‘No,’ Fear Sengar said, eyes fixed on the Tiste Andii’s. ‘Let it be now. Silchas Ruin, in my heart I accept the truth of Scabandari’s betrayal. You trusted him, and you suffered unimaginably in consequence. Yet how can we make reparation? We are not Soletaken. We are not ascendants. We are simply Tiste Edur, and so we fall like saplings before you and your swords. Tell me, how do we ease your thirst for vengeance?’
‘You do not, nor is my killing your kin in any way an answer to my need. Fear Sengar, you spoke of reparation. Is this your desire?’
The Edur warrior was silent for a half-dozen heartbeats, then he said, ‘Scabandari brought us to this world.’
Yours was dying.’
Yes.’
‘You may not be aware of this,’ Silchas Ruin continued, ‘but Bloodeye was partly responsible for the sundering of Shadow. Nonetheless, of greater relevance, to me, are the betrayals that came before that particular crime. Betrayals against my own kin-my brother, Andarist-which set such grief upon his soul that he was driven mad.’ He slowly cocked his head. ‘Did you imagine me naive in fashioning an alliance with Scabandari Bloodeye?’
Udinaas barked a laugh. ‘Naive enough to turn your back on him.’
Seren Pedac shut her eyes. Please, Indebted, just keep your mouth shut. Just this once.
‘You speak truth, Udinaas,’ Silchas Ruin replied after a moment. ‘I was exhausted, careless. I did not imagine he would be so… public. Yet, in retrospect, the betrayal had to be absolute-and that included the slaughter of my followers.’
Fear Sengar said, ‘You intended to betray Scabandari, only he acted first. A true alliance of equals, then.’
‘I imagined you might see it that way,’ the Tiste Andii replied. ‘Understand me, Fear Sengar. I will not countenance freeing the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye. This world has enough reprehensible ascendants.’
‘Without Father Shadow,’ Fear said, ‘I cannot free Rhulad from the chains of the Crippled God.’
‘You could not, even with him.’
‘I do not believe you, Silchas Ruin. Scabandari was your match, after all. And I do not think the Crippled God hunts you in earnest. If it is indeed Hannan Mosag behind this endless pursuit, then the ones he seeks are myself and Udinaas. Not you. It is, perhaps, even possible that the Warlock King knows nothing of you-of who you are, beyond the mysterious White Crow.’
‘That does not appear to be the case, Fear Sengar.’
The statement seemed to rock the Tiste Edur.
Silchas Ruin continued, ‘Scabandari Bloodeye’s body was destroyed. Against me, now, he would be helpless: A soul without provenance is a vulnerable thing. Furthermore, it may be that his power is already being… used.’
‘By whom?’ Fear asked, almost whispering.
The Tiste Andii shrugged. ‘It seems,’ he said with something close to indifference, ‘that your quest is without purpose. You cannot achieve what you seek. I will offer you this, Fear Sengar. The day I choose to move against the Crippled God, your brother shall find himself free, as will all the Tiste Edur. When that time comes, we can speak of reparation.’
Fear Sengar stared at Silchas Ruin, then glanced, momentarily, at Seren Pedac. He drew a deep breath, then said, ‘Your offer… humbles me. Yet I could not imagine what the Tiste Edur could gift you in answer to such deliverance.’
‘Leave that to me,’ the Tiste Andii said.
Seren Pedac sighed, then strode to the horses. ‘It’s almost dawn. We should ride until midday at least. Then we can sleep.’ She paused, looked once more over at Silchas Ruin. ‘You are confident we will not be pursued?’
‘I am, Acquitor.’
‘So, were there in truth wards awaiting us?’
The Tiste Andii made no reply.
As the Acquitor adjusted the saddle and stirrups on one of the horses to suit Kettle, Udinaas watched the young girl squatting on her haunches near the forest edge, playing with an orthen that did not seem in any way desperate to escape her attentions. The darkness had faded, the mists silver in the growing light.
Wither appeared beside him, like a smear of reluctant night. ‘These scaled rats, Udinaas, came from the K’Chain Che’Malle world. There were larger ones, bred for food, but they were smart-smarter perhaps than they should have been. Started escaping their pens, vanishing into the mountains. It’s said there are some still left-’
Udinaas grunted his derision. ‘It’s said? Been hanging round in bars, Wither?’
‘The terrible price of familiarity-you no longer respect me, Indebted. A most tragic error, for the knowledge I possess-’
‘Is like a curse of boredom,’ Udinaas said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Look at her,’ he said, nodding towards Kettle. ‘Tell me, do you believe in innocence? Never mind; I’m not that interested in your opinion. By and large, I don’t. Believe, that is. And yet, that child there… well, I am already grieving.’
‘Grieving what?’ Wither demanded.
‘Innocence, wraith. When we kill her.’
Wither was, uncharacteristically, silent.
Udinaas glanced down at the crouching shade, then sneered. ‘All your coveted knowledge…’
Seventeen legends described the war against the scaled demons the Awl called the Kechra; of those, sixteen were of battles, terrible clashes that left the corpses of warriors scattered across the plains and hills of the Awl’dan. Less a true war than headlong flight, at least in the first years. The Kechra had come from the west, from lands that would one day belong to the empire of Lether but were then, all those countless centuries ago, little more than blasted wastes-fly-swarmed marshlands of peat and rotten ice. A ragged, battered horde, the Kechra had seen battle before, and it was held in some versions of those legends that the Kechra were themselves fleeing, fleeing a vast, devastating war that gave cause to their own desperation.
In the face of annihilation, the Awl had learned how to fight such creatures. The tide was met, held, then turned.
Or so the tales proclaimed, in ringing, stirring tones of triumph.
Redmask knew better, although at times he wished he didn’t. The war ended because the Kechra’s migration reached the easternmost side of the Awl’dan, and then continued onward. Granted, they had been badly mauled by the belligerent ancestors of the Awl, yet, in truth, they had been almost indifferent to them-an obstacle in their path-and the death of so many of their own kind was but one more ordeal in a history of fraught, tragic ordeals since coming to this world.
Kechra. K’Chain Che’Malle, the Firstborn of Dragons.
There was, to Redmask’s mind, nothing palatable or sus-taining about knowledge. As a young warrior, his world had been a single knot on the rope of the Awl people, his own deliberate binding to the long, worn history of bloodlines, He had never imagined that there were so many other ropes, so many intertwined threads; he had never before comprehended how vast the net of existence, nor how tangled it had become since the Night of Life-when all that was living came into being, born of deceit and betrayal and doomed to an eternity of struggle.
And Redmask had come to understand struggle-there in the startled eyes of the rodara, the timid fear of the myrid; in the disbelief of a young warrior dying on stone and wind-blown sand; in the staring comprehension of a woman surrendering her life to the child she pushed out from between her legs. He had seen elders, human and beast, curl up to die; he had seen others fight for their last breath with all the will they could muster. Yet in his heart, he could find no reason, no reward waiting beyond that eternal struggle.
Even the spirit gods of his people battled, flailed, warred with the weapons of faith, with intolerance and the sweet, deadly waters of hate. No less confused and sordid than any mortal.