‘And that imbalance can never be redressed?’
‘You lead me to reassess you, Atri-Preda Yan Tovis. You are rather clever, in an intuitive way. I judge that your Ten Thousand Secretions flow even and clear, probably the result of remorseless objectivity or some similar blasphemy of the spirit – for which, I assure you, I hold no particular resentment. So, we share this question, which enunciates the very core of the Mockers’ Doctrine. It is our belief that, should every mortal in this realm achieve clarity of thought and a cogent regard of morality, and so acquire a profound humility and respect for all others and for the world in which they live, then the imbalance will be redressed, and sanity will return once more to the One God.’
‘Ah…I see.’
‘I am sure you do. Now, I believe a healing was imminent. A conjoining of the warrens of High Mockra and High Denul. Physiological amendment achieved by the latter. Expurgation of the taint and elimination of the blockages, via the former. Of course, said warrens are faint in their manifestation here in this city, for a variety of reasons. Nonetheless, I do indeed possess substantial talents, some of which are directly applicable to the matter at hand.’
Feeling slightly numbed, Yan Tovis rubbed at her face. She closed her eyes – then, at a ragged sigh from Varat Taun, opened them again, to see her second in command’s limbs slowly unfold, the fierce clutch of muscles on his neck visibly ease as the man, blinking, slowly lifted his head.
And saw her.
‘Varat Taun.’
A faint smile, worn with sorrow – but a natural sorrow. ‘Atri-Preda. We made it back, then…’
She frowned, then nodded. ‘You did. And since that time, Lieutenant, the fleet has come home.’ She gestured at the room. ‘You are in the Domicile’s Annexe, in Letheras.’
‘Letheras? What?’ He struggled to rise, pausing a moment to look wonderingly at the Cabalhii monk; then, using the wall behind him, he straightened and met Twilight’s eyes. ‘But that is impossible. We’d two entire oceans to cross, at the very least—’
‘Your escape proved a terrible ordeal, Lieutenant,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘You have lain in a coma for many, many months. I expect you are feeling weak—’
A grimace. ‘Exhausted, sir.’
‘What do you last recall, Lieutenant?’
Dread filled his wan features and his gaze fell away from hers. ‘Slaughter, sir.’
‘Yes. The barbarian known as Taralack Veed survived, as did the Jhag, Icarium—’
Varat Taun’s head snapped up. ‘Icarium! Yes – Atri-Preda, he – he is an abomination!’
‘A moment!’ cried the Senior Assessor, eyes now piercing as he stared at the lieutenant. ‘Icarium, the Jhag Warrior? Icarium, Lifestealer?’
Suddenly frightened, Yan Tovis said, ‘Yes, Cabalhii. He is here. Like you, he will challenge the Emperor—’ She stopped then, in shock, as the monk, eyes bulging, flung both hands to his face, streaking across the thick paint, and, teeth appearing to clench down hard on his lower lip, bit. Until blood spurted. The monk reeled back until he struck the wall beside the doorway – then, all at once, he whirled about and fled the room.
‘Errant take us,’ Varat Taun hissed, ‘what was all that about?’
Forbidden laughter? She shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Lieutenant.’
‘Who…what…?’
‘A healer,’ she replied in a shaky voice, forcing herself to draw a steadying breath. ‘The one who awakened you, Varat. A guest of the Emperor’s – from Uruth’s fleet.’
Varat Taun licked chapped, broken lips. ‘Sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Icarium…Errant save us, he must not be awakened. Taralack knows, he was there, he saw. The Jhag…have him sent away, sir—’
She approached him, boots hard on the floor. ‘The Gral’s claims are not exaggerated, then? He will bring destruction?’
A whisper: ‘Yes.’
She could not help herself then, and reached out, gloved hands grasping the front of Varat’s ragged shirt, dragging him close. ‘Tell me, damn you! Can he kill him? Can Icarium kill him?’
Horror swirled in the soldier’s eyes as he nodded.
Errant’s blessing, maybe this time…‘Varat Taun. Listen to me. I am leading my company out in two days. Back to the north. You will ride with me, as far up the coast as necessary – then you ride east – to Bluerose. I am assigning you to the Factor’s staff there, understood? Two days.’
‘Yes sir.’
She released him, suddenly embarrassed at her own outburst. Yet her legs were weak as reeds beneath her still. She wiped sweat from her eyes. ‘Welcome back, Lieutenant,’ she said in a rough voice, not meeting his gaze. ‘Are you strong enough to accompany me?’
‘Sir. Yes, I shall try.’
‘Good.’
Emerging from the room, they came face to face with the Gral barbarian. Breath hissed from Varat Taun.
Taralack Veed had halted in the corridor and was staring at the lieutenant. ‘You are…recovered. I did not think—’ He shook his head, then said, ‘I am pleased, soldier—’
‘You warned us again and again,’ Varat Taun said.
The Gral grimaced and seemed ready to spit, then decided otherwise. Gravely, he said, ‘I did. And yes, I was foolish enough to be an eager witness…’
‘And next time?’ The question from Varat Taun was a snarl.
‘You do not need to ask me that.’
The lieutenant stared hard at the savage, then he seemed to sag, and Yan Tovis was astonished to see Taralack Veed move forward to take Varat’s weight. Ah, it is what they have shared. It is that. That.
The Gral glared over at her. ‘He is half dead with exhaustion!’
‘Yes.’
‘I will help him now – where would you lead us, Atri-Preda?’
‘To more hospitable quarters. What are you doing here, Veed?’
‘A sudden fear,’ he said as he now struggled with Varat’s unconscious form.
She moved to help him. ‘What sort of fear?’
‘That he would be stopped.’
‘Who?’
‘Icarium. That you would stop him – now, especially, now that this man is sane once more. He will tell you – tell you everything—’
‘Taralack Veed,’ she said in a harsh tone, ‘the lieutenant and I leave this city in two days. We ride north. Between then and now, Varat Taun is under my care. No-one else’s.’
‘None but me, that is.’
‘If you insist.’
The lieutenant between them, the Gral studied her. ‘You know, don’t you. He told you—’
‘Yes.’
‘And you mean to say nothing, to no-one. No warning—’
‘That is correct.’
‘Who else might suspect – your ancient histories of the First Empire. Your scholars—’
‘I don’t know about that. There is one, and if I am able he will be coming with us.’ That damned monk. It should be simple enough. The Cabal priests misunderstood. Sent us an ambassador, not a champion. No value in killing him – the poor fool cannot fight – imagine Rhulad’s rage at wasting his time…yes, that should do it.
‘No scholars…’
She grimaced and said, ‘Dead, or in prison.’ She glared across at the Gral. ‘What of you? Will you flee with us?’
‘You know I cannot – I am to share Icarium’s fate. More than any of them realize. No, Atri-Preda, I will not leave this city.’
‘Was this your task, Taralack Veed? To deliver Icarium here?’
He would not meet her eyes.
‘Who sent you?’ she demanded.
‘Does it matter? We are here. Listen to me, Twilight, your Emperor is being sorely used. There is war among the gods, and we are as nothing – not you, not me, not Rhulad Sengar. So ride, yes, as far away as you can. And take this brave warrior with you. Do this, and I will die empty of sorrow—’
‘And what of regrets?’
He spat on the floor. His only ans
wer, but she understood him well enough.
Sealed by a massive, thick wall of cut limestone at the end of a long-abandoned corridor in a forgotten passage of the Old Palace, the ancient Temple of the Errant no longer existed in the collective memory of the citizens of Letheras. Its beehive-domed central chamber would have remained unlit, its air still and motionless, for over four centuries, and the spoked branches leading off to lesser rooms would have last echoed to footfalls almost a hundred years earlier.
The Errant had walked out into the world, after all. The altar stood cold and dead and probably destroyed. The last priests and priestesses – titles held in secret against the plague of pogroms – had taken their gnostic traditions to their graves, with no followers left to replace them.
The Master of the Holds has walked out into the world. He is now among us. There can be no worship now – no priests, no temples. The only blood the Errant will taste from now on is his own. He has betrayed us.
Betrayed us all.
And yet the whispers never went away. They echoed like ghost-winds in the god’s mind. With each utterance of his name, as prayer, as curse, he could feel that tremble of power – mocking all that he had once held in his hands, mocking the raging fires of blood sacrifice, of fervent, fearful faith. There were times, he admitted, that he knew regret. For all that he had so willingly surrendered.
Master of the Tiles, the Walker Among the Holds. But the Holds have waned, their power forgotten, buried by the passing of age upon age. And I too have faded, trapped in this fragment of land, this pathetic empire in a corner of a continent. I walked into the world…but the world has grown old.
He stood now facing the stone wall at the end of the corridor. Another half-dozen heartbeats of indecision, then he stepped through.
And found himself in darkness, the air stale and dry in his throat. Once, long ago, he had needed tiles to manage such a thing as walking through a solid stone wall. Once, his powers had seemed new, brimming with possibilities; once, it had seemed he could shape and reshape the world. Such arrogance. It had defied every assault of reality – for a time.
He still persisted in his conceit, he well knew – a curse among all gods. And he would amuse himself, a nudge here, a tug there, to then stand back and see how the skein of fates reconfigured itself, each strand humming with his intrusion. But it was getting harder. The world resisted him. Because I am the last, I am myself the last thread reaching back to the Holds. And if that thread was severed, the tension suddenly snapping, flinging him loose, stumbling forward into the day’s light…what then?
The Errant gestured, and flames rose once more from the clamshell niches low on the dome’s ring-wall, casting wavering shadows across the mosaic floor. A sledgehammer had been taken to the altar on its raised dais. The shattered stones seemed to bleed recrimination still in the Errant’s eyes. Who served whom, damn you? I went out, among you, to make a difference – so that I could deliver wisdom, whatever wisdom I possessed. I thought – I thought you would be grateful.
But you preferred shedding blood in my name. My words just got in your way, my cries for mercy for your fellow citizens – oh, how that enraged you.
His thoughts fell silent. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. What is this? I am not alone.
A soft laugh from one of the passageways. He slowly turned.
The man crouched there was more ogre than human, broad shoulders covered in bristly black hair, a bullet head thrust forward on a short neck. The bottom half of the face was strangely pronounced beneath long, curling moustache and beard, and large yellowed tusks jutted from the lower jaw, pushing clear of lip and thick, ringleted hair. Stubby, battered hands hung down from long arms, the knuckles on the floor.
From the apparition came a bestial, rank stench.
The Errant squinted, seeking to pierce the gloom beneath the heavy brows, where small narrow-set eyes glittered dull as rough garnets. ‘This is my temple,’ he said. ‘I do not recall an open invitation to…guests.’
Another low laugh, but there was no humour in it, the Errant realized. Bitterness, as thick and pungent as the smell stinging the god’s nostrils.
‘I remember you,’ came the creature’s voice, low and rumbling. ‘And I knew this place. I knew what it had been. It was…safe. Who recalls the Holds, after all? Who knew enough to suspect? Oh, they can hunt me down all they want – yes, they will find me in the end – I know this. Soon, maybe. Sooner, now that you have found me, Master of the Tiles. He might have returned me, you know, along with other…gifts. But he has failed.’ Another laugh, this time harsh. ‘A common demise among mortals.’
Though he spoke, no words emerged from the ogre’s mouth. That heavy, awkward voice was in the Errant’s head, which was all for the best – those tusks would have brutalized every utterance into near incomprehensibility. ‘You are a god.’
More laughter. ‘I am.’
‘You walked into the world.’
‘Not by choice, Master of the Tiles. Not like you.’
‘Ah.’
‘And so my followers died – oh, how they have died. Across half the world, their blood soaked the earth. And I could do nothing. I can do nothing.’
‘It is something,’ the Errant observed, ‘to hold yourself to such a modest form. But how much longer will that control last? How soon before you burst the confines of this temple of mine? How long before you heave yourself into the view of all, shouldering aside the clouds, shaking mountains to dust—’
‘I will be long from here before then, Master of the Tiles.’
The Errant’s smile was wry. ‘That is a relief, god.’
‘You have survived,’ the god now said. ‘For so long. How?’
‘Alas,’ said the Errant, ‘my advice to you would be useless. My power quickly dissipated. It had already been terribly wounded – the Forkrul Assail’s pogroms against my faithful saw to that. The thought of another failure like that one was too much…so I willingly relinquished most of what remained to me. It made me ineffectual, beyond, perhaps, this city and a modest stretch of river. And so not a threat to anyone.’ Not even you, tusked one. ‘You, however, cannot make a similar choice. They will want the raw power within you – in your blood – and they will need it spilled before they can drink, before they can bathe in what’s left of you.’
‘Yes. One last battle awaits me. That much, at least, I do not regret.’
Lucky you. ‘A battle. And…a war?’
Amusement in his thoughts, then, ‘Oh, indeed, Master of the Tiles. A war – enough to make my heart surge with life, with hunger. How could it not? I am the Boar of Summer, Lord of the Hosts on the Field of Battle. The chorus of the dying to come…ah, Master, be glad it will be nowhere close—’
‘I am not so sure of that.’
A shrug.
The Errant frowned, then asked, ‘How long do you intend to remain here, then?’
‘Why, as long as I can, before my control crumbles – or I am summoned to my battle, my death, I mean. Unless, of course, you choose to banish me.’
‘I would not risk the power revealed by that,’ the Errant said.
A rumbling laugh. ‘You think I would not go quietly?’
‘I know it, Boar of Summer.’
‘True enough.’ Hesitation, then the war god said, ‘Offer me sanctuary, Errant, and I will yield to you a gift.’
‘Very well.’
‘No bargaining?’
‘No. I’ve not the energy. What is this gift, then?’
‘This: the Hold of the Beasts is awakened. I was driven out, you see, and there was need, necessity, insistence that some inheritor arise to take my place – to assume the voices of war. Treach was too young, too weak. And so the Wolves awoke. They flank the throne now – no, they are the throne.’
The Errant could barely draw breath at this revelation. A Hold, awakened? From a mouth gone dry as dust, he said, ‘Sanctuary is yours, Boar of Summer. And, for your trail here, my fullest efforts at
…misdirection. None shall know, none shall even suspect.’
‘Please, then, block those who call on me still. Their cries fill my skull – it is too much—’
‘Yes, I know. I will do what I can. Your name – do they call upon the Boar of Summer?’
‘Not often,’ the god replied. ‘Fener. They call upon Fener.’
The Errant nodded, then bowed low.
He passed through the stone wall and once more found himself in the disused corridor of the Old Palace. Awakened? Abyss below…no wonder the Cedance whirls in chaos. Wolves? Could it be…
This is chaos! It makes no sense! Feather Witch stared down at the chipped tiles scattered on the stone floor before her. Axe, bound to both Saviour and Betrayer of the Empty Hold. Knuckles and the White Crow circle the Ice Throne like leaves in a whirlpool. Elder of Beast Hold stands at the Portal of the Azath Hold. Gate of the Dragon and Blood-Drinker converge on the Watcher of the Empty Hold – but no, this is all madness.
The Dragon Hold was virtually dead. Everyone knew this, every Caster of the Tiles, every Dreamer of the Ages. Yet here it vied for dominance with the Empty Hold – and what of Ice? Timeless, unchanging, that throne had been dead for millennia. White Crow – yes, I have heard. Some bandit in the reaches of the Bluerose Mountains now claims that title. Hunted by Hannan Mosag – that tells me there is power to that bandit’s bold claim. I must speak again to the Warlock King, the bent, broken bastard.
She leaned back on her haunches, wiped chilled sweat from her brow. Udinaas had claimed to see a white crow, centuries ago it seemed now, there on the strand beside the village. A white crow in the dusk. And she had called upon the Wyval, her lust for power overwhelming all caution. Udinaas – he had stolen so much from her. She dreamed of the day he was finally captured, alive, helpless in chains.
The fool thought he loved me – I could have used that. I should have. My own set of chains to snap shut on his ankles and wrists, to drag him down. Together, we could have destroyed Rhulad long before he came to his power. She stared down at the tiles, at the ones that had fallen face up – none of the others were in play, as the fates had decreed. Yet the Errant is nowhere to be seen – how can that be? She reached down to one of the face-down tiles and picked it up, looked at its hidden side. Shapefinder. See, even here, the Errant does not show his hand. She squinted at the tile. Fiery Dawn, these hints are new…Menandore. And I was thinking about Udinaas – yes, I see now. You waited for me to pick you up from this field. You are the secret link to all of this.
The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen Page 606
