Midnight Tides

  Buruk the Pale bowed from the waist, then said, ‘I did not think we were late, sire—’

  ‘You’re not, but I am not one for formality. Indeed, I am often tried by mere courtesy. Forgive, if you will, this king’s impatience.’

  ‘Appetites care little for demands of decorum, sire,’ Buruk said, approaching.

  ‘I was confident a Letherii would understand. Now,’ he suddenly rose, the gesture halting the three in their tracks, ‘I proclaim as my guests Buruk the Pale, Acquitor Seren Pedac, and Sentinel Hull Beddict. Seat yourselves, please. I only devour what my cooks prepare for me.’

  His was a voice one could listen to, hours passing without notice, discomforts forgotten. Hannan Mosag was, Seren realized, a very dangerous king.

  Buruk the Pale took the central seat, Seren moving to the one on the merchant’s left, Hull to the right. As they settled into the Blackwood chairs, the Warlock King sat down once more and reached for a goblet. ‘Wine from Trate,’ he said, ‘to honour my guests.’

  ‘Acquired through peaceful trade, one hopes,’ Buruk said.

  ‘Alas, I am afraid not,’ Hannan Mosag replied, glancing up almost diffidently into the merchant’s eyes, then away once more. ‘But we are all hardy folk here at this table, I’m sure.’

  Buruk collected his goblet and sipped. He seemed to consider, then sighed, ‘Only slightly soured by provenance, sire.’

  The Warlock King frowned. ‘I had assumed it was supposed to taste that way.’

  ‘Not surprising, sire, once one becomes used to it.’

  ‘The comfort that is familiarity, Buruk the Pale, proves a powerful arbiter once again.’

  ‘The Letherii often grow restless with familiarity, alas, and as a consequence often see it as a diminishment in quality.’

  ‘That is too complicated a notion, Buruk,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘We’ve not yet drunk enough to dance with words, unless of course you eased your thirst back in your lodging, in which case I find myself at a disadvantage.’

  Buruk reached for a sliver of smoked fish. ‘Horribly sober, I’m afraid. If disadvantage exists, then it belongs to us.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, sire, you honour us with blood-tainted wine, a most unbalancing gesture. More, we have received word of the slaughter of Letherii seal hunters. The blood has grown deep enough to drown us.’

  It seemed Buruk the Pale was not interested in veiled exchanges. A curious tactic, Seren reflected, and one that, she suspected, King Ezgara Diskanar would not appreciate in the circumstances.

  ‘I am sure the few remaining kin of the butchered tusked seals would concur, tugged as they are in that fell tide,’ the Warlock King said in a musing sort of way.

  ‘Word has also reached us,’ Buruk continued, ‘of the ships’ return to Trate’s harbour. The holds that should have held the costly harvest were inexplicably empty.’

  ‘Empty? That was careless.’

  Buruk leaned back in his chair, closing both hands about the goblet as he studied the dark contents.

  Hull Beddict suddenly spoke. ‘Warlock King, I for one feel no displeasure in the resolution of that treacherous event. Those hunters defied long-established agreements, and so deserved their fate.’

  ‘Sentinel,’ Hannan Mosag said, a new seriousness to his tone, ‘I doubt their grieving kin would agree. Your words are cold. I am given to understand that the notion of debt is a pervasive force among your people. These hapless harvesters were likely Indebted, were they not? Their desperation preyed upon by masters as heartless in their sentiments as you have just been.’ He scanned the three Letherii before him. ‘Am I alone in my grief?’

  ‘The potential consequences of that slaughter promise yet more grief, sire,’ Buruk the Pale said.

  ‘And is that inevitable, merchant?’

  Buruk blinked.

  ‘It is,’ Hull Beddict answered, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Warlock King, is there any doubt upon whom that grief should be visited? You spoke of cold masters, and yes, it is their blood that should have been spilled in this instance. Even so, they are masters only because the Indebted accept them as such. This is the poison of gold as the only measure of worth. Those harvesters are no less guilty for their desperation, sire. They are all participants in the same game.’

  ‘Hull Beddict,’ Buruk said, ‘speaks only for himself.’

  ‘Are we not all speaking only for ourselves?’ Hannan Mosag asked.

  ‘As desirable as that would be, sire, it would be a lie to make such claims – for myself, for you.’

  The Warlock King pushed his plate away and leaned back. ‘And what of the Acquitor, then? She does not speak at all.’ Calm, soft eyes fixed on her. ‘You have escorted these men, Acquitor Seren Pedac.’

  ‘I have, sire,’ she replied, ‘and so my task is done.’

  ‘And in your silence you seek to absolve yourself of all to come of this meeting.’

  ‘Such is the role of Acquitor, sire.’

  ‘Unlike that of, say, Sentinel.’

  Hull Beddict flinched, then said, ‘I ceased being Sentinel long ago, sire.’

  ‘Indeed? Then why, may I ask, are you here?’

  ‘He volunteered himself,’ Buruk answered. ‘It was not for me to turn him away.’

  ‘True. That responsibility, as I understand the matter, belonged to the Acquitor.’ Hannan Mosag studied her, waiting.

  ‘I did not feel compelled to deny Hull Beddict’s decision to accompany us, sire.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Warlock King replied. ‘Isn’t that curious?’

  Sweat prickled beneath her damp clothes. ‘Permit me to correct myself, sire. I did not believe I would succeed, had I attempted to deny Hull Beddict. And so I decided to maintain the illusion of my authority.’

  Hannan Mosag’s sudden smile was profoundly disarming. ‘An honest reply. Well done, Acquitor. You may now go.’

  She rose shakily, bowed. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Warlock King.’

  ‘I reciprocate the sentiment, Acquitor. I would we speak later, you and I.’

  ‘I am at your call, sire.’

  Not meeting the eyes of her fellow Letherii, Seren stepped round the chair, then made her way outside.

  The Warlock King had denied her the burden of witnessing all that followed this night between himself, Hull and Buruk. On a personal level, it stung, but she knew that he might very well have just saved her life.

  In any case, all that had needed to be said had been said. She wondered if Hull Beddict had understood that. There was no doubt that Buruk had.

  We are sorely unbalanced, indeed. Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, wants peace.

  The rain had returned. She drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

  Poor Hull.

  ****

  Someone edged to his side. Udinaas glanced over to see Hulad, the familiar lined face drawn, troubled and wan. ‘Are you all right?’

  Hulad shrugged. ‘I was remembering the last time she cast, Udinaas. My nerves are ruined this night.’

  Udinaas said nothing. It was with some measure of surprise that he himself was not feeling something similar. Changes had come to him, that much was clear. Feather Witch, he’d heard, had felt the brunt of Mayen’s displeasure. It seemed Uruth’s fury with the Nerek blessing, while delivered with quiet brevity, had been harsh in its content. Subsequently, Mayen had taken a switch to her slave’s back.

  Of course, when it came to dealing with slaves, justice was without meaning.

  He watched her move to stand in the centre of the cleared area. There were more slaves crowding the vast barn than there had been the last time. Enticed by the fraught tales of the past casting, no doubt. Almost as good as the Drownings.

  Feather Witch sat down on the hard-packed floor and everyone else quickly followed suit, moving with an alacrity that she herself was not able to match, bruised and battered as she was. Udinaas saw the strain in her movements, and wondered to what extent she blamed him for her sufferi
ng. Mayen was no harder a mistress than any other Edur. Beatings were mercifully uncommon – most egregious crimes committed by slaves were punished with swift death. If one was not going to kill a slave, what value incapacitating them?

  The last casting had not proceeded so far as to the actual scattering of the tiles. The Wyval’s sudden arrival had torn Feather Witch from the realm of the manifest Holds. Udinaas felt the first tremors of anticipation in his chest.

  Sudden silence as Feather Witch closed her eyes and lowered her head, her yellow hair closing over her face like twin curtains. She shuddered, then drew a deep, ragged breath, and looked up with empty eyes, in which the black smear of a starless night sky slowly grew, as from behind thinning fog, followed by spirals of luminous light.

  The Beginnings swept upon her with its mask of terror, twisting her features into something primal and chilling. She was, Udinaas knew, gazing upon the Abyss, suspended in the vast oblivion of all that lay between the stars. There were no Makers yet, nor the worlds they would fashion.

  And now the Fulcra. Fire, Dolmen and the Errant. The Errant, who gives shape to the Holds—

  ‘Walk with me to the Holds.”

  The Letherii slaves loosed long-held breaths.

  ‘We stand upon Dolmen, and all is as it should be.’ Yet there was a strain to her voice. ‘To live is to wage war against the Abyss. In our growth we find conquest, in our stagnation we find ourselves under siege, and in our dying our last defences are assailed. These are the truths of the Beast Hold. Blade and Knuckles, the war we cannot escape. Age has clawed the face and gouged the eyes of the Elder. He is scarred and battle-ravaged. Crone cackles with bitter spit, and twitches with dreams of flight. Seer’s mouth moves yet there are none to hear. Shaman wails the weft of the dead in fields of bones, yet believes none of the patterns he fashions from those scattered remains. Tracker walks his steps assured and purposeful, to belie that he wanders lost.’

  She fell silent.

  Muttered voices from the crowd. This was a cold invitation into the Holds.

  Errant guard us, we are in trouble. Dread trouble.

  Hulad plucked at his arm, gestured to the far wall where shadows lay thick as muddy water. A figure stood there, back to the dirt-spattered plaster wall. The Acquitor. Seren Pedac.

  Feather Witch remained silent, and unease grew.

  Udinaas climbed to his feet and threaded his way through the crowd, ignoring the glares from the slaves he edged past. He reached the back wall and made his way along it until he reached the Acquitor’s side.

  ‘What has gone wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know—’

  Feather Witch began speaking once more. ‘Bone Perch now stands as a throne that none shall occupy, for its shape has become inimical to taming. The throne’s back is now hunched, the ribs drawn downward, the shoulder blades steep and narrow. The arms, upon which a ruler’s arms would rest, are risen now, each in the visage of a wolf, and in their eyes burns savage life.’ She paused, then intoned, ‘The Hold of the Beast has found Twin Rulers.’

  ‘That is impossible,’ Seren Pedac murmured.

  ‘And before us now… the Hold of the Azath. Its stones bleed. The earth heaves and steams. A silent, unceasing scream shakes the branches of the ancient trees. The Azath stands besieged.’

  Voices rose in denial, the slaves shifting about.

  ‘Ice Hold!’ Feather Witch shouted, head tilted back, teeth bared.

  Silence once more, all eyes fixing on her.

  ‘Riven tomb! Corpses lie scattered before the sundered threshold. Urquall Jaghuthan taezmalas. They are not here to mend the damage. They are forgotten, and the ice itself cannot recall the weight of their passage.’

  ‘What language was that?’ Seren Pedac asked.

  ‘Jaghut,’ Udinaas replied, then snapped his mouth shut.

  ‘What is Jaghut?’

  He shrugged. ‘Forgers of the Ice, Acquitor. It is of no matter. They are gone.’

  She gripped his arm and swung him round. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘The Hold of the Dragon,’ Feather Witch said, her skin glistening with sweat. ‘Eleint Tiam purake setoram n’brael buras—’

  ‘Draconean words,’ Udinaas said, suddenly revelling in his secret knowledge. ‘ “Children of the Mother Tiam lost in all that they surrendered.” More or less. The poetry suffers in translation—’

  ‘The Eleint would destroy all in their paths to achieve vengeance,’ Feather Witch said in a grating voice. ‘As we all shall see in the long night to come. The Queen lies dead and may never again rise. The Consort writhes upon a tree and whispers with madness of the time of his release. The Liege is lost, dragging chains in a world where to walk is to endure, and where to halt is to be devoured. The Knight strides his own doomed path, soon to cross blades with his own vengeance. Gate rages with wild fire. Wyval—’

  Her head snapped back as if struck by an invisible hand, and blood sprayed from her mouth and nose. She gasped, then smiled a red smile. ‘Locqui Wyval waits. The Lady and the Sister dance round each other, each on her own side of the world. Blood-Drinker waits as well, waits to be found. Path-Shaper knows fever in his fell blood and staggers on the edge of the precipice.

  ‘Thus! The Holds, save one.’

  ‘Someone stop her,’ Seren Pedac hissed, releasing Udinaas’s arm.

  And now it was his turn to grasp her, hold her back. She snapped a glare at him and twisted to escape his grip.

  He pulled her close. ‘This is not your world, Acquitor. No-one invited you. Now, stand here and say nothing… or leave!’

  ‘The Empty Hold has become…’ Feather Witch’s smile broadened, ‘very crowded indeed. ’Ware the brothers! Listen! Blood weaves a web that will trap the entire world! None shall escape, none shall find refuge!’ Her right hand snapped out, spraying the ancient tiles onto the floor. From the rafters far above pigeons burst out of the gloom, a wild, chaotic beat of wings. They circled in a frenzy, feathers skirling down.

  ‘The Watchers stand in place as if made of stone! Their faces are masks of horror. The Mistresses dance with thwarted desire.’ Her eyes were closed, yet she pointed to one tile after another, proclaiming their identity in a harsh, rasping voice. ‘The Wanderers have broken through the ice and cold darkness comes with its deathly embrace. The Walkers cannot halt in the growing torrent that pulls them ever onward. The Saviours—’

  ‘What is she saying?’ Seren Pedac demanded. ‘She has made them all plural – the players within the Hold of the Empty Throne – this makes no sense—’

  ‘—face one another, and both are doomed, and in broken reflection so stand the Betrayers, and this is what lies before us, before us all.’ Her voice trailed away with her last words, and once more her chin settled, head tilting forward, long hair sweeping down to cover her face.

  The pigeons overhead whipped round and round, the only sound in the massive barn.

  ‘Contestants to the Empty Throne,’ Feather Witch whispered in a tone heavy with sorrow. ‘Blood and madness…’

  Udinaas slowly released his grip on Seren Pedac. She made no move, as frozen in place as everyone else present. Udinaas grunted, amused, and said to the Acquitor, ‘She’s not slept well lately, you see.’

  ****

  Seren Pedac staggered outside, into a solid sheet of cold rain. A hissing deluge on the path’s pebbles, tiny rivers cutting through the sands, the forest beyond seeming pulled down by streaming threads and ropes. An angry susurration from the direction of the river and the sea. As if the world was collapsing in melt water.

  She blinked against the cold tears.

  And recalled the play of Edur children, the oblivious chatter of a thousand moments ago, so far back in her mind now as to echo like someone else’s reminiscence. Of times weathered slick and shapeless.

  Memories rushing, rushing down to the sea.

  Like children in flight.

  Chapter Eight

  Where are the days we onc
e held so loose in our sure hands? When did these racing streams carve depthless caves beneath our feet? And how did this scene stagger and shift to make fraught our deft lies in the places where youth will meet, in the lands of our proud dreams? Where, among all you before me, are the faces I once knew?

  Words etched into the wall,

  K’rul Belfry, Darujhistan

  In the battle that saw theradas buhn blooded, a merude cutlass had laid open his right cheek, snapping the bone beneath the eye and cutting through maxilla and the upper half of his mandible. The savage wound had been slow to heal, and the thread that had been used to seal the gaping hole into his mouth had festered the flesh before his comrades could return the warrior to a nearby Hiroth encampment, where a healer had done what she could – driving out the infection, knitting the bones. The result was a long, crooked scar within a seamed concave depression on that side of his face, and a certain flat look to his eyes that hinted of unseen wounds that would never heal.

  Trull Sengar sat with the others five paces from the edge of the icefield, watching Theradas as he paced back and forth along the crusted line of ice and snow, the red-tipped fox fur of his cloak flashing in the gusting wind. The Arapay lands were behind them now, and with them the grudging hospitality of that subjugated Edur tribe. The Hiroth warriors were alone, and before them stretched a white, shattered landscape.

  It looked lifeless, but the Arapay had spoken of night hunters, strange, fur-shrouded killers who came out of the darkness wielding jagged blades of black iron. They took body parts as trophies, to the point of leaving limbless, headless torsos in their wake. None had ever been captured, and the bodies of those who fell were never left where they lay.

  Even so, they tended to prey only upon paired Edur hunters. More formidable groups were generally left alone. The Arapay called them Jheck, which meant, roughly, standing wolves.

  ‘There are eyes upon us,’ Theradas pronounced in his thick, blunted voice.

  Fear Sengar shrugged. ‘The ice wastes are not as lifeless as they appear. Hares, foxes, ground owls, white wolves, bears, aranag—’