why should I agree to anything you suggest?’
‘Very well, my part of the bargain. You speak now with Kuru Qan, once Ceda to King Ezgara Diskanar.’
‘Slain by Trull Sengar . . .’
Something like a chuckle. ‘Well, someone needed to thrust the spear . . .’
‘You knew it was coming?’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it are two different matters, Caster of the Tiles. In any case, lay the true blame at the Errant’s feet. And I admit, I am of a mind to call him out on that, eventually. But like you, I understand the necessity of biding one’s time. Have we a bargain?’
She licked her lips, then nodded. ‘We have.’
‘Then I shall leave you to your education. Be careful when casting your tiles – you risk much by so revealing your talents as a seer.’
‘But I must know—’
‘Knowing and being able to do something about it—’
‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘I heard you the first time.’
‘You lack respect, girl.’
‘And be glad of it.’
‘You may have a point there. Worth some consideration, I think.’
‘Do you now intend to spy on me my every moment down here?’
‘No, that would be cruel, not to mention dull. When I come here, you shall be warned – the wind, the mist, yes? Now, witness its vanishing.’
She stared down at the swirling cloud, watched as it faded, then was gone.
Silence in the chamber, the air still beyond her own breath. Kuru Qan, the Ceda! See how I gather allies. Oh, this shall be sweet vengeance indeed!
The waning sun’s shafts of dusty light cut across the space where the old temple had stood, although the wreckage filling the lower half of that gap was swallowed in gloom. Fragments of façade were scattered on the street – pieces of rats in dismaying profusion. Edging closer, Samar Dev kicked at the rubble, frowning down at the disarticulated stone rodents. ‘This is most . . . alarming,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ Taxilian said, smiling, ‘now the witch speaks. Tell me, what do you sense in this fell place?’
‘Too many spirits to count,’ she murmured. ‘And all of them . . . rats.’
‘There was a D’ivers once, wasn’t there? A terrible demonic thing that travelled the merchant roads across Seven Cities—’
‘Gryllen.’
‘Yes, that was its name! So, do we have here another such . . . Gryllen?’
She shook her head. ‘No, this feels older, by far.’
‘And what of that bleeding? Of power?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Glancing around, she saw a tall, cloaked man leaning against a wall on the other side of the street, watching them. ‘Some things, long ago grinding to a halt, should never be reawakened. Alas . . .’
Taxilian sighed. ‘You use that word a lot. “Alas”. You are too resigned, Samar Dev. You flee from your own curiosity – I do not think you were always like this.’
She squinted at him. ‘Oh, my curiosity remains. It’s my belief in my own efficacy that has taken a beating.’
‘We spin and swirl on the currents of fate, do we?’
‘If you like.’ She sighed. ‘Very well, I’ve seen enough. Besides, it will be curfew soon, and I gather guards kill lawbreakers on sight.’
‘You have seen – but you explain nothing!’
‘Sorry, Taxilian. All of this requires . . . some thought. If I reach any spectacular conclusions any time soon, I will be sure to let you know.’
‘Do I deserve such irony?’
‘No, you don’t. Alas.’
Bugg finally made his way round the corner, emerging from the alley’s gloom then pausing in the sunlit street. He glanced over at Tehol, who stood leaning against a wall, arms crossed beneath his blanket, which he had wrapped about him like a robe. ‘Master,’ he said, ‘why do you hesitate now?’
‘Me? Why, this only appears to be hesitation. You know, you could have let me help you carry that.’
Bugg set the heavy sack down. ‘You never offered.’
‘Well, that would be unseemly. You should have insisted.’
‘Are you sure you have that right, Master?’
‘Not in the least, but some graciousness on your part would have helped us move past this awkward moment.’
From the bag came soft clucking sounds.
Tehol blinked down at it. ‘Bugg, you said retired hens, correct?’
‘I did. In exchange for some modest repairs to a water trough.’
‘But . . . they’re not dead.’
‘No, Master.’
‘But . . . that means one of us has to kill them. Wring their necks. See the light of life dim in their beady eyes.
You are a hard man, Bugg.’
‘Me?’
‘Retired – their egg-laying days over. Isn’t there some kind of pasture awaiting them? Some well-strewn pecking ground?’
‘Only the one in the sky, Master. But I see your
point. About killing them, I mean.’
‘Blood on your hands, Bugg – I’m glad I’m not you.’
‘This is ridiculous. We’ll figure something out when we get back home.’
‘We could build us a coop on the roof, as mad folk do for pigeons. That way the birds could fly in and out, back and forth, and see something of this fine city.’
‘Chickens can’t fly, Master.’
‘Beats wringing their necks, though, don’t you think?’
‘Seeing the city?’
‘Well, momentarily.’
Clearly satisfied with his solution, Tehol adjusted his blanket then walked out onto the street. Sighing, Bugg collected the sack with its dozen hens and followed at a somewhat slower pace.
‘Well,’ he said as he joined Tehol in front of the ruin, ‘at least that foreign witch is gone.’
‘She was a foreign witch? Rather pretty, in a stolid, earthy way. All right, handsome, then, although I assure you I would never say that to her face, knowing how women are so easily offended.’
‘By a compliment?’
‘Absolutely. If it is the wrong compliment. You have been . . . inactive far too long, dear Bugg.’
‘Possibly. I am also reticent when it comes to compliments. They have a way of coming after you.’
Tehol glanced over at him, brows lifted. ‘Sounds like you’ve been married once or twice.’
‘Once or twice,’ Bugg replied, grimacing. Glancing up at the ruined Scale House, he went very still. ‘Ah, I see now what she no doubt saw.’
‘If what you are seeing is the source for making the hairs of my neck stand on end every time I come here, then I would be pleased if you explained.’
‘For someone to step inside,’ Bugg said, ‘of necessity there must be a door. And if one does not exist, one must be made.’
‘How can a collapsed building be a door, Bugg?’
‘I begin to comprehend what is coming.’
‘Sufficient to suggest a course of action?’
‘In this matter, Master, the best course is to do nothing.’
‘Hold on, Bugg, that particular conclusion seems to crop up rather often with you.’