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‘Yedan, who killed Draconus? Who chained him within a sword of his own making? I do not understand.’ He paused, did not turn round. ‘Yes. There is that. It is odd,’ he admitted. ‘Who killed Draconus? The same man who frees him. Lord Anomander, First Son of Darkness.’
In your language, Eleint, Menas is one name for Shadow. The name you seemed eager to attach to this narrow strand, this Emurlahn of ours. Your voice comes from the half-seen, in the place neither here, nor there, and in the gloom – as if barely sketched by a ragged, dry brush – I saw a throne …
In the square before him crouched a dragon so vast and so close as to make his mind reel. Its scales were crimson edged in ochre or gold, deepening to bronze beneath its jaw and down the length of its throat. Black talons had punched deep into the cobbled ground. Its wings were folded behind humped shoulders, and the creature had lowered its massive, wedge-shaped head, fixing gold, lambent eyes upon the priest.
‘I yield to you, Endest Silann – whose heart is too vast, whose soul begins to comprehend its own infinite capacity – my love. This time, to stay your ecstasy, I set finger to your lips. Next time, it may fall to you to offer me the same. ‘I am named Silanah. Should you choose to seek me out, find me before passion’s gate, where I am known to abide. Curious and … as ever … enticed.’
‘We are far from done here,’ Resh said. ‘We have taken but the first step on this journey. It falls to us, Finarra Stone, to find the gate of our aspect.’ ‘Our aspect? We don’t have an aspect!’ ‘I believe that we do. Neither extreme suits us, only that which dwells between the two.’ He shrugged. ‘Name it Shadow … to match the cast of our skin, yes?’ ‘And you believe we will find our new gate from here? From Dark?’ He shrugged. ‘Or from Light. Does it matter which? Both realms bear edges. Borderlands. Places of transition. We must simply find such a place and claim it as our own.’ ‘And how will
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‘D’ivers now, as well. The Shake consort with forces they do not understand. Not just the cursed legacy of desperate Eresal eludes that understanding, but so too the one you would now challenge.’
‘Of course, High Priestess. But one other matter awaits us.’ ‘And that is?’ ‘The child upon your lap,’ Endest replied. Startled, Orfantal fled the chamber.
‘They become a Storm, sir. A Storm of Dragons, and that is a terrible thing. No single Eleint can resist, once a certain threshold is crossed. Gather enough of the beasts – create a big enough Storm – and they merge. They become one beast, possessing many heads, many limbs, but a single, undeniable identity. Such a Storm has a name among the Azathanai. Tiamatha. Goddess of destruction. Tiam among the Thel Akai. The Fever Queen.’ He paused, and then nodded at the tapestry. ‘Here, merely a Storm. Ill chance that it should gather above a city, but you well see its annihilating force.’
‘In the meantime, old lover, let’s drink against the night and remember other nights from long ago, when we had nothing and everything, when we knew it all but didn’t know a fucking thing. Let’s drink, Ivis, to the sunken islands of our youth.’
‘Men. It’s all about saving face. Every argument, every duel, every battle, every war. You would level a world to keep from being made to look a fool. And so you shall.’
‘Tellanas,’ Hataras said, nodding again. ‘Sorcery is the snake eating its own tail. It looks upon itself and in looking it devours, and in devouring, it grows. So the magic attends an endless feast. Our goddess Mother is trapped in a circle of herself. But we Bonecasters, we dance.’
‘Ah, this is Hataras Raze. And here, Vastala Trembler. Bonecasters of the Logros clan of the Dog-Runners.’
‘Mother Dark,’ said Prazek, scratching at his beard, ‘made no distinction in her blessing, and now leaves the skin to will its hue, as befits each man’s and each woman’s mercurial moods. This is a wavering faith, a host of questions devoid of stipulation.’
‘Oh, they are blessed, Punished Man. But think on this, what comes to a mortal soul, when it finds that truth is unwelcome?’
‘Passive aggression, is what you mean,’ said K’rul, pushing himself to his feet. ‘The act of taking offence becomes a weapon, and its wielder feels empowered by the false indignation.
‘Bored with everything, and everyone. I search for something I cannot name. A beacon, perhaps, in the darkness of perpetual ignorance. A spark of defiance among the wilfully obtuse. This endless drone irritates me, the frenzied flurry of busyness for little purpose beyond perpetuating a dissatisfying life.
he regarded the dragon drawn up upon the Vitr’s strand, directly opposite him and interceding itself between him and the hovering, crackling gate of Starvald Demelain. The gate had been born, in rupturing fury, far to the south, where it had spilled out a broken storm of dragons, but it had since migrated here, sung close by his mistress’s siren call, and day after day she strengthened the anchors now holding the gate in place.
Songs like the silky strands of a spider, a web very nearly complete. All that remained, he reminded himself, was some sorry bastard’s soul torn loose and stuffed into the gaping wound that was Starvald Demelain. A soul to seal the maw, and pray it’s a mighty soul, a stubborn soul, a soul made to suffer.
The dragon was staring at him, as it had been staring at him ever since he took his station opposite it, the very morning of its confounding arrival. As far as staring contests went, not even a Thel Akai could match a dragon’s baleful, unblinking regard.
But the Old Goddess had spewed out enough contempt on the matter of dragons, raising her huge fists before her to tell her children of skulls crushed flat, blood spraying from slitted nostrils, and all the rest. Tales to stain all wonder from her brood, a soaking of disdain.
‘Old Goddess, is it? That would be Kilmandaros. Some Azathanai are too stupid to be gods, unless, of course, they breed even stupider children. In which case, why, paradise beckons!’
A moment later she sembled into the body of a Tiste woman, onyx-skinned, radiant, and naked.
Curdle blurred as well, drawing inward to coalesce into another Tiste woman, this one taller than her lover, heavier-boned.
The two Azathanai looked out over the pellucid, silvered sea of the Vitr as the sun died at their backs. ‘This leaks from somewhere,’ K’rul said after a time. ‘A fissure, some wellspring, a broken gate. It doesn’t bode well.’
‘When the Builders take notice they will do something about it.’ K’rul grunted. ‘Builders. They confound me.’ ‘They answer to no one. They rarely speak at all. They are guided by forces too old for words. Too old, perhaps, for language itself. I see in them elemental nature, a knotting of implacable laws and principles beyond challenge. They are what all life struggles against, made manifest and so eternally unknowable.’
‘Worlds are born from the cinders of dead stars, Skillen Droe. No fire burns true. Something is always left behind.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘Or are you without such uninvited visions? The violent births, realm upon realm, age after age?’
‘Errastas and Sechul Lath discovered a more brutal way of feeding on blood, couched in the language of violence and death. Their path opposes mine, but that makes it no less powerful. Indeed, perhaps, given its seductive qualities appealing to the worst in us, it shall overpower me in time.’ He paused, and then sighed. ‘I do fear that, and yet, what moves I make against them, I cannot do alone.’
The blessing of Light is upon you. It defies the Vitr. That’s useful.’
‘Wounds, gates, one for each aspect of sorcery,’ said Curdle. ‘The Vitr’s hunger for power is endless. It will make a space within itself for each aspect. Caverns, tunnels.’ ‘Whence came this Vitr, Curdle?’ ‘Starvald Demelain has always … leaked,’ Curdle replied. ‘In our home realm, we have sailed over silver seas, nested upon rotting crags jutting from the chaos. We have rushed above its wild torrent in the times when it has thundered through other realms—’ ‘All realms,’ whispered Telorast. ‘Even the Suzerain’s.’
‘The Vitr steals memories – or, rather, it blinds the mind to the memories it holds. Made witless, one is reborn, and must make a new life.’
He bowed. ‘Scabandari, once of Urusander’s Legion, but now I suppose I must be considered a deserter.’ ‘Yes, that explains your abandonment of Light’s blessing. It seems, Scabandari, that you march to the Grey Shore.’ He was unsure of the meaning of that. ‘I seek to retrieve Urusander’s son, Osserc.’ K’rul shrugged. ‘That may be as it may be, Scabandari, but your soul finds its own path.’ ‘I know nothing of this Grey Shore.’ ‘Nor should you, since it is yet to arrive.’
‘The dragons have assumed Tiste forms. They are Soletaken, it seems, and possess, I now suspect, ancient blood of the First Tiste. It explains their singular obsession with thrones, and power.’
He moved forward, directly towards the red-haired woman, who had at last turned to face the newcomers. Something avid in her gaze made him stop in his tracks. She offered him little more than a flicker of attention before unveiling a glare at K’rul. ‘You! Ah, now I see. This sorcery is your doing. Idiot. How does it defy me?’ ‘You are Azathanai,’ K’rul replied. ‘My blood is not for you.’
K’rul cleared his throat. The sound was modest and yet it drew everyone’s attention. ‘We face a quandary to be sure,’ he said. ‘Ardata, neither Osserc nor Scabandari here is suitable for sealing Starvald Demelain.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that the surviving Tiste of this world all carry the blood of the Eleint. It is the chaos at the core of their souls. If you send Osserc’s soul into the gate, he will seal nothing. Indeed, he will act as a clarion call to your kin. The same for Scabandari.’
‘I have need of you two,’ said K’rul. ‘In fact, I have need of all the Eleint who have come into this realm.’ ‘What manner of need?’ Curdle demanded. ‘Guardianship.’ There was a long pause, and then Telorast hissed. ‘The Gates of Sorcery!’ ‘My Warrens, yes. In return, you can feed upon your chosen aspect.’ ‘Warrens,’ said Telorast. ‘Well named, Azathanai.’ ‘But you are not to resist those mortals who would draw upon my sorcery,’ added K’rul. ‘Then against whom do we guard?’ ‘Azathanai, for one. Your fellow Eleint, for another.’
Ardata suddenly cut in, ‘These two will defy you, K’rul. They seek the Throne of Shadow, upon the rise of the Grey Shore. It is their singular obsession.’
another Azathanai seeks to usurp my Warrens, to corrupt them utterly. Should he succeed, even the Eleint of this realm will suffer a harsh fate. Control over the gates of my Warrens is essential, and so I turn to the only beings capable of becoming guardians – indeed, wards – of my sorcery.’
K’rul shrugged. ‘The only thing you two yield is your choice of Warrens. In fact, given your obsession, it seems that you will surrender them entirely in favour of a throne that may never appear. That of course is your choice.’ Telorast turned to her companion. ‘I see no reason to remain here, Curdle. Do you?’ ‘None at all!’ Curdle replied. ‘K’rul, we accept your bargain! Where then are these unclaimed gates?’ ‘Here and there. Follow the scent of magic and you will find them.’ Scabandari gasped as the two Tiste women seemed to blur, vanishing inside twin burgeoning clouds that moments later
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‘The gates of my Warrens, Ardata, the ones the dragons will now seek out.’ ‘What of them?’ A brief look of intense frustration twisted K’rul’s face. ‘What value guardians, Ardata,’ he said in a painfully slow voice, ‘if they can leave whenever they please?’ She crossed her arms. ‘Go on.’ ‘I need your talent … with webs. Or, in this case, chains.’
‘Yes. You need to sew up the carcass of a dragon upon the south shore of the Vitr Sea.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I need it.’ ‘Why?’ ‘It once belonged to Korabas, forever shunned by her kin, because she is—’ ‘The Devourer of Magic. Abyss below, K’rul! But … a carcass?’
someone is at this very moment about to complete a ritual, opening a gate into the Warren of Death.’
‘In the last days of life,’ Haut said, ‘there comes to the dying soul a single, long night. For most, it passes locked in step with the world, and come the dawn, the sleeping face is preternaturally still. Rarely does such a night impose itself on others. It is a private thing, a stretched expanse, a realm of dying wind and laboured breath.’ He faced her in sorrow. ‘Hood has invoked the Long Night, to open to our souls the passage into death. Now, this night, the stars do not sparkle, the moon does not rise. Tell me, when did you last draw breath? Blink? Whence the next beat of your heart?’
‘He has stopped time.
‘For now, the encampment,’ Haut replied. ‘But there are ripples, unseen by us mortals, and they spread far and wide. Stirring, agitating, awakening. I would imagine,’ he mused, ‘the dead themselves now hearken to this challenge.’ He settled a hand on the old sword at his belt. ‘It seems we shall have our war after all.’
‘Hood used the magic,’ she suddenly announced. ‘All that the one you name K’rul has given to the world. He’s taken it all inside.’ ‘Stilled every fire,’ Haut said. ‘Nothing burns. The exhalation of heat, the very vigour of life, all stopped. As within, so without. But then, is this not what death is? Stepping out from time’s incessant flow? Slipping from sight?’ He sighed, and then shrugged. ‘We are in the Long Night, we who choose to follow him. But you, Korya, here you do not belong.’
‘Gothos holds at bay Hood’s … imposition. He creates a refuge, signified by his Folly, his unending tome, his eternal narrative. To defy the death of time, he would tell a story.’ ‘His story.’ ‘It may be his,’ Haut agreed. ‘Indeed, it may be precisely what he says it is. A suicide note, a confessional to failure. And yet, do you see this subtle defiance? While the tale continues, there can be no surrender to despair.’ ‘No,’ she snapped, ‘of course not. The lord has his hate, after all.’
When I spoke of Gothos’s refuge, I meant to say that Arathan is protected.’
‘What of me?’ ‘You are a Mahybe, Korya, a vessel formed to contain. By this alone, death cannot reach you.’
‘Hold on to your potential,’ he said, ‘for as long as you can. There’s enough room inside you for a dozen lifetimes, maybe more. That’s down to your resilience and your cleverness.’ ‘To what end?’ ‘One day, the Azathanai Errastas will seek domination over the sorcery now suffusing this realm. And he will make it a thing of spilled blood, and should he succeed, magic will prove the cruellest gift of all.’ ‘You would set me against an Azathanai?’
Ifayle, at the core of a dream there is something that cannot be broken. Indeed, it is deathless. Reach into this core, Dog-Runner, to seek the makings of a ritual. Call as well upon Olar Ethil, seeking the spark of Telas – the Eternal Flame – to enliven what remains of you.’ This time, the ghost’s pause was much briefer. ‘But be warned. The deathless gift of the Sleeping Goddess’s dream will end your own dreams. The future loses all relevance and so is made powerless. In escaping death, you must all die, sustained by naught but the spark of Telas.’
