Dust of Dreams

  But people behind her were falling. Dying.

  Where is home? It lies ahead. Where is home? Lost far behind us.

  Where is home? It is within, gutted and hollow, waiting to be filled once more.

  Where is Gallan?

  At this road’s end.

  What is Gallan’s promise? It is home. I—I need to work through this. Round and round—madness to let it run, madness. Will the light never return? Is the joke this: that salvation is all around us, even as we remain for ever blind to it?

  Because we believe . . . there must be a road. A journey, an ordeal, a place to find.

  We believe in the road. And in believing we build it, stone by stone, drop by drop. We bleed for our belief, and as the blood flows, the darkness closes in—

  ‘The Road to Gallan is not a road. Some roads . . . are not roads at all. Gallan’s promise is not from here to there. It is from now to then. The darkness . . . the darkness comes from within.’

  A truth, and most truths were revelations.

  She opened her eyes.

  Behind her, parched throats opened in a moaning chorus. Thousands, the sound rising to challenge the rush of black water on stony shores, to waft out and run between the charred tree-stumps climbing the hillsides to the left.

  Yan Tovis stood at the shore, not seeing the river sweeping past the toes of her boots. Her gaze had lifted, vision cutting through the mottled atmosphere, to look upon the silent, unlit ruins of a vast city.

  The city.

  Kharkanas.

  The Shake have come home.

  Are we . . . are we home?

  The air belonged in a tomb, a forgotten crypt.

  And she could see, and she knew. Kharkanas is dead.

  The city is dead.

  Blind Gallan—you lied to us.

  Yan Tovis howled. She fell to her knees, into the numbing water of River Eryn. ‘You lied! You lied!’ Tears ran from her eyes, streamed down her cheeks. Salty beads spun and glittered as they plunged into the lifeless river.

  Drop by drop.

  To feed the river.

  Yedan Derryg led his horse forward, hoofs crunching on the stones, and relaxed the reins so that the beast could drink. He cradled his wounded arm and said nothing as he looked to the right and studied the kneeling, bent-over form of his sister.

  The muscles of his jaw bunched beneath his beard, and he straightened to squint at the distant ruins.

  Pully stumped up beside him. Her young face looked bruised with shock. ‘We . . . walked . . . to this?’

  ‘Blind Gallan gave us a road,’ said Yedan Derryg. ‘But what do the blind hold to more than anything else? Only that which was sweet in their eyes—the last visions they beheld. We followed the road into his memories.’ After a moment, he shrugged, chewed for a time, and then said, ‘What in the Errant’s name did you expect, witch?’

  His horse had drunk enough. Gathering up the reins, he backed the mount from the shore’s edge and then wheeled it round. ‘Sergeant! Spread the soldiers out—the journey has ended. See to the raising of a camp.’ He faced the two witches. ‘You two, bind Twilight’s wounds and feed her. I will be back shortly—’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Yedan Derryg stared at Pully for a time, and then he set heels to his horse and rode past the witch, downstream along the shoreline.

  A thousand paces further on, a stone bridge spanned the river, and beyond it wound a solid, broad road leading to the city. Beneath that bridge, he saw, there was some kind of logjam, so solid as to form a latticed barrier sufficient to push the river out to the sides, creating elongated swampland skirting this side of the raised road.

  As he drew closer he saw that most of the logjam seemed to consist of twisted metal bars and cables.

  He was forced to slow his mount, picking his way across the silted channel, but at last managed to drive the beast up the bank and on to the road.

  Hoofs kicked loose lumps of muck as he rode across the bridge. Downstream of the barrier the river ran still, slightly diminished and cutting a narrower, faster channel. On the flats to either side there was more rusted, unidentifiable wreckage.

  Once on the road, he fixed his gaze on the towering gate ahead, but something in its strange, alien architecture made his head spin, so he studied the horizon to the right—where massive towers rose from sprawling, low buildings. He was not certain, but he thought he could detect thin, ragged streamers of smoke from the tops of those towers. After a time, he decided that what he was seeing was the effect of the wind and updraughts from those chimneys pulling loose ashes from deep pits at the base of the smokestacks.

  On the road before him, here and there, he saw faint heaps of corroded metal, and the wink of jewellery—corpses had once crowded this approach, but the bones had long since crumbled to dust.

  The mottled light cast sickly sheens on the outer walls of the city—and those stones, he could now see, were blackened with soot, a thick crust that glittered like obsidian.

  Yedan Derryg halted before the gate. The way was open—no sign of barriers remained beyond torn hinges reduced to corroded lumps. He could see a broad street beyond the arch, and dust on the cobbles black as crushed coal.

  ‘Walk on, horse.’

  And Prince Yedan Derryg rode into Kharkanas.

  Book Three

  Only the Dust

  Will Dance

  The dead have found me in my dreams

  Fishing beside lakes and in strange houses

  That could be homes for lost families

  In all the pleasures of completeness

  And I wander through their natural company

  In the soft comforts of contentment.

  The dead greet me with knowing ease

  And regard nothing the forsaken awakening

  That abandons me in this new solitude

  Of eyes flickering open and curtains drawing.

  When the dead find me in my dreams

  I see them living in the hidden places

  Unanchored in time and ageless as wishes.

  The woman lying at my side hears my sigh

  Following the morning chime and asks

  After me as I lie in the wake of sorrow’s concert,

  But I will not speak of life’s loneliness

  Or the empty shorelines where fishermen belong

  And the houses never lived in never again

  That stand in necessary configurations

  To build us familiar places for the dead.

  One day I will journey into her dreams

  But I say nothing of this behind my smile

  And she will see me hunting the dark waters

  For the flit of trout and we will travel

  Strange landscapes in the forever instant

  Until she leaves me for the living day

  But as the dead well know the art of fishing

  Finds its reward in brilliant joyous hope

  And eternal loving patience, and it is my

  Thought now that such gods that exist

  Are the makers of dreams and this is their gift

  This blessed river of sleep and dreams

  Where in wonder we may greet our dead

  And sages and priests are wise when they say

  Death is but sleep and we are forever alive

  In the dreams of the living, for I have seen

  My dead on nightly journeys and I tell you this:

  They are well.

  SONG OF DREAMING

  FISHER

  Chapter Thirteen

  They came late to the empty land and looked with bitterness upon the six wolves watching them from the horizon’s rim. With them was a herd of goats and a dozen black sheep. They took no account of the wolves’ possession of this place, for in their minds ownership was the human crown that none other had the right to wear. The beasts were content to share in survival’s struggle, in hunt and quarry, and the braying goats and bawling sheep had soft throats and carelessnes
s was a common enough flaw among herds; and they had not yet learned the manner of these two-legged intruders. Herds were fed upon by many creatures. Often the wolves shared their meals with crows and coyotes, and had occasion to argue with lumbering bears over a delectable prize.

  When I came upon the herders and their long house on a flat above the valley, I found six wolf skulls spiked above the main door. In my travels as a minstrel I knew enough that I had no need to ask—this was a tale woven into our kind, after all. No words, either, for the bear skins on the walls, the antelope hides and elk racks. Not a brow lifted for the mound of bhederin bones in the refuse pit, or the vultures killed by the poison-baited meat left for the coyotes.

  That night I sang and spun tales for my keep. Songs of heroes and great deeds and they were pleased enough and the beer was passing and the shank stew palatable.

  Poets are sembling creatures, capable of shrugging into the skin of man, woman, child and beast. There are some among them secretly marked, sworn to the cults of the wilderness. And that night I shared out my poison and in the morning I left a lifeless house where not a dog remained to cry, and I sat upon a hill with my pipe, summoning once more the wild beasts. I defend their ownership when they cannot, and make no defence against the charge of murder; but temper your horror, friends: there is no universal law that places a greater value upon human life over that of a wild beast. Why would you ever imagine otherwise?

  CONFESSIONS OF TWO HUNDRED

  TWENTY-THREE COUNTS OF JUSTICE

  WELTHAN THE MINSTREL (AKA SINGER MAD)

  H

  e came to us in the guise of a duke from an outlying border fastness—a place remote enough that none of us even thought to suspect him. And in his manner, his hard countenance and few words, he matched well our lazy preconceptions of such a man. None of us could argue that there was something about him, a kind of self-assurance rarely seen at court. In his eyes, like wolves straining at chains, there was a hint of the feral—the priestesses positively dripped.

  ‘But, they would find, his was a most potent seed. And it was not Tiste Andii.’

  Silchas Ruin poked at the fire with a stick, reawakening flames. Sparks fled up into the dark. Rud watched the warrior’s cadaverous face, the mottled play of orange light that seemed to paint brief moments of life in it.

  After a time, Silchas Ruin settled back and resumed. ‘Power was drawn to him like slivers of iron to a lodestone . . . it all seemed so . . . natural. His distant origins invited the notion of neutrality, and one might argue, in hindsight, that Draconus was indeed neutral. He would use any and every Tiste Andii to further his ambitions, and how were we to imagine that, at the very core of his desire, there was love?’

  Rud’s gaze slid away from Silchas Ruin, up and over the Tiste Andii’s right shoulder, to the terrible slashes of jade in the night sky. He tried to think of something to say, a comment of any sort: something wry, perhaps, or knowing, or cynical. But what did he know of the love such as Silchas Ruin was describing? What, indeed, did he know of anything in this or any other world?

  ‘Consort to Mother Dark—he laid claim to that title, eventually, as if it was a role he had lost and had vowed to reacquire.’ The white-skinned warrior snorted, eyes fixed on the flickering flames. ‘Who were we to challenge that assertion? Mother’s children had by then ceased to speak with her. No matter. What son would not challenge his mother’s lover—new lover, old lover, whatever—’ and he looked up, offering Rud a faint grin. ‘Perhaps you’ve some understanding of that, at least. After all, Udinaas was not Menandore’s first and only love.’

  Rud looked away again. ‘I am not certain love was involved.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Do you wish more tea, Rud Elalle?’

  ‘No, thank you. It is a potent brew.’

  ‘Necessary, for the journey to come.’

  Rud frowned. ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘This night, we shall travel. There are things you must see. It is not enough that I simply lead you this way and that—I do not expect a loyal hound at my heel, I expect a comrade standing at my side. To witness is to approach comprehension, and you will need that, when you decide.’

  ‘Decide what?’

  ‘The side you will take in the war awaiting us, among other things.’

  ‘Other things. Such as?’

  ‘Where to make your stand, and when. Your mother chose a mortal for your father for a good reason, Rud. Unexpected strengths come from such mating: the offspring often exhibit the best traits from both.’

  Rud started as a stone cracked in the fire. ‘You say you will lead me to places, Silchas Ruin, for you have no wish that I be naught but a loyal, mindless hound. Yet it may be that I shall not, in the end, choose to stand beside you at all. What then? What if I find myself opposite you in this war?’

  ‘Then one of us will die.’

  ‘My father left me in your care—and this is how you betray his trust?’

  Silchas Ruin bared his teeth in a humourless smile. ‘Rud Elalle, your father gave you to my care not out of trust—he knows me too well for that. Consider this your first lesson. He shares your love for the Imass of the Refugium. That realm—and every living thing within it—is in danger of annihilation, should the war be lost—’

  ‘Starvald Demelain—but the gate was sealed!’

  ‘No seal is perfect. Will and desire gnaw like acid. Well. Hunger and ambition are perhaps more accurate descriptions of that which assails the gate.’ He collected the blackened pot from beside the coals and poured Rud’s cup full once more. ‘Drink. We have strayed from the path. I was speaking of the ancient forces—your kin, if you like. Among them, the Eleint. Was Draconus a true Eleint? Or was he something else? All I can say is, he wore the skin of a Tiste Andii for a time, perhaps as a sour joke, mocking our self-importance—who can know? In any case, it was inevitable that Anomander, my brother, would step into the Consort’s path, and all those opportunities for knowledge and truth came to a swift end. To this day,’ he added, sighing, ‘I wonder if Anomander regrets killing Draconus.’

  Rud started. His mind was awhirl. ‘What of the Imass? This war—’

  ‘I told you,’ Silchas Ruin snapped, face betraying his irritation. ‘Wars are indifferent to the choice of victims. Innocence, guilt, such notions are irrelevant. Grasp hold of your thoughts and catch up. I wondered if Anomander has regrets. I know that I do not. Draconus was a cold, cold bastard—and with the awakening of Father Light, ah, well, we saw then the truth of his jealous rage. The Consort cast aside, see the malice of the spurned ignite a black fire in his eyes! When we speak of ancient times, Rud Elalle, we find in our words things far nearer to hand, and all those emotions we imagined new, blazing with our own youth, we find to be ancient beyond imagining.’ He spat into the coals. ‘And this is why poets never starve for things to sing about, though rare is the one who grows fat upon them.’

  ‘I will defend the Refugium,’ said Rud, hands clenching into fists.

  ‘We know that, and that is why you are here—’

  ‘But that makes no sense! I should be there, standing before the gate!’

  ‘Another lesson. Your father may love the Imass, but he loves you more.’

  Rud surged to his feet. ‘I will return—’

  ‘No. Sit down. You have a better chance of saving them all by accompanying me.’

  ‘How?’

  Silchas Ruin leaned forward and reached into the fire. He scooped up two handfuls of coals and embers. He held them up. ‘Tell me what you see, Rud Elalle, Ryadd Eleis—do you know those words, your true name? They are Tiste Andii—do you know what they mean?’

  ‘No.’

  Silchas Ruin studied the embers cupped in his hands. ‘Just this. Your true name, Ryadd Eleis, means “Hands of Fire”. Your mother looked into the soul of her son, and saw all there was to see. She may well have cherished you, but she also feared you.’

  ‘She died because she chose betrayal.’

  ‘
She was true to the Eleint blood within her—but you also possess the blood of your father, a mortal, and he is a man I came to know well, to understand as much as anyone could. A man I came to respect. He was the first to comprehend the girl’s purpose, the first to realize the task awaiting me—and he knew that I did not welcome the blood that would stain my hands. He chose not to stand in my way—I am not yet certain what happened at the gate, the clash with Wither, and poor Fear Sengar’s misplaced need to stand in Scabandari’s stead—but through it all, Kettle’s fate was sealed. She was the seed of the Azath, and a seed must find fertile soil.’ He dropped the embers—now cooled—back on to the fire. ‘She is young yet. She needs time, and unless we stand against the chaos to come, she will not have that time—and the Imass will die. Your father will die. They will all die.’ He rose and faced Rud. ‘We leave now. Korabas awaits.’

  ‘What is Korabas?’

  ‘For this we must veer. Kallor’s dead warren should suffice. Korabas is an Eleint, Ryadd. She is the Otataral Dragon. There is chaos in a human soul—it is your mortal gift, but be aware—like fire it can turn in your hands.’

  ‘Even to one named “Hands of Fire”?’

  The Tiste Andii’s red eyes seemed to flatten. ‘My warning was precise.’

  ‘What do we seek in meeting this Korabas?’

  Silchas slapped the ashes from his palms. ‘They will free her, and that we cannot stop. I mean to convince you that we should not even try.’

  Rud found his fists were still clenched tight, aching at the ends of his arms. ‘You give me too little.’

  ‘Better than too much, Ryadd.’

  ‘Because like my mother, you fear me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Between you and your brothers, Silchas Ruin, who was the most honest?’

  The Tiste Andii cocked his head, and then smiled.

  A short time later, two dragons lifted into the darkness, one gleaming polished gold that slid in and out of the gloom in lurid smears; the other was bone white, the pallor of a corpse in the night—save for the twin embers of its eyes.