Faded sails ride the horizon So far and far away to dwindle The dire script Writ on that proven canvas. I know the words belong to me They belong to me These tracks left by the beast Of my presence Then, before and now, later And all the moments between Those distant sails driven Hard on senseless winds That even now circle My stone-hearted self The grit of tears I never shed Biting my eyes. Faded sails hovering as if lifted Above the world’s curved line And I am lost and lost to answer If they approach or flee Approach or flee unbidden times In that belly swollen With unheard screams so far And far and so far and away.
This Blind Longing Isbarath (of the Shore)
DRAWN TO THE SHORELINE, AS IF AMONG THE HOST OF UNWRITTEN truths in a mortal soul could be found a recognition of what it meant to stand on land’s edge, staring out into the depthless unknown that was the sea. The yielding sand and stones beneath one’s feet whispered uncertainty, rasped promises of dissolution and erosion of all that was once solid.
In the world could be assembled all the manifest symbols to reflect the human spirit, and in the subsequent dialogue was found all meaning, every hue and every flavour, rising in legion before the eyes. Leaving to the witness the decision of choosing recognition or choosing denial.
Udinaas sat on a half-buried tree trunk with the sweeping surf clawing at his moccasins. He was not blind and there was no hope for denial. He saw the sea for what it was, the dissolved memories of the past witnessed in the present and fertile fuel for the future, the very face of time. He saw the tides in their immutable susurration, the vast swish like blood from the cold heart moon, a beat of time measured and therefore measurable. Tides one could not hope to hold back.
Every year a Letherii slave, chest-deep in the water and casting nets, was grasped by an undertow and swept out to sea. With some, the waves later carried them back, lifeless and swollen and crab-eaten. At other times the tides delivered corpses and carcasses from unknown calamities, and the wreckage of ships. From living to death, the vast wilderness of water beyond the shore delivered the same message again and again.
He sat huddled in his exhaustion, gaze focused on the distant breakers of the reef, the rolling white ribbon that came again and again in heartbeat rhythm, and from all sides rushed in waves of meaning. In the grey, heavy sky. In the clarion cries of the gulls. In the misty rain carried by the moaning wind. The uncertain sands trickling away beneath his soaked moccasins. Endings and beginnings, the edge of the knowable world.
She’d run from the House of the Dead. The young woman at whose feet he’d tossed his heart. In the hope that she might glance at it – Errant take him, even pick it up and devour it like some grinning beast. Anything, anything but… running away.
He had fallen unconscious in the House of the Dead – ah, is there meaning in that? – and had been carried out, presumably, back to the cot in the Sengar longhouse. He had awoken later – how long he did not know, for he’d found himself alone. Not even a single slave present in the building. No food had been prepared, no dishes or other signs of a meal left behind. The hearth was a mound of white ash covering a few lingering embers. Outside, beyond the faint voice of the wind and the nearer dripping of rainwater, was silence.
Head filled with fog, his movements slow and awkward, he’d rebuilt the fire. Found a rain cape, and had then walked outside. Seeing no-one nearby, he had made his way down to the shoreline. To stare at the empty, filled sea, and the empty, filled sky. Battered by the silence and its roar of wind and gull screams and spitting rain. Alone on the beach in the midst of this clamouring legion.
The dead warrior who was alive.
The Letherii priestess who had fled in the face of a request for help, to give solace and to comfort a fellow Letherii.
In the citadel of the Warlock King, Udinaas suspected, the Edur were gathered. Wills locked in a dreadful war, and, like an island around which the storm raged in endless cycles, the monstrous form of Rhulad Sengar, who had risen from the House of the Dead. Armoured in gold, clothed in wax, probably unable to walk beneath all that weight – until, of course, those coins were removed.
The art of Udinaas… undone.
There would be pain in that. Excruciating pain, but it had to be done, and quickly. Before the flesh and skin grew to embrace those coins.
Rhulad was not a corpse, nor was he undead, for an undead would not scream. He lived once more. His nerves awake, his mind afire. Trapped in a prison of gold.
As was I, once. As every Letherii is trapped. Oh, he is poetry animate, is Rhulad Sengar, but his words are for the Letherii, not for the Edur.
Just one meaning culled from that dire legion, and one that would not leave him alone. Rhulad was going to go mad. There was no doubt about that in the mind of Udinaas. Dying, only to return to a body that was no longer his, a body that belonged to the forest and the leaves and barrow earth. What kind of journey had that been? Who had opened the path, and why?
It’s the sword. It has to be. The sword that would not release his hands. Because it was not finished with Rhulad Sengar. Death means nothing to it. It’s not finished.
A gift meant, it seemed, for Hannan Mosag. Offered by whom?
But Hannan Mosag will not have that sword. It has claimed Rhulad instead. And that sword with its power now hangs over the Warlock King.
This could tear the confederacy apart. Could topple Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan. Unless, of course, Rhulad Sengar submitted to the Warlock King’s authority.
A less problematic issue had it been Fear, or Trull. Perhaps even Binadas. But no, the sword had chosen Rhulad, the unblooded who had been eager for war, a youth with secret eyes and rebellion in his soul. It might be that he was broken, but Udinaas suspected otherwise. I was able to bring him back, to quell those screams. A respite from the madness, in which he could gather himself and recall all that he had been.
It occurred to Udinaas that he might have made a mistake. A greater mercy might have been to not impede that swift plummet into madness.
And now he would have me as his slave.
Foam swirled around his ankles. The tide was coming in.
‘We might as well be in a village abandoned to the ghosts,’ Buruk the Pale said, using the toe of one boot to edge a log closer to the fire, grimacing at the steam that rose from its sodden bark.
Seren Pedac stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged and reached for the battered kettle that sat on a flat stone near the flames. She could feel the handle’s heat through her leather gloves as she refilled her cup. The tea was stewed, but she didn’t much care as she swallowed a mouthful of the bitter liquid. At least it was warm.
‘How much longer is this going to go on?’
‘Curb your impatience, Buruk,’ Seren advised. ‘There will be no satisfaction in the resolution of all this, assuming a resolution is even possible. We saw him with our own eyes. A dead man risen, but risen too late.’
‘Then Hannan Mosag should simply lop off the lad’s head and be done with it.’
She made no reply to that. In some ways, Buruk was right. Prohibitions and traditions only went so far, and there was – there could be – no precedent for what had happened. They had watched the two Sengar brothers drag their sibling out through the doorway, the limbed mass of wax and gold that was Rhulad. Red welts for eyes, melted shut, the head lifting itself up to stare blindly at the grey sky for a moment before falling back down. Braided hair sealed in wax, hanging like strips from a tattered sail. Threads of spit slinging down from his gaping mouth as they carried him towards the citadel.
Edur gathered on the bridge. On the far bank, the village side, and emerging from the other noble longhouses surrounding the citadel. Hundreds of Edur, and even more Letherii slaves, drawn to witness, silent and numbed and filled with horror. She had watched most of the Edur then file into the citadel. The slaves seemed to have simply disappeared.
Seren suspected that Feather Witch was casting the tiles, in some place less public than the huge barn where she had last conducted the ritual. At least, there had been no-one there when she had looked.
And now, time crawled. Buruk’s camp and the Nerek huddled in their tents had become an island in the mist, surrounded by the unknown.
She wondered where Hull had gone. There were ruins in the forest, and rumours of strange artefacts, some massive and sprawling, many days’ travel to the northeast. Ancient as this forest was, it had found soil fertile with history. Destruction and dissolution concluded every passing of the cycle, and the breaking down delivered to the exhausted world the manifold parts to assemble a new whole.
But healing belonged to the land. It was not guaranteed to that which lived upon it. Breeds ended; the last of a particular beast, the last of a particular race, each walked alone for a time. Before the final closing of those singular eyes, and the vision behind them.
Seren longed to hold on to that long view. She desperately sought out the calm wisdom it promised, the peace that belonged to an extended perspective. With sufficient distance, even a range of mountains could look flat, the valleys between each peak unseen. In the same manner, lives and deaths, mortality’s peaks and valleys, could be levelled. Thinking in this way, she felt less inclined to panic.
And that was becoming increasingly important.
‘And where in the Errant’s name is that delegation?’ Buruk asked.
‘From Trate,’ Seren said, ‘they’ll be tacking all the way. They’re coming.’
‘Would that they had done so before all this.’
‘Do you fear that Rhulad poses a threat to the treaty?’
Buruk’s gaze remained fixed on the flames. ‘It was the sword that raised him,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Or whoever made it and sent it to the Edur. Did you catch a glimpse of the blade? It’s mottled. Made me think of one of the Daughters they worship, the dappled one, what was her name?’
‘Sukul Ankhadu.’
‘Maybe she exists in truth. An Edur goddess-’
‘A dubious gift, then, for the Edur view Sukul Ankhadu as a fickle creature. She is feared. They worship Father Shadow and Daughter Dusk, Sheltatha Lore. And, on a day to day basis, more of the latter than the former.’ Seren finished the tea then refilled the tin cup. ‘Sukul Ankhadu. I suppose that is possible, although I can’t recall any stories about those gods and goddesses of the Edur ever manifesting themselves in such a direct manner. It seemed more like ancestor worship, the founders of the tribes elevated into holy figures, that sort of thing.’ She sipped and grimaced.
‘That will burn holes in your gut, Acquitor.’
‘Too late for that, Buruk.’
‘Well, if not Ankhadu, then who? That sword came from somewhere.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nor does it sound as if you even care. This listlessness ill suits you Acquitor.’
‘It’s not listlessness, Buruk, it’s wisdom. I’m surprised you can’t tell the difference.’
‘Is it wisdom taking the life from your eyes, the sharpness from your thoughts? Is it wisdom that makes you indifferent to the nightmare miracle we witnessed yesterday?’
‘Absolutely. What else could it be?’
‘Despair?’
‘And what have I that’s worthy of despair?’
‘I’m hardly the one to answer that.’
‘True-’
‘But I’ll try anyway.’ He drew out a flask and pulled out the stopper, then tilted it back. Two quick swallows, after which he sighed and leaned back. ‘It strikes me you’re a sensitive type, Acquitor, which probably is a quality for someone in your profession. But you’re not able to separate business from everything else. Sensitivity is a pervasive kind of vulnerability, after all. Makes you easy to hurt, makes the scars you carry liable to open and weep at the slightest prod.’ He took another drink, his face growing slack with the effects of the potent liquor and nectar, a looseness coming to his words as he continued, ‘Hull Beddict. He’s pushed you away, but you know him too well. He is rushing headlong. Into a fate of his own choosing, and it will either kill him or destroy him. You want to do something about it, maybe even stop him, but you can’t. You don’t know how, and you feel that as your own failure. Your own flaw. A weakness. Thus, for the fate that will befall him, you choose not to blame him, but yourself. And why not? It’s easier.’
She had chosen to stare at the bitter dregs in the cup embraced by her hands, sometime during the course of Buruk’s pronouncements. Eyes tracking the battered rim, then out to the fingers and thumbs, swathed in stained, scarred leather. Flattened pads polished and dark, seams fraying, the knuckles stretched and gnarled. Somewhere within was skin, flesh, muscle, tendon and callus. And bone. Hands were such extraordinary tools, she mused. Tools, weapons, clumsy and deft, numb and tactile. Among tribal hunters, they could speak, a flurry of gestures eloquent in silence. But they could not taste. Could not hear. Could not weep. For all that, they killed so easily.
While from the mouth sounds issued forth, recognizably shaped into meanings of passion, of beauty, of blinding clarity. Or muddied or quietly cutting, murderous and evil. Sometimes all at once. Language was war, vaster than any host of swords, spears and sorcery. The self waging battle against everyone else. Borders enacted, defended, sallies and breaches, fields of corpses rotting like tumbled fruit. Words ever seeking allies, ever seeking iconic verisimilitude in the heaving press.
And, she realized, she was tired. Tired of it all. Peace reigned in silence, inside and out, in isolation and exhaustion.
‘Why do you say nothing, Acquitor?’
He sat alone, unspeaking, a cloak of bear fur draped over his hunched shoulders, sword held point-down between his gold-clad feet, the long banded blade and broad bell-hilt in front of him. Somehow, he had managed to open his eyes, and the glitter was visible within the hooded shadows beneath his brow, framed in waxed braids. His breath came in a low rasp, the only sound in the massive chamber in the wake of the long, stilted exchange between Tomad Sengar and Hannan Mosag.
The last words had fallen away, leaving a sense of profound helplessness. None among the hundreds of Edur present moved or spoke.
Tomad could say no more on behalf of his son. Some subtle force had stolen his authority, and it came, Trull realized with dread, from the seated figure of black fur and glittering gold, from the eyes shining out from their dark holes. From the motionless sword.
Standing in the centre dais, the Warlock King’s hard eyes had slowly shifted from Tomad to Rhulad, and they held there now, calculating and cold.
The sword needed to be surrendered. Hannan Mosag had sent them to retrieve it, and that task could not be called complete until Rhulad placed it in the hands of the Warlock King. Until that happened, Fear, Binadas, Trull, Theradas and Midik Buhn all stood in dishonour.
It fell now, finally, to Rhulad. To make the gesture, to heal this ragged wound.
Yet he made no move.
Trull was not even sure his brother was capable of speaking, given the terrible weight encasing his chest. Breathing sounded difficult, excruciatingly laboured. It was extraordinary that Rhulad was able to keep his arms up, the hands on the grip of the sword. From a lithe, supple youth, he had become something hulking, bestial.
The air in the hall was humid and rank. The smell of fear and barely restrained panic swirled amidst the smoke from the torches and the hearth. The rain outside was unceasing, the wind creaking the thick planks of the walls.
The rasping breath caught, then a thin, broken voice spoke. ‘The sword is mine.’
A glitter of fear from Hannan Mosag’s eyes. ‘This must not be, Rhulad Sengar.’
‘Mine. He gave it to me. He said I was the one, not you. Because you were weak.’
The Warlock King recoiled as if he had been struck in the face.
Who? Trull shot the question with a sharp glance at Fear. Their eyes met, and Fear shook his head.
Their father was facing Rhulad now. Emotions worked across his face for a moment and it seemed he was ageing centuries before their very eyes. Then he asked, ‘Who gave you this sword, Rhulad?’
Something like a smile. ‘The one who rules us now, Father. The one Hannan Mosag made pact with. No, not one of our lost ancestors. A new… ally.’
‘This is not for you to speak of,’ the Warlock King said, his voice trembling with rage. ‘The pact was-’
‘Was something you intended to betray, Hannan Mosag,’ Rhulad cut in savagely, leaning forward to glare past his hands where they were folded about the sword’s grip. ‘But that is not the Edur way, is it? You, who would lead us, cannot be trusted. The time has come, Warlock King, for a change.’
Trull watched as Rhulad surged to his feet. And stood, balanced and assured, back straight and head held high. The bear cloak was swept back, revealing the rippling coins. The gold mask of Rhulad’s face twisted. ‘The sword is mine, Hannan Mosag! I am equal to it. You are not. Speak, then, if you would reveal to all here the secret of this weapon. Reveal the most ancient of lies! Speak, Warlock King!’
‘I shall not.’
A rustling step forward. ‘Then… kneel.’
‘Rhulad!’
‘Silence, Father! Kneel before me, Hannan Mosag, and pledge your brotherhood. Think not I will simply cast you aside, for I have need of you. We all have need of you. And your K’risnan.’
‘Need?’ Hannan Mosag’s face was ravaged, as if gripped by a physical pain.
Rhulad swung about, glittering eyes fixing on his three brothers, one by one. ‘Come forward, brothers, and pledge your service to me. I am the future of the Edur. Theradas Buhn. Midik Buhn. Come forward and call me your brother. Bind yourselves to me. Power awaits us all, power you cannot yet imagine. Come. I am Rhulad, youngest son of Tomad Sengar. Blooded in battle, and I have known death!’
Abruptly, he turned about, sword-point scraping along the floor. ‘Death,’ he muttered, as if to himself. ‘Faith is an illusion. The world is not as it seems. We are fools, all of us. Such… stupidity.’ In the same low tone he continued, ‘Kneel before me, Hannan Mosag. It is not so much to surrender, is it? We shall know power. We shall be as we once were, as we were meant to be. Kneel, Warlock King, and receive my blessing.’
The head lifted once more, a flash of gold in the gloom. ‘Binadas. You know pain, a wound resisting mending. Come forward, and I will release you from that pain. I will heal the damage.’
Binadas frowned. ‘You know nothing of sorcery, Rhulad-’
‘Come here!’ The shriek echoed in the vast chamber.
Binadas flinched, then limped closer.
Rhulad’s golden hand snapped out, fingers slashing across his brother’s chest. The faintest of touches, and Binadas reeled back. Fear rushed close to hold him upright. Eyes wide, Binadas righted himself. He said nothing, but it was clear as he straightened that the pain in his hip was gone. Tremors shook him.
‘Thus,’ Rhulad said in a whisper. ‘Come, my brothers. It is time.’
Trull cleared his throat. He had to speak. He had to ask his questions, to say what no-one else would say. ‘We saw you dead.’
‘And I have returned.’
‘By the power of the sword you hold, Rhulad? Why would this ally give the Edur such a thing? What does that ally hope to gain? Brother, the tribes have been unified. We have won our peace-’
‘You are the weakest of us, Trull. Your words betray you. We are Tiste Edur. Have you forgotten what that means? I think you have.’ He looked round. ‘I think you all have. Six pathetic tribes, six pathetic kings. Hannan Mosag knew a greater ambition. Sufficient to conquer. He was necessary, but he cannot achieve what must come now.’
Trull could hear the brother he knew in Rhulad’s words, but something new was threaded through them. Strange, poisonous roots – was this the voice of power?
Dull clicking of coin edges, as Rhulad faced the silent crowd beyond the inner circle. ‘The Edur have lost sight of their destiny. The Warlock King would twist you away from what must be. My brothers and sisters – all of you here are that to me, and more. I shall be your voice. Your will. The Tiste Edur have journeyed beyond kings and warlock kings. What awaits us is what we once possessed, yet lost long ago. Of what am I speaking, brothers and sisters? I shall give answer. Empire.’
Trull stared at Rhulad. Empire. And for every empire… there is an emperor.
Kneel, Rhulad had commanded. Of Hannan Mosag. Of everyone here. Tiste Edur do not kneel before mere kings…
Fear spoke, ‘You would be emperor, Rhulad?’
His brother swung to face him and spread his arms in a deprecating gesture. ‘Do I make you want to turn away in horror, Fear? In revulsion? Oh, but did not that slave fashion well? Am I not a thing of beauty?’
There was an edge of hysteria in the tone.
Fear made no reply.
Rhulad smiled and continued, ‘I should tell you, the weight no longer drags at me. I feel… unburdened. Yes, my brother, I find myself pleased. Oh, does that shock you? Why? Can you not see my wealth? My armour? Am I not a bold vision of an Edur warrior?’
‘I am not sure,’ Fear replied, ‘what I am seeing. Is it truly Rhulad who dwells within that body?’
‘Die, Fear, and claw your way back. Then ask yourself if the journey has not changed you.’
‘Did you find yourself among our ancestors?’ Fear asked.
Rhulad’s answering laugh was brutal. He swung the sword into the air, twisting the blade into a wild salute, revealing a grace with the weapon that Trull had never before seen in his brother. ‘Our ancestors! Proud ghosts. They stood in ranks ten thousand deep! Roaring their welcome! Blooded kin was I, worthy to join them in their stalwart defence of precious memories. Against that vast host of ignorance. Oh yes, Fear, it was a time of such glory.’
‘Then, by your tone, Rhulad, you would challenge all that we hold dear. You would deny our beliefs-’
‘And who among you can gainsay me?’
‘The shadow wraiths-’
‘Are Tiste Andii, brother. Slaves to our will. And I will tell you this: those who serve us died by our hands.’
‘Then where are our ancestors?’
‘Where?’ Rhulad’s voice was a rasp. ‘Where? Nowhere, brother. They are nowhere. Our souls flee our bodies, flee this world, for we do not belong here. We have never belonged here.’
‘And shall you lead us home, then, Rhulad?’
The eyes flashed. ‘Wise brother. I knew you would find the path first.’
‘Why do you demand that we kneel?’
The head tilted to one side. ‘I would you pledge yourself to our new destiny. A destiny into which I will lead the Tiste Edur.’
‘You would take us home.’
‘I would.’
Fear stepped forward, then sank to one knee, head bowing. ‘Lead us home, Emperor.’
In Trull’s mind, he heard a sound.
Like a spine breaking.
And he turned, as did so many others, to face Hannan Mosag and his cadre of sorcerors, to witness the Warlock King descending from the dais. To watch him kneel before Rhulad, before the emperor of the Tiste Edur.
Like a spine breaking.
The water tugging at his shins, swirling around numbed flesh, Udinaas struggled to stand. The waves rocked him, made him totter. Out on the bay, ships. Four in all, pushing through the mist, their dark hulks crouching on the grey water like migratory leviathans, sweeps crabbing the swells. He could hear the chorus of dull creaks and the slap of wooden blades in the water. Hooded, cloaked figures small on the distant decks. The delegation had arrived.
He felt as if he was standing on pegs of ice, the jagged points driven up through his knees. He did not think he was able to walk. In fact, he was moments from falling over, down into the foaming water. So easy, pulled out by the undertow, the cold flooding his lungs, washing black through his mind. Until, in perfect accord with the acceptance of surrender, it was over.
Claws stabbed into his shoulders and lifted him thrashing from the waves. Talons punching through the rain cloak, biting into flesh. Too stunned to scream, he felt himself whipped through the air, legs scissoring in a spray of water.
Flung down onto a bed of wet stones fifteen paces up from the tideline.
Whatever had dragged him was gone, although fire burned in his chest and back where the talons had been. Floundering in a strange helplessness, Udinaas eventually pulled himself round so that he lay on his back, staring up at the colourless clouds, the rain on his face.
Locqui Wyval. Didn’t want me dead, I suppose.
He lifted an arm and felt the fabric of the rain cloak. No punctures. Good. He’d have trouble explaining had it been otherwise.
Feeling was returning to his lower legs. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees. Wet, shivering. There could be no answer for Rhulad, it was as simple as that. The Warlock King would have to kill him. Assuming that works.
Kill him, or surrender. And what could make Hannan Mosag surrender? To a barely blooded whelp? No, chop off his hands, sever his head and crush it flat. Burn the rest into dusty ashes. Destroy the monstrosity, for Rhulad Sengar was truly a monster.
Footsteps on the stones behind him. Udinaas sat back on his haunches, blinking rain from his eyes. He looked up as Hulad stepped into view.
‘Udinaas, what are you doing here?’
‘Did she cast the tiles, Hulad? Did she?’
‘She tried.’
‘Tried?’
‘It failed, Udinaas. The Holds were closed; she was blind to them. She was frightened. I’ve never seen her so frightened.’
‘What else has happened?’
‘I don’t know. The Edur are still in the citadel.’
‘They can’t all be there.’
‘No, only the nobility. The others are in their homes. They have banished their slaves for now. Most of them had nowhere to go. They’re just huddled in the forest. Soaked through. There seems no end in sight.’ He reached down and helped Udinaas to stand. ‘Let’s go to the longhouse. Get dry and warm.’
He let Hulad guide him back to the Sengar longhouse. ‘Did you see the ships, Hulad?’ he asked as they walked. ‘Did you see them?’
‘Yes. They’re lowering boats, but no welcome seems forthcoming.’
‘I wonder what they’ll think of that?’
Hulad did not reply.
They entered. Sudden warmth, the crackle of flames the only sound. Hulad helped him remove the rain cloak. As he did so, he gasped and pulled at Udinaas’s shirt.
‘Where did you get those?’
Udinaas frowned down at the almost-black bruises where the Wyval’s talons had been. ‘I don’t know.’
‘They remind me of Feather Witch’s wounds, from that demon. Just the same. Udinaas, what is happening to you?’
‘Nothing. I’m going to sleep.’
Hulad said nothing more as Udinaas walked down the length of the main chamber towards his sleeping pallet.
Fighting the outflow, the three scows edged closer to the bank on the south side of the river. Each craft held about a dozen Letherii, most of them bodyguards in full armour, the visors closed on their helms.
Four steps behind Buruk the Pale, Seren followed the merchant down to the strand. It seemed they would be the sole welcoming committee, at least to begin with. ‘What do you intend to tell them?’ she asked.
Buruk glanced back at her, rain dripping from the rim of his hood. ‘I was hoping you would say something.’
She did not believe him, but appreciated the effort. ‘I’m not even certain of the protocol. Nifadas is leading the delegation, but the prince is here as well. Who do I acknowledge first?’
Buruk shrugged. ‘The one most likely to be offended if you bow to other one first.’
‘Assuming,’ she replied, ‘I do not intend a calculated insult.’
‘Well, there is that. Mind you, Acquitor, you are supposed to be neutral.’
‘Perhaps I should direct my bow to a space directly between them.’
‘Whereupon they will both conclude that you have lost your mind.’
‘Which is at least even-handed.’
‘Ah, humour. That is much better, Acquitor. Despair gives way to anticipation.’
They reached the strand and stood side by side, watching the scows approach. The rain elected that moment to fall harder, a growing downpour prattling on the stones and hissing on the current- and tide-twisted water. The scows blurred behind a grey wall, almost vanished entirely, then reappeared suddenly, the first one crunching and lurching as it grounded. Sweeps rose and then descended as the crew stored them. Guards splashed down and clambered onto the strand. One made his way to Buruk and Seren. His expression below the visor and nose-bar was grim.
‘I am Finadd Moroch Nevath, of the Prince’s Guard. Where are the Edur?’
Moroch seemed to be facing Seren, so she spoke in reply, ‘In the citadel, Finadd. There has been an… event.’
‘What in the Errant’s name does that mean?’
Behind the Finadd and his guards, Prince Quillas Diskanar was being carried by servants over the waves. The First Eunuch Nifadas had eschewed any such assistance and was wading onto the strand.
‘It’s rather complicated,’ Seren said. ‘Buruk’s guest camp is just on the other side of the bridge. We can get under cover from the rain-’
‘Never mind the rain,’ Moroch snapped. Then he swung about and saluted as Quillas Diskanar, sheltered beneath a four-point umbrella held aloft by two servants, strode to halt before Buruk and Seren. ‘My prince,’ the Finadd said in a growl, ‘it would appear the Tiste Edur have chosen this moment to be preoccupied.’
‘Hardly an auspicious beginning,’ Quillas snapped, turning a sneer on Seren Pedac. ‘Acquitor. Has Hull Beddict elected the wise course and departed this village?’
She blinked, struggling to disguise her alarm at the pre-eminence the question of Hull had assumed. Do they fear him that much? ‘He is nearby, my prince.’
‘I intend to forbid his attendance, Acquitor.’
‘I believe an invitation has been extended to him,’ she said slowly, ‘by the Warlock King.’
‘Oh? And will Hull speak for the Edur now?’
Buruk spoke for the first time, ‘My prince, that is a question we would all like answered.’
Quillas shifted his attention. ‘You are the merchant from Trate.’
‘Buruk the Pale.’ With a deep bow from which Buruk had difficulty recovering.
‘A drunk merchant at that.’
Seren cleared her throat. ‘Your arrival was sudden, my prince. The Edur have been sequestered in the citadel for a day and a half. We’ve had little to do but wait.’
The First Eunuch was standing a pace back, seemingly uninterested in the conversation, his small, glittering eyes fixed on the citadel. He appeared equally indifferent to the rain pummelling his hood and cape-clad shoulders. It occurred to Seren that here was a different kind of power, and in silence the weight was being stolen from Prince Quillas Diskanar.
Proof of that was sudden, as the prince swung round to Nifadas and said, ‘What do you make of all this, then, First Eunuch?’
Expressionless eyes settled on Quillas. ‘My prince, we have arrived at a moment of crisis. The Acquitor and the merchant know something of it, and so we must needs await their explanation.’
‘Indeed,’ Quillas said. ‘Acquitor, inform us of this crisis.’
Whilst you stand beneath that umbrella and we get soaked and chilled to the bone. ‘Of course, my prince. The Warlock King despatched a party of warriors into the ice wastes to retrieve what turned out to be a sword. They were, however, set upon by Jheck Soletaken. One of the warriors, who was wielding that sword, was slain. The others brought his body back for burial, but the corpse would not release its grip upon the sword. The Warlock King was greatly animated by this detail, and made his demand for the weapon plain and unequivocal. There was a public clash between him and the dead warrior’s father.’
‘Why not just cut off the body’s fingers?’ Quillas Diskanar demanded, his brows lifted in contemptuous disbelief.
‘Because,’ Nifadas replied, laconic and overly patient, ‘there is traditional sanctity accorded a fallen warrior among the Edur. Please, Acquitor, go on. It is hard to believe this impasse is yet to be resolved.’
She nodded. ‘It was but the beginning, and indeed it became something of a moot point. For the corpse returned to life.’
Quillas snorted. ‘What manner of jest is this, woman?’
‘No jest,’ Buruk the Pale answered. ‘My prince, we saw him with our own eyes. He was alive. The truth was announced by his screams, such terrible screams, for he had been dressed-’
‘Dressed?’ the prince asked, looking around.
The First Eunuch’s eyes had widened. ‘How far along, Merchant Buruk?’
‘The coins, First Eunuch. And the wax.’
‘Errant defend,’ Nifadas whispered. ‘And this sword – he will not yield it?’
Seren shook her head. ‘We don’t know, First Eunuch.’
‘Describe the weapon, if you would, Acquitor.’
‘Two-handed grip, but a thin blade. Some kind of alloy, yet reluctant to fuse. There is iron, and some sort of black metal that appears in elongated shards.’
‘Origin? Can you discern anything from the style?’
‘Not much, First Eunuch. The bell-hilt bears some resemblance to the drawn twist technique used by the Meckros-’
‘The Meckros?’ Quillas asked. ‘Those traders from the floating cities?’
‘Yes, although the pattern on that bell-hilt has been shaped to resemble links of chain.’
Buruk faced her with a wry expression, ‘You’ve sharp eyes, Acquitor. All I saw was a sword.’
‘I suggest,’ Nifadas said, ‘we retire to the merchant’s camp.’
Quillas hissed, ‘You will swallow this insult, First Eunuch?’
‘There is no insult,’ Nifadas replied easily, striding past the prince to hook arms with a surprised Seren Pedac. ‘Escort me, please, Acquitor.’
‘Of course, First Eunuch.’
The others had no choice but to trail after them.
Nifadas walked quickly. After a dozen or so paces, he asked in a quiet, conversational tone, ‘Was Hull Beddict witness to all this?’
‘No. At least I don’t think so. He’s been gone for some time.’
‘But he will return.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have left the majority of my guard aboard the Risen Pale, including Finadd Gerun Eberict.’
‘Gerun – oh.’
‘Indeed. Would it be, do you think, propitious that I send for him?’
‘I – I am not sure, First Eunuch. It depends, I imagine, on what you would have him do.’
‘Perhaps a word or two with Hull, upon his return?’
‘Is the Finadd a persuasive man?’
‘Not by way of personality, no…’
She nodded, struggled to repress a shiver – unsuccessfully, it turned out.
‘Chilled, Acquitor?’
‘The rain.’
‘Of course. I trust Buruk’s servants are feeding a fire of some sort?’
‘Rather too eagerly.’
‘Well, I doubt if anyone will complain. You and Buruk have waited here some time, I take it.’
‘Yes. Some time. There was an audience with the Warlock King, but in keeping with my role I departed before anything of substance was discussed. And as to what was said, neither Hull nor Buruk has revealed anything.’
‘Hull was there for that, was he?’ He swung a faint smile on her. ‘Nothing of substance was revealed to you, Acquitor? I admit to having trouble quite believing that assertion.’
Seren Pedac hesitated.
‘Acquitor,’ Nifadas said in a low voice, ‘the privilege of neutrality no longer exists in this matter. Make your choice.’
‘It is not that, First Eunuch,’ she said, knowing her claim was untrue. ‘I have a fear that whatever position the Warlock King may have chosen back then is no longer relevant.’ She glanced over at him. ‘I do not think Rhulad will relinquish that sword.’
‘Rhulad. What can you tell me of this Rhulad?’
‘Youngest son of a noble family, the Sengar.’
‘The Sengar? Eldest son is Fear, yes? Commander of the Edur warriors. Prestigious blood, then.’
‘Yes. Another brother is Binadas, who is blood-sworn with Hull Beddict.’
‘Interesting. I begin to grasp the complexity awaiting us, Acquitor.’
And so, it seems, do I. For I appear to have made my choice.
As if Nifadas gave me any other option, as I walk here arm in arm with the First Eunuch…
‘Wake up, Udinaas.’
Lids slid back from stinging, burning eyes. Udinaas stared up at the angled wall above him. ‘No. I need to sleep-’
‘Not so loud. What you need, fool, is to walk to the citadel.’
‘Why? They’ll cut my throat for intruding-’
‘No, they won’t. Rhulad won’t let them, for you are his slave now, and no-one else’s. They must be informed. The Letherii delegation awaits.’
‘Leave me be, Wither.’
‘The Tiste Edur emperor wants you. Now.’
‘Right. And does he know it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘As I thought.’ He closed his eyes once more. ‘Go away, wraith.’
‘The Wyval and I are in agreement in this, Udinaas. You must step to the forefront. You must make yourself invaluable to Rhulad. Tell me, do you want Feather Witch for your own or not?’
Udinaas blinked, then sat up. ‘What?’
‘Go now, and you will see.’
‘Not until you explain that, Wither.’
‘I shall not, slave. Go to the citadel. Serve the Edur emperor.’
Udinaas pulled aside his blankets and reached for his sodden moccasins. ‘Why don’t you all leave me alone.’
‘She raped you, Udinaas. She took your seed. Why did she do that?’
He went still, one moccasin on, the other cold in his hands. ‘Menandore.’
‘The bitch has designs, she does. No love for Edur or Andii, no, not her.’
‘What has that to do with anything?’
The wraith made no reply.
Udinaas rubbed at his face, then pulled on the second moccasin and tugged at the soaked leather ties. ‘I am a slave, Wither. Slaves are not given slaves, and that is the only way I could win Feather Witch. Unless you plan on invading her mind and twisting her will. In which case, it won’t be Feather Witch, will it?’
‘You accord me powers I do not possess.’
‘Only to emphasize the absurdity of your promises, Wither. Now, be quiet. I’m going.’ He rose and stumbled from the cell. Hulad was crouched by the hearth, heating soup or stew.
‘You were talking to yourself, Udinaas. You shouldn’t do that.’
‘That’s what I keep telling myself,’ he replied, making his way to the doors, collecting a rain cape on the way.
Outside, the rain was a deluge. He could barely make out the anchored ships in the bay. There were figures on the strand. Soldiers.
He pulled up the hood then headed for the citadel that had once belonged to the Warlock King.
Serve the Edur emperor. And where will you take your people, Rhulad Sengar?
The shadow wraiths guarding the entrance made no move to oppose the Letherii slave as he ascended the steps. Both hands on the doors, pushing them aside, striding in on a gust of pelting rain. Come, you damned Edur. Slide a blade across my throat. Through my chest. There were no guards within the reception chamber, and the curtain beyond was drawn closed.
He shook the rain from his cape, then continued forward.
To the curtains. He pulled them aside.
To see the Edur kneeling. All of them, kneeling before the glimmering form of Rhulad Sengar, who stood on the dais, the sword raised in one hand above his head. Bear fur on his shoulders, face a rippling mask of gold surrounding the deep holes of his eye sockets.
Not blind, then. Nor crippled. And if this was madness, then it was a poison riding the chamber’s thick currents.
Udinaas felt the emperor’s eyes fix on him, as palpable as talons digging into his mind. ‘Approach, slave,’ he said, his voice ragged.
Heads lifted and turned as Udinaas threaded through the crowd, making his way down the tiers. The Letherii did not glance at any faces, his gaze focused solely on Rhulad Sengar. In his peripheral vision he saw Hannan Mosag, kneeling with head bowed, and behind him his K’risnan in identical positions of subservience.
‘Speak, Udinaas.’
‘The delegation has arrived, Emperor.’
‘We are bound, are we not, Udinaas? Slave and master. You heard my summons.’
‘I did, master.’ Lies, he realized, were getting easier.
‘The delegation waits in the merchant’s camp. Bring them to us, Udinaas.’
‘As you command.’ He bowed, then began the laborious effort of backing out.
‘There is no need for that, Udinaas. I am not offended by a man’s back. Go, and tell them that the ruler of the Edur will greet them now.’
Udinaas swung about and made his way from the chamber.
Beneath the rain once more, across the bridge. Solitude might invite thought, but Udinaas refused the invitation. The fog of the world beyond was mirrored in his own mind. He was a slave. Slaves did what was commanded of them.
Woodsmoke drifting out from under a broad canopy near the trader wagons. Figures standing beneath it. Acquitor Seren Pedac turned and saw him first. Yes. There is more in her than she realizes. The ghosts like her, hovering like moths around a candle flame. She doesn’t even see them. He watched her say something, then the others swung to face him.
Udinaas halted just outside the tarp, keeping his gaze averted. ‘The ruler of the Edur bids you come to the citadel.’
A soldier growled, then said, ‘You stand before your prince, Letherii. Drop to your knees or I’ll cut your head from your shoulders.’
‘Then draw your sword,’ Udinaas replied. ‘My master is Tiste Edur.’
‘He is nothing,’ said the young, expensively dressed man at the soldier’s side. A flutter of one hand. ‘We are invited, finally. First Eunuch, will you lead us?’
The large, heavy man with a face as sombre as his clothes stepped out to stand beside Udinaas. ‘Acquitor, please accompany us.’
Seren Pedac nodded, drawing her cloak’s hood over her head and joining the First Eunuch.
Udinaas led them back across the bridge. A wind had begun whipping the rain in biting sheets that ripped across their path. Among the longhouses of the nobility, then towards the steps.
Shadow wraiths swirled before the door.
Udinaas faced Quillas Diskanar. ‘Prince, your bodyguards are not welcome.’
The young man scowled. ‘Wait here with your men, Finadd.’
Moroch Nevath grunted, then directed his guards to fan out to either side of the citadel’s entrance.
The wraiths edged back to provide a corridor to the double doors.
Udinaas strode forward and pushed them open, moved inside then turned about. A step behind him were Nifadas and the Acquitor, the prince, his expression dark, trailing.
The First Eunuch frowned at the curtain at the far end. ‘The throne room is filled with Edur nobles? Then why do I hear nothing?’
‘They await your arrival,’ Udinaas said. ‘The ruler of the Tiste Edur stands on the centre dais. His appearance will startle you-’
‘Slave,’ Quillas said, making the word contemptuous, ‘we are not anticipating that the negotiations will commence immediately. We are but to be proclaimed guests-’
‘I am not the one to guarantee that,’ Udinaas cut in, unperturbed. ‘I would advise that you be ready for anything.’
‘But this is absurd-’
‘Let us be about it, then,’ the First Eunuch said.
The prince was not used to these constant interruptions, his face flushing.
Acquitor Seren Pedac spoke. ‘Udinaas, by your words I conclude that Hannan Mosag has been usurped.’
‘Yes.’
‘And Rhulad Sengar has proclaimed himself the new king of the Tiste Edur.’
‘No, Acquitor. Emperor.’
There was silence for a half-dozen heartbeats, then the prince snorted in disbelief. ‘What empire? Six tribes of seal-hunters? This fool has gone mad.’
‘It is one thing,’ Nifadas said slowly, ‘to proclaim oneself an emperor. It is another to force the Edur nobility to bend knee to such a claim. Udinaas, have they done so?’
‘They have, First Eunuch.’
‘That is… astonishing.’
‘Hannan Mosag?’ Seren asked.
‘He too has knelt and pledged allegiance, Acquitor.’
Once again no-one spoke for a time.
Then the First Eunuch nodded to Udinaas and said, ‘Thank you. I am ready to meet the emperor now.’
Udinaas nodded and approached the curtain. Pulling it aside, he stepped through into the chamber beyond. The nobles had moved to form an avenue leading down to the centre dais. Everyone was standing. On the dais, Rhulad Sengar leaned on his sword. His motions had dislodged a few coins, leaving mottled patches of burnt skin. Humidity, heat and oil lamps made the air mist-laden and lurid. Udinaas sought to look upon the scene as if he was a stranger, and was shocked at its raw barbarity. These are a fallen people.
Who would rise anew.
The First Eunuch and the Acquitor appeared on the threshold, and Nifadas moved to his left to give space for Prince Quillas Diskanar.
Udinaas raised his voice, ‘Emperor. First Eunuch Nifadas and Prince Quillas Diskanar. The Letherii treaty delegation.’
‘Come forward,’ came the rasping invitation from the emperor. ‘I am Rhulad Sengar, and I proclaim you guests of the Tiste Edur Empire.’
Nifadas bowed his head. ‘We thank your highness for his welcome.’
‘It is the desire of the Letherii king to establish a formal treaty with us,’ Rhulad said, then shrugged. ‘I was under the impression we already had one. And, while we honour it, your people do not. Thus, what value a new agreement?’
As the First Eunuch was about to speak, Quillas stepped forward. ‘You confiscated a harvest of tusked seals. So be it. Such things cannot be reversed, can they? None the less, there is the matter of debt.’
Udinaas smiled, not needing to look up to see the shocked expressions from the gathered nobility.
‘Hannan Mosag,’ Rhulad said after a moment, ‘will speak for the Edur in this matter.’
Udinaas glanced up to see the once-Warlock King stepping forward to stand in front of the dais. He was without expression. ‘Prince, you will need to explain how you Letherii have arrived at the notion of debt. The harvest was illegal – do you deny it?’
‘We do not – no, Nifadas, I am speaking. As I was saying to you, Hannan Mosag, we do not dispute the illegality of the harvest. But its illegality does not in turn refute the reality that it took place. And that harvest, conducted by Letherii, is now in Edur hands. The present treaty, you may recall, has an agreed market value for tusked seals, and it is this price we expect to be honoured.’
‘Extraordinary logic, Prince,’ Hannan Mosag said, his voice a smooth rumble.
‘We are, fortunately,’ Quillas continued, ‘prepared for a compromise.’
‘Indeed?’
Udinaas wondered why Nifadas was remaining silent. His lack of interruption could only be interpreted as tacit allegiance to the prince and the position he was advocating.
‘A compromise, yes. The debt shall be forgiven, in exchange for land. Specifically, the remainder of Trate Reach, which, as we both know, serves only as seasonal fishing camps for your people. Such camps would not be prohibited, of course. They shall remain available to you, for a modest percentage of your catch.’
‘As it now stands, then,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘we begin this treaty in your debt.’
‘Yes.’
‘Based upon the presumption that we possess the stolen harvest.’
‘Well, of course-’
‘But we do not possess it, Prince Quillas Diskanar.’
‘What? But you must!’
‘You are welcome to visit our store houses for yourself,’ Hannan Mosag went on reasonably. ‘We punished the harvesters, as was our right. But we did not retrieve the harvest.’
‘The ships arrived in Trate with their holds empty!’
‘Perhaps, in fleeing our wrath, they discharged their burden, so as to quicken their pace. Without success, as it turned out.’ As the prince simply stared, Hannan Mosag went on, ‘Thus, we are not in your debt. You, however, are in ours. To the market value of the harvested tusked seals. We are undecided, at the moment, on the nature of recompense we will demand of you. After all, we have no need of coin.’
‘We have brought gifts!’ Quillas shouted.
‘For which you will then charge us, with interest. We are familiar with your pattern of cultural conquest among neighbouring tribes, Prince. That the situation is now reversed earns our sympathy, but as you are wont to say, business is business.’
Nifadas finally spoke. ‘It seems we have much to consider, the two of us, Emperor. Alas, our journey has been long and wearying. Perhaps you could permit us to retire for a time, to reconvene this meeting on the morrow?’
‘Excellent idea,’ Rhulad said, the coins on his face twisting as he smiled. ‘Udinaas, escort the delegation to the guest longhouse. Then return here. A long night awaits us.’
The prince stood like a puppet with its strings cut. The faces of the Acquitor and the First Eunuch, however, remained composed.
Even so, it seems we are all puppets here…
Trull Sengar watched the slave lead the Acquitor and the delegation out of the chamber. The world had not crumbled, it had shattered, and before his eyes he saw the jagged pieces, a chamber fissured and latticed, a thousand shards bearing countless reflected images. Edur faces, broken crowds, the smear of smoke. Disjointed motion, a fevered murmur of sound, the liquid glint of gold and a sword as patched and fragmented as everything else in sight.
Like a crazed mosaic, slowly being reassembled by a madman’s hand. He did not know where he belonged, where he fit. Brother to an emperor. It is Rhulad, yet it is not. I don’t know him. And I know him all too well and, Daughter take me, I am frightened most by that.
Hannan Mosag had been speaking quietly with Rhulad, conveying an ease with his new role that Trull knew was intended to calm the witnesses gathered here. Trull wondered what it was costing the Warlock King.
A nod and a wave of the hand dismissed Hannan Mosag, who retreated to stand near his K’risnan. At Rhulad’s instructions a large chair was carried to the dais, and the emperor sat, revealing to Trull’s knowing gaze his brother’s exhaustion. It would take time to acquire the strength necessary to sustain that vast, terrible weight for any length of time. The emperor settled his head back and looked out upon the nobles. His attention quickly silenced the crowd.
‘I have known death,’ Rhulad said, his voice rough. ‘I have returned, and I am not the same, not the unblooded warrior you saw before we began our journey to the ice wastes. I have returned, to bring to you the memory of our destiny. To lead you.’ He was silent then, as if needing to recover from his short speech. A dozen heartbeats, before he continued, ‘Fear Sengar. Brother, step forward.’
Fear did as commanded, halting on the inner ring in front of the dais.
Rhulad stared down at him, and Trull saw a sudden hunger in those brittle eyes.
‘Second only to Hannan Mosag’s, your loyalty, Fear, is my greatest need.’
Fear looked rattled, as if such a matter did not need to be questioned.
The slave Udinaas returned then, but held back, his red-rimmed eyes scanning the scene. And Trull wondered at the sudden narrowing of that Letherii’s gaze.
‘What, Emperor,’ Fear said, ‘do you ask of me?’
‘A gift, brother.’
‘All I have is yours-’
‘Are you true to that claim, Fear?’ Rhulad demanded, leaning forward.
‘I would not make it otherwise.’
Oh. No, Rhulad – no-
‘The emperor,’ Rhulad said, settling back, ‘requires an empress.’
Comprehension cast a pall on Fear’s face.
‘A wife. Fear Sengar, will you gift me a wife?’
You grotesque bastard – Trull stepped forward.
Rhulad’s hand snapped out to stay him. ‘Be careful, Trull. This is not your concern.’ He bared stained teeth. ‘It never was.’
‘Must you break those who would follow you?’ Trull asked.
‘Another word!’ Rhulad shrieked. ‘One more word, Trull, and I will have you flayed alive!’
Trull recoiled at the vehemence, stunned into silence.
A coin clattered onto the dais as Rhulad lifted a hand to his face and clawed at some extremity of emotion, then he snatched his hand away and held it before him, watching it curl into a fist. ‘Kill me. That is all you need do. For your proof. Yes, kill me. Again.’ The glittering eyes fixed on Trull. ‘You knew I was alone, guarding the rear slope. You knew it, Trull, and left me to my fate.’
‘What? I knew no such thing, Rhulad-’
‘No more lies, brother. Fear, gift me your betrothed. Give me Mayen. Would you stand between her and the title of empress? Tell me, are you that selfish?’
As ugly as driving knives into Fear, one after another. As rendering his flesh into ruin. This, Trull realized, this was Rhulad. The child and his brutal hungers, his vicious appetites. Tell us, are you that selfish?
‘She is yours, Emperor.’
Words bled of all life, words that were themselves a gift to one who had known death. Though Rhulad lacked the subtle mind to comprehend that.
Instead, his face twisted beneath the coins into a broad smile, filled with glee and triumph. His eyes lifted to a place in the crowd where the unwedded maidens stood. ‘Mayen,’ he called. ‘It is done. Come forward. Join your emperor.’
Tall, regal, the young woman strode forward as if this moment had been rehearsed a thousand times.
But that is not possible.
She walked past Fear without a glance, and came to stand, facing outward, on the left side of the chair. Rhulad’s hand reached out with a gesture of smug familiarity and she clasped it.
That final act struck Fear as would a physical blow to his chest. He took a step back.
‘Thank you, Fear,’ Rhulad said, ‘for your gift. I am assured of your loyalty, and proud to call you my brother. You, Binadas, Midik Buhn, Theradas Buhn, Hannan Mosag… and,’ the gaze shifted, ‘Trull, of course. My closest brothers. We are bound by the blood of our ancestors…’
He continued, but Trull had ceased listening. His eyes were on Mayen’s face. On the horror writ there that she could not disguise. In his mind, Trull cried out to Fear. Look, brother! She did not seek this betrayal! Look!
With an effort he pulled his gaze from Mayen, and saw that Fear had seen. Seen what everyone present could see, everyone but Rhulad.
It saved them all. Salvation to the desperate. She showed them that some truths could not be broken, that even this insane thing on its throne could not crush the visceral honour remaining to the Tiste Edur. And in her face was yet another promise. She would withstand his crimes, because there was no choice. A promise that was also a lesson to everyone present. Withstand. Suffer. Live as you must now live. There will, one day, be answer to this.
Yet Trull wondered. Who could give answer? What waited in the world beyond the borders of their knowledge, sufficiently formidable to challenge this monstrosity? And how long would they have to wait? We were fallen, and the emperor proclaims that we shall rise again. He is insane, for we are not rising. We are falling, and I fear there will be no end to that descent.
Until someone gave answer.
Rhulad had stopped speaking, as if growing aware that something was happening among his followers, something that had nothing to do with him and his newfound power. He rose suddenly from the chair. ‘This gathering is done. Hannan Mosag, you and your K’risnan will remain here with me and the Empress, for we have much to discuss. Udinaas, bring to Mayen her slaves, so that they may attend her needs. The rest, leave me now. Spread the word of the rise of the new empire of the Edur. And, brothers and sisters, see to your weapons…’
Please, someone, give answer to this.
A dozen paces from the citadel a figure emerged from the rain to stand in front of Udinaas.
The Acquitor.
‘What has he done?’
Udinaas studied her for a moment, then shrugged. ‘He stole his brother’s betrothed. We have an empress, and she does poorly at a brave face.’
‘The Edur are usurped,’ Seren Pedac said. ‘And a tyrant sits on the throne.’
Udinaas hesitated, then said, ‘Tell the First Eunuch. You must prepare for war.’
She revealed no surprise at his words; rather, a heavy weariness dulled her eyes. She turned away, walked into the rain and was gone.
I am a bearer of good tidings indeed. And now, it’s Feather Witch’s turn…
Rain rushed down from the sky, blinding and blind, indifferent and mindless, but it held no meaning beyond that. How could it? It was just rain, descending from the sky’s massed legion of grieving clouds. And the crying wind was the breath of natural laws, born high in the mountains or out at sea. Its voice promised nothing.
There was no meaning to be found in lifeless weather, in the pulsing of tides and in the wake of turning seasons.
No meaning to living and dying, either.
The tyrant was clothed in gold, and the future smelled of blood.
It meant nothing.