You see naught but flesh in the wrought schemes that stitch every dance in patterns of rising – the ritual of our days our lives bedecked with precious import as if we stand unbolstered before tables feast-heavy and tapestries burdened with simple deeds are all that call us and all that we call upon as would flesh blood-swollen by something other than need. But my vision is not so privileged and what I see are the bones in ghostly motion, the bones who are the slaves and they weave the solid world underfoot with every stride you take.
Slaves Beneath Fisher kel Tath
ACQUITOR SEREN PEDAC WATCHED EDUR CHILDREN PLAYING AMONG the sacred trees. The shadows writhing in the black bark of the boles were a chaotic swirl of motion surrounding the children, to which they seemed entirely indifferent. For some ineffable reason, she found the juxtaposition horrifying.
She had, years ago, seen young Nerek playing amidst the scattered bones of their ancestors, and it had left her more shaken than any battlefield she had walked. The scene before her now resonated in the same manner. She was here, in the Warlock King’s village, and in the midst of people, of figures in motion and voices ringing through the misty air, she felt lost and alone.
Encircling the holy grove was a broad walkway, the mud covered with shaggy strips of shredded bark, along which sat logs roughly carved into benches. Ten paces to Seren’s left was Hull Beddict, seated with his forearms on his knees, hands anchoring his head as he stared at the ground. He had neither moved nor spoken in some time, and the mundane inconsequentiality of their exchanged greetings no longer echoed between them, barring a faint flavour of sadness in the mutual silence.
The Tiste Edur ignored the two Letherii strangers in their midst. Lodgings had been provided for them and for Buruk the Pale. The first meeting with Hannan Mosag was to be this night, but the company had already been here for five days. Normally, a wait of a day or two was to be expected. It was clear that the Warlock King was sending them a message with this unprecedented delay.
A more dire warning still was to be found in the many Edur from other tribes now resident in the village. She had seen Arapay, Merude, Beneda and Sollanta among the native Hiroth. Den-Ratha, who dwelt in the northernmost regions of Edur territory, were notoriously reluctant to venture from their own lands. Even so, the fact of the unified tribes could be made no more apparent and deliberate than it had been, and a truth she had known only in the abstract was given chilling confirmation in its actuality. The divisive weaknesses of old were no more. Everything had changed.
The Nerek had pulled the wagons close to the guest lodge and were now huddled among them, fearful of venturing into the village. The Tiste Edur had a manner of looking right through those they deemed to be lesser folk. This frightened the Nerek in some way, as if the fact of their own existence could be damaged by the Edur’s indifference. Since arriving they had seemed to wither, immune to Buruk’s exhortations, barely inclined to so much as feed themselves. Seren had gone in search of Hull, in the hope of convincing him to speak to the Nerek.
Upon finding him, she had begun to wonder whether he’d been inflicted with something similar to the enervating pall that had settled on the Nerek. Hull Beddict looked old, as if the journey’s end had carried with it a fierce cost, and before him waited still heavier burdens.
Seren Pedac pulled her gaze from the playing children and walked back to where Hull sat on the log bench. Men were quick and stubborn with their barriers, but she’d had enough. ‘Those Nerek will starve if you don’t do something.’
There was no indication that he’d heard her.
‘Fine,’ she snapped. ‘What’s a few more Nerek deaths to your toll?’
She’d wanted anger. Outrage. She’d wanted to wound him with that, if only to confirm that there was still blood to flow. But at her vicious words, he slowly looked up and met her eyes with a soft smile. ‘Seren Pedac. The Nerek await acceptance by the Tiste Edur, just as we do – although we Letherii are far less sensitive to the spiritual damage the Edur want us to suffer. Our skin is thick, after all-’
‘Born of our fixation on our so-called infallible destiny,’ she replied. ‘What of it?’
‘I used to think,’ he said, smile fading, ‘that the thickness of our… armour was naught but an illusion. Bluster and self-righteous arrogance disguising deep-seated insecurities. That we lived in perpetual crisis, since self-avowed destinies wear a thousand masks and not one of them truly fits-’
‘How can they, Hull Beddict, when they’re modelled on perfection?’
He shrugged, looked down and seemed to study his hands. ‘But in most ways our armour is indeed thick. Impervious to nuances, blind to subtlety. Which is why we’re always so suspicious of subtle things, especially when exhibited by strangers, by outsiders.’
‘We Letherii know our own games of deceit,’ Seren said. ‘You paint us as blundering fools-’
‘Which we are, in so many ways,’ he replied. ‘Oh, we visualize our goals clearly enough. But we ignore the fact that every step we take towards them crushes someone, somewhere.’
‘Even our own.’
‘Yes, there is that.’ He rose, and Seren Pedac was struck once more by his bulk. A huge, broken man. ‘I will endeavour to ease the plight of the Nerek. But the answer rests with the Tiste Edur.’
‘Very well.’ She stepped back and turned round. The children played on, amidst the lost shadows. She listened to Hull walk away, the soft crackle of his moccasined feet on the wood chips fading.
Very well.
She made her way into the village, onto the main avenue, across the bridge that led through open gates into the inner ward, where the noble-born Hiroth had their residences. Just beyond them was Hannan Mosag’s longhouse. Seren Pedac paused in the broad clearing just within the palisade wall. No children in sight, only slaves busy with their menial chores and a half-dozen Edur warriors sparring with a wide assortment of weapons. None spared the Acquitor any notice, at least not outwardly, though she was certain that her arrival had been surreptitiously observed and that her movements would be tracked.
Two Letherii slaves were walking nearby, carrying between them a net-sling bulging with mussels. Seren approached.
‘I would speak with an Edur matron.’
‘She comes,’ one of them replied, not glancing over.
Seren turned.
The Edur woman who strode towards her was flanked by attendants. She looked young, but there was in truth no way of knowing. Attractive, but that in itself was not unusual. She wore a long robe, the wool dyed midnight blue, with gold-threaded patterns adorning cuffs and brocade. Her long, straight brown hair was unbound.
‘Acquitor,’ she said in Edur, ‘are you lost?’
‘No, milady. I would speak with you on behalf of the Nerek.’
Thin brows arched above the heart-shaped face. ‘With me?’
‘With an Edur,’ Seren replied.
‘Ah. And what is it you wish to say?’
‘Until such time that the Tiste Edur offer an official welcome to the Nerek, they starve and suffer spiritual torment. I would ask that you show them mercy.’
‘I am sure that this is but an oversight, Acquitor. Is it not true that your audience with the Warlock King occurs this very night?’
‘Yes. But that is no guarantee that we will be proclaimed guests at that time, is it?’
‘You would demand special treatment?’
‘Not for ourselves. For the Nerek.’
The woman studied her for a time, then, ‘Tell me, if you will, who or what are these Nerek?’
A half-dozen heartbeats passed, as Seren struggled to adjust to this unexpected ignorance. Unexpected, she told herself, but not altogether surprising – she had but fallen to her own assumptions. It seemed the Letherii were not unique in their self-obsessions. Or, for that matter, their arrogance. ‘Your pardon, milady-’
‘I am named Mayen.’
‘Your pardon, Mayen. The Nerek are the servants of Buruk the Pale. Similar in status to your slaves. They are of a tribe that was assimilated by Lether some time back, and now work to pay against their debt.’
‘Joining the Letherii entails debt?’
Seren’s gaze narrowed. ‘Not direc- not as such, Mayen. There were… unique circumstances.’
‘Yes, of course. Those do arise, don’t they?’ The Edur woman pressed a fingertip to her lips, then seemed to reach a decision. ‘Take me, then, to these Nerek, Acquitor.’
‘I’m sorry? Now?’
‘Yes, the sooner their spirits are eased the better. Or have I misunderstood you?’
‘No.’
‘Presumably, the blessing of any Edur will suffice for these pitiful tribespeople of yours. Nor can I see how it will affect the Warlock King’s dealings with you. Indeed, I am sure it won’t.’ She turned to one of her Letherii slaves. ‘Feather Witch, please inform Uruth Sengar that I will be somewhat delayed, but assure her it will not be for long.’
The young woman named Feather Witch bowed and rushed off towards a longhouse. Seren stared after her for a moment. ‘Mayen, if I may ask, who gave her that name?’
‘Feather Witch? It is Letherii, is it not? Those Letherii born as slaves among us are named by their mothers. Or grandmothers, whatever the practice among your kind may be. I have not given it much thought. Why?’
Seren shrugged. ‘It is an old name, that is all. I’ve not heard it used in a long time, and then only in the histories.’
‘Shall we walk, Acquitor?’
Udinaas sat on a low stool near the entrance, stripping scales from a basketful of dried fish. His hands were wet, red and cracked by the salt paste the fish had been packed in. He had watched the Acquitor’s arrival, followed Mayen’s detour, and now Feather Witch was approaching, a troubled expression on her face.
‘Indebted,’ she snapped, ‘is Uruth within?’
‘She is, but you must wait.’
‘Why?’
‘She speaks with the highborn widows. They have been in there some time, and no, I do not know what concerns them.’
‘And you imagine I would have asked you?’
‘How are your dreams, Feather Witch?’
She paled, and looked round as if seeking somewhere else to wait. But a light rain had begun to fall, and beneath the projecting roof of the longhouse they were dry. ‘You know nothing of my dreams, Indebted.’
‘How can I not? You come to me in them every night. We talk, you and I. We argue. You demand answers from me. You curse the look in my eyes. And, eventually, you flee.’
She would not meet his gaze. ‘You cannot be there. In my mind,’ she said. ‘You are nothing to me.’
‘We are just the fallen, Feather Witch. You, me, the ghosts. All of us. We’re the dust swirling around the ankles of the conquerors as they stride on into glory. In time, we may rise in their ceaseless scuffling, and so choke them, but it is a paltry vengeance, don’t you think?’
‘You do not speak as you used to, Udinaas. I no longer know who speaks through you.’
He looked down at his scale-smeared hands. ‘And how do I answer that? Am I unchanged? Hardly. But does that mean the changes are not mine? I fought the White Crow for you, Feather Witch. I wrested you from its grasp, and now all you do is curse me.’
‘Do you think I appreciate owing you my life?’
He winced, then managed a smile as he lifted his gaze once more, catching her studying him – though once more she glanced away. ‘Ah, I see now. You have found yourself… indebted. To me.’
‘Wrong,’ she hissed. ‘Uruth would have saved me. You did nothing, except make a fool of yourself.’
‘She was too late, Feather Witch. And you insist on calling me Indebted, as if saying it often enough will take away-’
‘Be quiet! I want nothing to do with you!’
‘You have no choice, although if you speak any louder both our heads will top a pike outside the walls. What did the Acquitor want with Mayen?’
She shifted nervously, hesitated, then said, ‘A welcome for the Nerek. They’re dying.’
Udinaas shook his head. ‘That gift is for the Warlock King to make.’
‘So you would think, yet Mayen offered herself in his stead.’
His eyes widened. ‘She did? Has she lost her mind?’
‘Quiet, you fool!’ Feather Witch crouched down across from him. ‘The impending marriage has filled her head. She fashions herself as a queen and so has become insufferable. And now she would bless the Nerek-’
‘Bless?’
‘Her word, yes. I think even the Acquitor was taken aback.’
‘That was Seren Pedac, wasn’t it?’
Feather Witch nodded.
Both were silent for a few moments, then Udinaas said, ‘What would such a blessing do, do you think?’
‘Probably nothing. The Nerek are a broken people. Their gods are dead, the spirits of their ancestors scattered. Oh, a ghost or two might be drawn to the newly sanctified ground-’
‘An Edur’s blessing could do that? Sanctify the ground?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. But there could be a binding. Of destinies, depending on the purity of Mayen’s bloodline, on all that awaits her in her life, on whether she’s-’ Feather Witch gestured angrily and clamped her mouth shut.
On whether she’s a virgin. But how could that be in question? She’s not yet married, and Edur do not break those rules. ‘We did not speak of this, you and I,’ Udinaas said. ‘I told you that you had to wait because that is expected of me. You had no reason to think your message from Mayen was urgent. We are slaves, Feather Witch. We do not think for ourselves, and of the Edur and their ways we know next to nothing.’
Her eyes finally locked with his. ‘Yes.’ A moment, then, ‘Hannan Mosag meets with the Letherii tonight.’
‘I know.’
‘Buruk the Pale. Seren Pedac. Hull Beddict.’
Udinaas smiled, but the smile held no humour. ‘If you will, at whose feet shall the tiles be cast, Feather Witch?’
‘Among those three? Errant knows, Udinaas.’ As if sensing her own softening towards him, she scowled and straightened. ‘I will stand over there. Waiting.’
‘You do intend to cast the tiles tonight, don’t you?’
She admitted it with a terse nod, then walked to the corner of the longhouse front, to the very edge of the thickening rain.
Udinaas resumed stripping scales. He thought back to his own words earlier. Fallen. Who tracks our footsteps, I wonder? We who are the forgotten, the discounted and the ignored. When the path is failure, it is never willingly taken. The fallen. Why does my heart weep for them? Not them but us, for most assuredly I am counted among them. Slaves, serfs, nameless peasants and labourers, the blurred faces in the crowd – just a smear on memory, a scuffing of feet down the side passages of history.
Can one stop, can one turn and force one’s eyes to pierce the gloom? And see the fallen? Can one ever see the fallen? And if so, what emotion is born in that moment?
There were tears on his cheeks, dripping down onto his chafed hands. He knew the answer to that question, knife-sharp and driven deep, and the answer was… recognition.
Hull Beddict moved to stand beside Seren Pedac as Mayen walked away. Behind them, the Nerek were speaking in their native tongue, harsh and fast words, taut with disbelief. Rain hissed in the cookfires.
‘She should not have done that,’ Hull said.
‘No,’ Seren agreed, ‘she should not have. Still, I am not quite certain what has just happened. They were just words, after all. Weren’t they?’
‘She didn’t proclaim them guests, Seren. She blessed their arrival.’
The Acquitor glanced back at the Nerek, frowned at their flushed, nervous expressions. ‘What are they talking about?’
‘It’s the old dialect – there are trader words in it that I understand, but many others that I don’t.’
‘I didn’t know the Nerek had two languages.’
‘Their name is mentioned in the annals of the First Landings,’ Hull said. ‘They are the indigenous people whose territory spanned the entire south. There were Nerek watching the first ships approach. Nerek who came to greet the first Letherii to set foot on this continent. Nerek who traded, taught the colonizers how to live in this land, gave them the medicines against the heat fevers. They have been here a long, long time. Two languages? I’m surprised there aren’t a thousand.’
‘Well,’ Seren Pedac said after a moment, ‘at least they’re animated once more. They’ll eat, do as Buruk commands-’
‘Yes. But I sense a new fear among them – not one to incapacitate, but the source of troubled thoughts. It seems that even they do not comprehend the full significance of that blessing.’
‘This was never their land, was it?’
‘I don’t know. The Edur certainly claim to have always been here, from the time when the ice first retreated from the world.’
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten. Their strange creation myths. Lizards and dragons and ice, a god-king betrayed.’
After a moment she glanced over, and saw him staring at her.
‘What is it, Hull?’
‘How do you know such things? It was years before Binadas Sengar relinquished such information to me, and that as a solemn gift following our binding.’
Seren blinked. ‘I heard it… somewhere. I suppose.’ She shrugged, wiping rainwater from her face. ‘Everyone has some sort of creation myth. Nonsense, typically. Or actual memories all jumbled up and infused with magic and miracles.’
‘You are being surprisingly dismissive, Acquitor.’
‘And what do the Nerek believe?’
‘That they were all born of a single mother, countless generations past, who was the thief of fire and walked through time, seeking that which might answer a need that consumed her – although she could never discover the nature of that need. One time, in her journey, she took within her a sacred seed, and so gave birth to a girl-child. To all outward appearances,’ he continued, ‘that child was little different from her mother, for the sacredness was hidden, and so it remains hidden to this day. Within the Nerek, who are the offspring of that child.’
‘And by this, the Nerek justify their strange patriarchy.’
‘Perhaps,’ Hull conceded, ‘although it is the female line that is taken as purest.’
‘And does this first mother’s mother have a name?’
‘Ah, you noted the confused blending of the two, as if they were roles rather than distinct individuals. Maiden, mother and grandmother, a progression through time-’
‘Discounting the drudgery spent as wife. Wisdom unfurls like a flower in a pile of dung.’
His gaze sharpened on her. ‘In any case, she is known by a number of related names, also suggesting variations of a single person. Eres, N’eres, Eres’al.’
‘And this is what lies at the heart of the Nerek ancestor worship?’
‘Was, Seren Pedac. You forget, their culture is destroyed.’
‘Cultures can die, Hull, but the people live on, and what they carry within them are the seeds of rebirth-’
‘A delusion, Seren Pedac,’ he replied. ‘Whatever might be born of that is twisted, weak, a self-mockery.’
‘Even stone changes. Nothing can stand still-’
‘Yet we would. Wouldn’t we? Oh, we talk of progress, but what we really desire is the perpetuation of the present. With its seemingly endless excesses, its ravenous appetites. Ever the same rules, ever the same game.’
Seren Pedac shrugged. ‘We were discussing the Nerek. A noble-born woman of the Hiroth Tiste Edur has blessed them-’
‘Before even our own formal welcome has been voiced.’
Her brows rose. ‘You think this is yet another veiled insult to the Letherii? Instigated by Hannan Mosag himself? Hull, I think your imagination has the better of you this time.’
‘Think what you like.’
She turned away. ‘I’m going for a walk.’
Uruth had intercepted Mayen at the bridge. Whatever was exchanged between them was brief and without drama, at least none that Udinaas could determine from where he sat in front of the longhouse. Feather Witch had trailed Uruth after delivering the message from her mistress, and waited a half-dozen paces distant from the two Edur women, though not so far as to be out of earshot. Uruth and Mayen then approached side by side, the slaves trailing.
Hearing low laughter, Udinaas stiffened and hunched lower on the stool. ‘Be quiet, Wither!’ he hissed.
‘There are realms, dead slave,’ the wraith whispered, ‘where memories shape oblivion, and so make of ages long past a world as real as this one. In this way, time is defeated. Death is defied. And sometimes, Udinaas the Indebted, such a realm drifts close. Very close.’
‘No more, I beg you. I’m not interested in your stupid riddles-’
‘Would you see what I see? Right now? Shall I send Shadow’s veil to slip over your eyes and so reveal to you unseen pasts?’
‘Not now-’
‘Too late.’
Layers unfolded before the slave’s eyes, cobweb-thin, and the surrounding village seemed to shrink back, blurred and colourless, beneath the onslaught. Udinaas struggled to focus. The clearing had vanished, replaced by towering trees and a forest floor of rumpled moss, where the rain fell in sheets. The sea to his left was much closer, fiercely toppling grey, foaming waves against the shoreline’s jagged black rock, spume exploding skyward.
Udinaas flinched away from the violence of those waves – and all at once they faded into darkness, and another scene rose before the slave’s eyes. The sea had retreated, beyond the western horizon, leaving behind trench-scarred bedrock ringed in sheer ice cliffs. The chill air carried the stench of decay.
Figures scurried past Udinaas, wearing furs or perhaps bearing their own thick coat, mottled brown, tan and black. They were surprisingly tall, their bodies disproportionately large below small-skulled, heavy-jawed heads. One sported a reed-woven belt from which dead otters hung, and all carried coils of rope made from twisted grasses.
They were silent, yet Udinaas sensed their terror as they stared at something in the northern sky.
The slave squinted, then saw what had captured their attention.
A mountain of black stone, hanging suspended in the air above low slopes crowded with shattered ice. It was drifting closer, and Udinaas sensed a malevolence emanating from the enormous, impossible conjuration – an emotion the tall, pelted creatures clearly sensed as well.
They stared for a moment longer, then broke. Fled past Udinaas-
– and the scene changed.
Battered bedrock, pulverized stone, roiling mists. Two tall figures appeared, dragging between them a third one – a woman, unconscious or dead, long dark brown hair unbound and trailing on the ground. Udinaas flinched upon recognizing one of the walking figures – that blinding armour, the iron-clad boots and silver cloak, the helmed face. Menandore. Sister Dawn. He sought to flee – she could not avoid seeing him – but found himself frozen in place.
He recognized the other woman as well, from fearfully carved statues left half buried in loam in the forest surrounding the Hiroth village. Piebald skin, grey and black, making her hard face resemble a war-mask. A cuirass of dulled, patchy iron. Chain and leather vambraces and greaves, a full-length cape of sealskin billowing out behind her. Dapple, the fickle sister. Sukul Ankhadu.
And he knew, then, the woman they dragged between them. Dusk, Sheltatha Lore. Scabandari’s most cherished daughter, the Protectress of the Tiste Edur.
The two women halted, releasing the limp arms of the one between them, who dropped to the gritty bedrock as if dead. Two sets of wide, epicanthic Tiste eyes seemed to fix on Udinaas.
Menandore was the first to speak. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here.’
As Udinaas struggled to find a response to that, a man’s voice at his side said, ‘What have you done to her?’
The slave turned to see another Tiste, standing within an arm’s reach from where Udinaas sat on the stool. Taller than the women facing him, he was wearing white enamelled armour, blood-spattered, smudged and scarred by sword-cuts. A broken helm was strapped to his right hip. His skin was white as ivory. Dried blood marked the left side of his face with a pattern like branched lightning. Fire had burned most of his hair away, and the skin of his pate was cracked, red and oozing.
Twin scabbarded longswords were slung on his back, the grips and pommels jutting up behind his broad shoulders.
‘Nothing she didn’t deserve,’ Menandore replied in answer to the Tiste man’s question.
The other woman bared her teeth. ‘Our dear uncle had ambitions for this precious cousin of ours. Yet did he come when she screamed her need?’
The battle-scarred man stepped past the slave’s position, his attention on the body of Sheltatha Lore. ‘This is a dread mess. I would wash my hands of it – all of it.’
‘But you can’t,’ Menandore said with strange glee. ‘We’re all poisoned by the mother’s blood, after all-’
Sukul Ankhadu swung to her sister with the words, ‘Her daughters have fared worse than poison! There is nothing balanced to this shattering of selves. Look at us! Spiteful bitches – Tiam’s squalling heads rearing up again and again, generation after generation!’ She stabbed a finger at the Tiste man. ‘And what of you, Father? That she-nightmare sails out on feathered wings from the dark of another realm, legs spread oh so wide and inviting, and were you not first in line? Pure Osserc, First Son of Dark and Light, so precious! Yet there you were, weaving your blood with that whore – tell us, did you proclaim her your sister before or after you fucked her?’
If the venom of her words had any effect, there was no outward sign. The one named Osserc simply smiled and looked away. ‘You shouldn’t speak of your mother that way, Sukul. She died giving birth to you, after all-’
‘She died giving birth to us all!’ Sukul Ankhadu’s raised hand closed into a fist that seemed to twist the air. ‘Dies, and is reborn. Tiam and her children. Tiam and her lovers. Her thousand deaths, and yet nothing changes!’
Menandore spoke in a calm tone. ‘And who have you been arguing with, Osserc?’
Osserc scowled. ‘Anomander. He got the better of me this time. Upon consideration,’ he continued after a moment, ‘not surprising. The weapon of anger often proves stronger than cold reason’s armour.’ Then he shrugged. ‘Even so, I delayed him long enough-’
‘To permit Scabandari’s escape?’ Menandore asked. ‘Why? Your kin or not, he’s shown himself for what he truly is – a treacherous murderer.’
Osserc’s brows rose mockingly and he regarded the unconscious woman lying on the ground between his daughters. ‘Presumably, your cousin who’s clearly suffered at your hands is not dead, then. Accordingly, I might point out that Scabandari did not murder Silchas Ruin-’
‘True,’ Sukul snapped, ‘something far worse. Unless you think eating mud for eternity is a preferable fate.’
‘Spare me the outrage,’ Osserc sighed. ‘As you so often note, dear child, treachery and betrayal is our extended family’s most precious trait, or, if not precious, certainly its most popular one. In any case, I am done here. What do you intend doing with her?’
‘We think Silchas might enjoy the company.’
Osserc stiffened. ‘Two draconean Ascendants in the same grounds? You sorely test that Azath House, daughters.’
‘Will Scabandari seek to free her?’ Menandore asked.
‘Scabandari is in no condition to free anyone,’ Osserc replied, ‘including himself.’
The two women were clearly startled by this. After a moment, Menandore asked, ‘Who managed that?’
The man shrugged. ‘Does it matter? It was Scabandari’s conceit to think this world’s gods had not the power to oppose him.’ He paused then to eye his daughters speculatively, and said, ‘Heed that as a warning, my dears. Mother Dark’s first children were spawned without need of any sire. And, despite what Anomander might claim, they were not Tiste Andii.’
‘We did not know this,’ Menandore said.
‘Well, now you do. Tread softly, children.’
Udinaas watched the tall figure walk away, then the slave gasped as Osserc’s form blurred, shifted, unfolded to find a new shape. Huge, glittering gold and silver scales rippling as wings spread wide. A surge of power, and the enormous dragon was in the air.
Sukul Ankhadu and Menandore stared after him, until the dragon dwindled to a gleaming ember in the heavy sky, winked out and was gone.
Sukul grunted, then said, ‘I’m surprised Anomander didn’t kill him.’
‘Something binds them, sister, of which not we nor anyone else knows a thing about. I am certain of it.’
‘Perhaps. Or it might be something far simpler.’
‘Such as?’
‘They would the game continue,’ Sukul said with a tight smile. ‘And the pleasure would pale indeed were one to kill the other outright.’
Menandore’s eyes fell to the motionless form of Sheltatha Lore. ‘This one. She took a lover from among this world’s gods, did she not?’
‘For a time. Begetting two horrid little children.’
‘Horrid? Daughters, then.’
Sukul nodded. ‘And their father saw that clearly enough from the very start, for he named them appropriately.’
‘Oh? And what were those names, sister?’
‘Envy and Spite.’
Menandore smiled. ‘This god – I think I would enjoy meeting him one day.’
‘It is possible he would object to what we plan to do with Sheltatha Lore. Indeed, it is possible that even now he seeks our trail, so that he might prevent our revenge. Accordingly, as Osserc is wont to say, we should make haste.’
Udinaas watched as the two women moved apart, leaving their unconscious cousin where she lay.
Menandore faced her sister across the distance. ‘Sheltatha’s lover. That god – what is his name?’
Sukul’s reply seemed to come from a vast distance, ‘Draconus.’
Then the two women veered into dragons, of a size almost to match that of Osserc. One dappled, one blindingly bright.
The dappled creature lifted into the air, slid in a banking motion until she hovered over Sheltatha Lore’s body. A taloned claw reached down and gathered her in its grasp.
Then the dragon rose higher to join her sister. And away they wheeled. Southward.
The scene quickly faded before the slave’s eyes.
And, once more, Udinaas was sitting outside the Sengar longhouse, a half-scaled fish in his red, cracked hands, its facing eye staring up at him with that ever-disturbing look of witless surprise – an eye that he had seen, with the barest of variations, all morning and all afternoon, and now, as dusk closed round him, it stared yet again, mute and emptied of life. As if what he held was not a fish at all.
Just eyes. Dead, senseless eyes… Yet even the dead accuse.
‘You have done enough, slave.’
Udinaas looked up.
Uruth and Mayen stood before him. Two Tiste women, neither dappled, neither blindingly bright. Just shades in faint, desultory variation.
Between them and a step behind, Feather Witch stood foremost among the attending slaves. Large eyes filled with feverish warnings, fixed on his own.
Udinaas bowed his head to Uruth. ‘Yes, mistress.’
‘Find a salve for those hands,’ Uruth said.
‘Thank you, mistress.’
The procession filed past, into the longhouse.
Udinaas stared down at the fish. Studied that eye a moment longer, then dug it out with his thumb.
Seren Pedac stood on the beach in the rain, watching the water in its ceaseless motion, the way the pelting rain transformed the surface into a muricated skin, grey and spider-haired as it swelled shoreward to break hissing, thin and sullen on the smooth stones.
Night had arrived, crawling out from the precious shadows. The dark hours were upon them all, a shawl of silence settling on the village behind her. She was thinking of the Letherii slaves.
Her people seemed particularly well suited to surrender. Freedom was an altar supplicants struggled to reach all their lives, clawing the smooth floor until blood spattered the gleaming, flawless stone, yet the truth was it remained for ever beyond the grasp of mortals. Even as any sacrifice was justified in its gloried name. For all that, she knew that blasphemy was a hollow crime. Freedom was no god, and if it was, and if it had a face turned upon its worshippers, its expression was mocking. A slave’s chains stole something he or she had never owned.
The Letherii slaves in this village owed no debt. They served recognizable needs, and were paid in food and shelter. They could marry. Produce children who would not inherit the debts of their parents. The portions of their day allotted their tasks did not progress, did not devour ever more time from their lives. In all, the loss of freedom was shown to be almost meaningless to these kin of hers.
A child named Feather Witch. As if a witch from the distant past, awkwardly dressed, stiff and mannered as all outdated things appear to be, had stepped out from the histories. Womb-chosen caster of the tiles, who practised her arts of divination for the service of her community, rather than for the coins in a leather pouch. Perhaps the name had lost its meaning among these slaves. Perhaps there were no old tiles to be found, no solemn nights when fates gathered into a smudged, crack-laced path, the dread mosaic of destiny set out before one and all – with a hood-eyed woman-child overseeing the frightful ritual.
She heard the crunch of stones from near the river mouth and turned to see a male slave crouching down at the waterline. He thrust his hands into the cold, fresh water as if seeking absolution, or ice-numbing escape.
Curious, Seren Pedac walked over.
The glance he cast at her was guarded, diffident. ‘Acquitor,’ he said, ‘these are fraught hours among the Edur. Words are best left unspoken.’
‘We are not Edur, however,’ she replied, ‘are we?’
He withdrew his hands, and she saw that they were red and swollen. ‘Emurlahn bleeds from the ground in these lands, Acquitor.’
‘None the less, we are Letherii.’
His grin was wry. ‘Acquitor, I am a slave.’
‘I have been thinking on that. Slavery. And freedom from debt. How do you weigh the exchange?’
He settled back on his haunches, water dripping from his hands, and seemed to study the clear water swirling past. The rain had fallen off and mist was edging out from the forest. ‘The debt remains, Acquitor. It governs every Letherii slave among the Edur, yet it is a debt that can never be repaid.’
She stared down at him, shocked. ‘But that is madness!’
He smiled once more. ‘By such things we are all measured. Why did you imagine that mere slavery would change it?’
Seren was silent for a time, studying the man crouched at the edge of the flowing water. Not at all unhandsome, yet, now that she knew, she could see his indebtedness, the sure burden upon him, and the truth that, for him, for every child he might sire, there would be no absolving the stigma. It was brutal. It was… Letherii. ‘There is a slave,’ she said, ‘who is named Feather Witch.’
He seemed to wince. ‘Yes, our resident caster of the tiles.’
‘Ah. I had wondered. How many generations has that woman’s family dwelt as a slave among the Edur?’
‘A score, perhaps.’
‘Yet the talent persisted? Within this world of Kurald Emurlahn? That is extraordinary.’
‘Is it?’ He shrugged and rose. ‘When you and your companions are guest to Hannan Mosag this night, Feather Witch will cast.’
Sudden chill rippled through Seren Pedac. She drew a deep breath and released it slow and heavy. ‘There is… risk, doing such a thing.’
‘That is known, Acquitor.’
‘Yes, I see now that it would be.’
‘I must return to my tasks,’ he said, not meeting her eyes.
‘Of course. I hope my delaying you does not yield grief.’
He smiled yet again, but said nothing.
She watched him walk up the strand.
Buruk the Pale stood wrapped in his rain cape before the Nerek fire. Hull Beddict was nearby, positioned slightly behind the merchant, hooded and withdrawn.
Seren walked to Buruk’s side, studied the struggling flames from which smoke rose to hang smeared, stretched and motionless above them. The night’s chill had seeped into the Acquitor’s bones and the muscles of her neck had tightened in response. A headache was building behind her eyes.
‘Seren Pedac,’ Buruk sighed. ‘I am unwell.’
She heard as much in his weak, shaky voice. ‘You ran long and far,’ she said.
‘Only to find myself standing still, here before a sickly fire. I am not so foolish as to be unaware of my crimes.’
Hull grunted behind them. ‘Would those be crimes already committed, or those to come, Buruk the Pale?’
‘The distinction is without meaning,’ the merchant replied. ‘Tonight,’ he said, straightening himself, ‘we shall be made guests of Hannan Mosag. Are you both ready?’
‘The formality,’ Seren said, ‘is the least of what this meeting portends, Buruk. The Warlock King intends to make his position unambiguous. We will hear a warning, which we are expected to deliver to the delegation when it arrives.’
‘Intentions are similarly without relevance, Acquitor. I am without expectations, whereas one of us three is consumed by nothing else. Rehearsed statements, dire pronouncements, all await this fell visit.’ Buruk swung his head to regard Hull Beddict. ‘You still think like a child, don’t you? Clay figurines sunk to their ankles in the sand, one here, one there, standing just so. One says this, the other says that, then you reach down and rearrange them accordingly. Scenes, vistas, stark with certainty. Poor Hull Beddict, who took a knife to his heart so long ago that he twists daily to confirm it’s still there.’
‘If you would see me as a child,’ the huge man said in growl, ‘that is your error, not mine, Buruk.’
‘A gentle warning,’ the merchant replied, ‘that you are not among children.’
Buruk then gestured them to follow and made his way towards the citadel.
Falling in step beside Hull – with the merchant a half-dozen paces ahead, barely visible in the dark – Seren asked, ‘Have you met this Hannan Mosag?’
‘I have been guest here before, Seren.’
‘Of the Warlock King’s?’
‘No, of the Sengar household. Close to the royal blood, the eldest son, Fear Sengar, is Hannan Mosag’s Marshal of War – not his actual title, but it serves well as translation.’
Seren considered this for a moment, then frowned and said, ‘You anticipate, then, that friends will be present tonight.’
‘I had, but it is not to be. None of the Sengar barring the patriarch, Tomad, and his wife are in the village. The sons have left.’
‘Left? Where?’
Hull shook his head. ‘I don’t know. It is… odd. I have to assume Fear and his brothers will be back in time for the treaty meeting.’
‘Is the Warlock King aware of the blood-ties you have bound with Binadas Sengar?’
‘Of course.’
Buruk the Pale had reached the bridge leading to the inner ward. The mists had thickened into fog, obscuring the world surrounding the three Letherii. There was no-one else in sight, nor any sound beyond the crunch of their feet on the pebbled path. The massive bulk of the citadel rose before them.
The broad, arched entranceway was lurid with firelight.
‘He has no guards,’ Seren murmured.
‘None that can be seen,’ Hull Beddict replied.
Buruk climbed the two shallow steps to the landing, paused to release the clasps of his cape, then strode inside. A moment later Seren and Hull followed.
The long hall was virtually empty. The feast table was a much smaller version than what normally occupied the centre axis of the room, as evinced by the wear patterns on the vast rug covering the wood-slatted floor. And off to the right, Seren saw, stood that table, pushed flush against the tapestry-lined wall.
Near the far end of the chamber, the modest feast table had been positioned crossways, with three high-backed chairs awaiting the Letherii on this side. Opposite them sat the Warlock King, already well into his meal. Five Edur warriors stood in shadows behind Hannan Mosag, motionless.
They must be the K’risnan. Sorcerors… they look young.
The Warlock King waited until they had divested themselves of their outer clothing, then gestured them forward, and said in passable Letherii, ‘Join me, please. I dislike cold food, so here you see me, rudely filling my belly.’
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 suffering. 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.