Suspecting Silchas Ruin of deceit was one thing, voicing the accusation quite another. She lacked the courage. As simple as that. Easier, isn’t it, to just go along, and to keep from thinking too hard. Because thinking too hard is what Udinaas has done, and look at the state he’s in. Yet, even then, he’s managing to keep his mouth shut. Most of the time. He may be an ex-slave, he may be ‘no-one’-but he is not a fool.
So she walked alone. Bound by friendship to none-none here, in any case-and disinclined to change that.
The ruined city, little more than heaps of tumbled stone, rolled past on all sides, the slope ahead becoming ever steeper, and she thought, after a time, that she could hear the whisper of sand, crumbled mortar, fragments of rubble, as if their passage was yet further pitching this landscape, and as they walked they gathered to them streams of sliding refuse. As if our presence alone is enough shift the balance.
The whispering could have been voices, uttered beneath the wind, and she felt-with a sudden realization that lifted beads of sweat to her skin-within moments of understanding the words. Of stone and broken mortar. I am sliding into madness indeed-
‘When the stone breaks, every cry escapes. Can you hear me now, Seren Pedac?’
‘Is that you, Wither? Leave me be.’
Are any warrens alive? Most would say no. Impossible. They are forces. Aspects. Proclivities manifest as the predictable-oh, the Great Thinkers who are long since dust worried this in fevered need, as befits the obsessed. But they did not under’ stand. One warren lies like a web over all the others, and its voice is the will necessary to shape magic. They did not see it. Not for what it was. They thought… chaos, a web where each strand was undifferentiated energy, not yet articulated, not yet given shape by an Elder God’s intent.’
She listened, as yet uncomprehending, even as her heart thundered in her chest and her each breath came in a harsh rasp. This, she knew, was not Wither’s voice. Not the wraith’s language. Not its cadence.
‘But K’rul understood. Spilled blood is lost blood, powerless blood in the end. It dies when abandoned. Witness violent death for proof of that. For the warrens to thrive, coursing in their appointed rivers and streams, there must be a living body, a grander form that exists in itself. Not chaos. Not Dark, nor Light. Not heat, not cold. No, a conscious aversion to disorder. Negation to and of all else, when all else is dead. For the true face of Death is dissolution, and in dissolution there is chaos until the last mote of energy ceases its wilful glow, its persistent abnegation. Do you understand?’
‘No. Who are you?’
‘There is another way, then, of seeing this. K’rul realized he could not do this alone. The sacrifice, the opening of his veins and arteries, would mean nothing, would indeed fail. Without living flesh, without organized functionality.
‘Ah, the warrens, Seren Pedac, they are a dialogue. Do you see now?’
‘No!’
Her frustrated cry echoed through the ruins. She saw Silchas and Clip halt and turn about.
Behind her, Fear Sengar called out, ‘Acquitor? What is it you deny?’
Knowing laughter from Udinaas.
‘Disregard the vicious crowd now, the torrent of sound overwhelming the warrens, the users, the guardians, the parasites and the hunters, the complicit gods elder and young. Shut them away, as Corlos taught you. To remember rape is to fold details into sensation, and so relive each time its terrible truth. He told you this could become habit, an addiction, until even despair became a welcome taste on your tongue. Understand, then-as only you can here-that to take one’s own life is the final expression of despair. You saw that. Buruk the Pale. You felt that, at the sea’s edge. Seren Pedac, K’rul could not act alone in this sacrifice, lest he fill every warren with despair.
‘Dialogue. Presupposition, yes, of the plural. One with another. Or succession of others, for this dialogue must be ongoing, indeed, eternal.
‘Do I speak of the Master of the Holds? The Master of the Deck? Perhaps-the face of the other is ever turned away-to all but K’rul himself. This is how it must be. The dialogue, then, is the feeding of power. Power unimaginable, power virtually omnipotent, unassailable… so long as that other’s face remains… turned away.
‘From you. From me. From all of us.’
She stared wildly about then, at these tilted ruins, this endless scree of destruction.
‘The dialogue, however, can be sensed if not heard-such is its power. The construction of language, the agreement in principle of meaning and intent, the rules of grammar-Seren
Pedac, what did you think Mockra was? If not a game of grammar? Twisting semantics, turning inference, inviting suggestion, reshaping a mind’s internal language to deceive its own senses?
‘Who am I?
‘Why, Seren Pedac, 1 am Mockra.’
The others were gathered round her now. She found herself on her knees, driven there by revelation-there would be bruises, an appalling softness in the tissue where it pressed against hard pavestone. She registered this, as she stared up at the others. Reproachful communication, between damaged flesh and her mind, between her senses and her brain.
She shunted those words aside, then settled into a sweet, painless calm.
As easy as that.
‘Beware, there is a deadly risk in deceiving oneself. You can blind youself to your own damage. You can die quickly in that particular game, Seren Pedac. No, if you must… experiment… then choose another.
‘Corlos would have showed you that, had he the time with you.’
‘So-so he knows you?’’
‘Not as intimately as you. There are few so… blessed.’
‘But you are not a god, are you?’
‘You need not ask that, Seren Pedac.’
‘You are right. But still, you are alive.’
She heard amusement in the reply. ‘Unless my greatest deceit is the announcement of my own existence! There are rules in language, and language is needed for the stating of the rules. As K’rul understood, the blood flows out, and then it returns. Weak, then enlivened. Round and round. Who then, ask your-self, who then is the enemy?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Not yet, perhaps. You will need to find out, however, Seren Pedac. Before we are through.’
She smiled. ‘You give me a purpose?’
‘Dialogue, my love, must not end.’
‘Ours? Or the other one?’
‘Your companions think you fevered now. Tell me, before we part, which you would choose. For your experiments?’
She blinked up at the half-circle of faces. Expressions of concern, mockery, curiosity, indifference. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems… cruel.’
‘Power ever is, Seren Pedac.’
‘I won’t decide, then. Not yet.’
‘So be it.’
‘Seren?’ Kettle asked. ‘What is wrong with you?’
She smiled, then pushed herself to her feet, Udinaas-to her astonishment-reaching out to help her regain her balance.
Seeing her wince, he half smiled. ‘You landed hard, Acquitor. Can you walk?’ His smile broadened. ‘Perhaps no faster than the rest of us laggards, now?’
‘You, Udinaas? No, I think not.’
He frowned. ‘Just the two of us right now,’ he said.
Her eyes flickered up to meet his, shied away, then returned again-hard. ‘You heard?’
‘Didn’t need to,’ he replied under his breath as he set the Imass walking stick into her hands. ‘Had Wither sniffing at my heels long before I left the north.’ He shrugged.
Silchas Ruin and Clip had already resumed the journey.
Leaning on the Imass spear, Seren Pedac walked alongside the ex-slave, struggling with a sudden flood of emotion for this broken man. Perhaps, true comrades after all. He and I.
‘Seren Pedac’
‘Yes?’
‘Stop shifting the pain in your knees into mine, will you?’