Dancer stared, stunned; even Jadeen appeared shocked, her eyes blinking rapidly. Dancer was certain the blade must have passed just before her throat until the witch’s head began to slide, wetly, forward on her neck to topple down her front in a jet of blood. Shortly thereafter, her body tumbled forward from the throne.
Dancer and Kellanved stepped backwards from the spreading tide of blood.
Onos calmly thrust his flint blade home in his belt once more. ‘This one,’ the Imass grated, ‘has been found unworthy.’
Dancer swallowed, his mouth dry. He shared a glance with Kellanved, who appeared to have paled. ‘I … see,’ Dancer managed. ‘Then that about does it for us …’ He glanced back, searching for the way they had entered, but the tunnel was gone. They appeared to be trapped within the cavern.
‘If you could—’ he began, but Kellanved stepped forward – rather daintily around the pool of fresh blood – and motioned to the throne.
‘So … it is unoccupied now?’ he asked.
Dancer hissed: ‘You’re not really considering—’
‘Yes,’ Tem answered, breathlessly and emotionlessly. ‘It is unoccupied.’
Dancer lunged forward, nearly slipping on the blood, to take Kellanved’s arm. ‘Don’t. Isn’t it obvious? No one’s been found worthy. Not in all these ages.’
The wizened Dal Hon mage eased his arm free. ‘That is entirely possible, yes.’
‘So?’
Kellanved raised his walking stick and tapped its hound’s head to his temple. ‘I have a plan.’
Dancer had to roll his eyes. ‘Please, this is not the time or place for one of your tricks.’ He pointed to Jadeen’s staring head. ‘You’ll end up like that!’
‘On the contrary,’ the little mage huffed, ‘this is entirely the time and place for such things. Where ever else would one need do so?’
Dancer shook his head, pleading. ‘Please. Don’t do this. Let’s just go …’
The mage fluttered a hand to where the tunnel once lay. ‘It may be that leaving is no longer an option. Therefore …’
Dancer let out a long hard breath. If they could not go, then fine. What other choice had they? Still, he couldn’t help but see in his mind’s eye all the other countless hopefuls before them driven to the same conclusion – and all failing, one after the other.
He stepped away, nodding.
Kellanved moved, and the five Imass watched, silent and immobile, as he turned and eased his bum down on the leather cradle of the throne’s seat.
Dancer and he waited, peering at the Imass, all silent and watchful. Then, as one, they half bowed to Kellanved, who raised his brows to Dancer. ‘So,’ he murmured, ‘am I … worthy?’
Onos T’oolan appeared to look him up and down. ‘We are … considering … your occupancy.’
‘And when will I know?’
‘You will know,’ T’oolan answered.
Kellanved rubbed his neck, wincing. ‘Ah. Yes. Of course.’
The one named Tem bowed to Kellanved. ‘Your orders?’
The mage flinched, fluttering his hands. ‘No orders! No, none at all.’ He appeared to shoo them away with his fingers. ‘Do what you must …’
The dry flesh of Tem’s neck creaked as he inclined his head. ‘Very good. We shall go, then, to search out our brothers and sisters.’
Kellanved brightened. ‘Yes! Excellent. Do so.’ One by one the hoary shapes dissolved into dust until only Onos remained. ‘You, Tool,’ Kellanved called.
‘T’oolan,’ the Imass corrected him.
Kellanved waved that aside. ‘How shall I, you know … contact you?’
‘You call us,’ the Imass answered, sloughing away into dust.
Kellanved drummed his fingers on the antler armrests of the throne, squirming now, edging back and forth. ‘Damned uncomfortable seat,’ the Dal Hon grumbled. He rose, rubbing his behind, and Dancer had to shake his head.
‘How did you know?’
Kellanved blinked up at him. ‘How did I know what?’
He pointed to the decapitated corpse and Kellanved nodded. ‘Ah. Well, you see, did you not notice how she was fine until she ordered them to do something? And that order was to slay us?’
‘So?’
‘So – it is in the legends and stories, my friend. The Imass are sworn to war against their enemy, the Jaghut. And we are not Jaghut. There you go.’ He paused then, thinking, tapping his fingertips together. ‘That, or just the fact that she gave an order. It may be that just because you occupy the throne doesn’t mean you can give orders. Perhaps you are more a chief than a king – you sit at their permission.’ He threw his hands in the air. ‘Or one of those two. I’m not sure which.’
‘And on that you bet your life,’ Dancer muttered, shaking his head once again.
Kellanved shrugged. ‘Well, ’tis done. Ah!’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘The tunnel.’
Dancer glanced behind: indeed, the way by which they had entered was open again. Kellanved extended an arm, inviting him to lead on.
Outside, in the howling contrary winds, the mage paused for a time, peering out at the long stretch of the headland where it extended straight out to the choppy iron-grey sea, which itself stretched on to the cloud-choked horizon.
‘Such a feature could be called a “reach”,’ the mage mused aloud. He squinted to Dancer. ‘And such a portentous and important place ought to have an equally portentous and weighty name – do you not think so?’
Dancer eyed him, suspicious. ‘What do you … No. You can’t … you didn’t!’
The mage gave a distorted twitch that might have been an attempt at a wink. ‘’Tis done, my friend.’
Dancer pressed a hand to his brow. ‘Gods, no.’ He half turned away. ‘Let’s just get back to Malaz. They must be certain we’re dead by now.’
The mage tilted his head, then his brows rose in surprise. ‘I can reach Shadow now! Perhaps because our trial is over …’
‘I think you’re still on probation,’ Dancer muttered.
This drew a vexed look from Kellanved. ‘Faith, my friend.’ He gestured and shadows gathered about them in the manner now familiar to Dancer. They thickened, blotting out his vision as always before. He felt himself being shifted in the alien, cold fashion of Shadow. Yet at the last instant a new and unfamiliar greyness seemed to inject itself into the swirl of shade and he felt a sharp sideways yank that tore a shout of pain from him as if he were being ripped in two. He blacked out.
Noise of soft surf, and a soothing warmth, woke him. Groaning, he sat up, blinking and holding his head. It ached like murder – far worse than any hangover or blow he’d ever endured. He peered round, wincing at the bright sunlight. He was on another shore, but one as different from the earlier one as was possible. The soft warm sand of a beach lay beneath him, and turquoise wavelets lapped gently. Inland, a wall of rich verdant foliage stood solid, seemingly impenetrable.
And no Kellanved. Panicked, he rose – which was a mistake as he was assaulted by a wave of pain and nausea and almost fell. He was standing, hands pressed to his head, fighting the dizziness, when Kellanved spoke.
‘Ah! There you are.’
He peered up, blinking, to see the man off a distance, upon a dune, apparently none the worse, and he gritted his teeth. ‘What happened?’ he ground out.
The little fellow came gingerly down the sand slope. ‘We were intercepted in mid-shift,’ he explained. ‘Not an easy accomplishment, I must add.’
‘Intercepted?’
The mage nodded. ‘Yes.’ He pointed his walking stick. ‘By whoever it is in a tent just down the shore here.’
Dancer was still cradling his head. ‘I don’t like him already.’
‘Now, now. Let’s see what he has to say.’
Dancer tried straightening and shuddered; he realized he actually felt physically ill and he looked to Kellanved. ‘Why do I feel so sick?’
The mage nodded. ‘Ah. It affects you strongly, does it? I suppose
it must, you not being a talent so having no way to shield yourself.’
Dancer gritted his teeth anew. ‘What does, damn you!’
‘Chaos itself. Our host here appears able to draw upon it more directly than anyone ought.’
‘Chaos? Am I going to get sick?’
Kellanved eyed him closely. ‘It should be temporary.’
‘How very helpful.’ He tried a few tentative steps, pointed ahead. ‘Let’s get this over with as quickly as possible, then.’
A short way round the shore of what looked to be a very small island lay a sprawling tent of canvas and hides, its many ridgepoles poking up like mismatched ribs. Oddly, given the heat, smoke rose from almost every gap, tear and hole.
Dancer and Kellanved eyed one another, uncertain, then made their way up to it and the mage used his walking stick to edge aside a flap.
Within, it was unnaturally gloomy, given the bright sunshine outside – hazy with hanging smoke, and uncomfortably hot as braziers of shimmering coals stood here and there about the interior. A hunched and broad shape, draped in rags, appeared to rise across the murkiness.
‘You made it – excellent,’ called a strong voice.
‘Your invitation was rather … abrupt,’ Kellanved answered.
The hunched figure, his head almost hidden so low was it, like an old bent ancient, nodded. ‘Apologies. Given my, ah, state I cannot venture beyond my sanctuary here. And so I must reach out to those I wish to address.’
Kellanved waved the hanging layers of smoke from his face. ‘You wish to talk, then?’
‘Yes.’ A rag-wrapped lumpy hand rose to point. ‘I have had my eye upon you for some time, my tricky friend. I think we are much alike, you and I.’
The mock-elderly mage peered at the deformed figure. ‘Oh? I fail to see it.’
‘Dominion!’ their host answered, an edge to his voice. ‘You and I! We both seek power and dominion. With you as my worldly representative and I the well-spring of your power – we would be unstoppable!’
Kellanved paced aside to study a nearby standing iron brazier. He poked his walking stick at the coals. ‘I appear to be doing just fine,’ he mused.
The figure chuckled. ‘Do not try to fool either of us. You think yourself accomplished. But you also know there are powers out there that could snuff you like a candle. I could shield you from them.’
‘Thank you, but I do not think I need shielding.’
Dancer caught the mage’s eye and glanced to the entrance.
The figure shambled closer, raised a knotted rag-wrapped fist. ‘You little upstart! You have no idea what you meddle with. Like a child you foolishly grab at flames – and you will be burned.’
‘How do you propose—’ Kellanved began, and turned quickly. As he did so his walking stick struck the brazier, which fell, its coals scattering against the tent in a rain of embers. ‘Oh dear,’ he murmured.
‘You fool!’ their host snarled. ‘What have you done?’
The sun-dried canvas burst afire.
‘Apologies.’ Kellanved thrust a handful of nearby furs on to it, which themselves immediately roared into flame.
The bent rag-wrapped figure waved his arms in a panic, backing away. ‘You idiot! You utter complete imbecile!’ He pointed at Kellanved. ‘I will cast you so far afield for this you shall never be seen again!’
As the fire spread Dancer took the mage’s arm and yanked him away. He pushed through the thickening smoke, dragging Kellanved after him.
A wail sounded, and glancing back Dancer thought he saw a squat, flaming figure flailing amid the conflagration.
They emerged into the sunlight and Dancer kept going, a roaring bonfire growing behind them. Coughing, wiping his eyes, he finally relinquished his grip on Kellanved and leaned, hands on knees, gasping for breath.
The wrinkled mage turned to the rising black smoke. ‘Oh dear. That didn’t go so well.’
A circle of coursing and roiling energies rose about them like a gyre and Kellanved let out a hissed breath. ‘Ah … this might be … difficult …’
Dancer turned on him. ‘Difficult? What do you mean? Like really difficult?’
Kellanved grimaced. ‘Yes. Like really—’
Then the wall of moiling greyness closed upon them and Dancer felt himself torn sideways once more, only this time with such cruel savageness that he blacked out immediately.
* * *
More out of boredom than anything else, Sister of Cold Nights agreed to help Tayschrenn with his project of creating devices for the projection of communication. She knew that she should trust K’rul’s assurances that this was the right place and the right time to further her own long-term plans, but personally she did not see it and was frankly rather disheartened.
Oh, certainly the woman Surly was an excellent administrator and leader, and she saw great potential in her, while the Dal Hon mage had forged remarkable mastery of Meanas, and his … arrangement … with the ancient hounds showed true cunning. Still, her goals ran far deeper than the establishment of mere mundane telluric rule.
She wondered whether there really was anything here for her at all.
As for this Kartoolian mage; certainly he was powerful, and his grasp of Warren fundamentals was impressive. Still, he was so young, and had so much to learn. His initial instinct of using certain crystals as foci was, she felt, correct; however, she worried that the mage was not giving sufficient attention to the considerable forces involved in such channelling.
They were in his quarters in Mock’s Hold, examining the remnants of the Kartoolian’s latest efforts. She raised one fragment of the shattered gemstone to her eye, then glanced at the frustrated mage. ‘Why so small?’ she asked.
‘To fit in the hilts of daggers.’ He rubbed his face, clearly exhausted. ‘Or something of that sort. Portable, concealable, unobtrusive.’
‘I see. Well, I am sorry, but you are going to have to go with something larger. A globe. At least fist-sized, I should think. Otherwise the forces are too concentrated.’
The mage tapped his fingers to his lips. ‘It would be very difficult to procure such items.’
‘The crystals need not be precious. Quartz should suffice.’
He eyed her, raising a brow. ‘You appear very well versed in such research.’
She waved negligently. ‘Oh, over the years one—’
She halted, blinking, and pushed herself from the table so hard books tumbled to the floor.
‘Are you all right?’ Tayschrenn asked, though she hardly heard him over the roaring in her ears.
Waves of power had just washed over her; it was as if an enormous bell had just been struck far off beneath the earth and she felt, more than heard, the reverberations.
And they spoke of one source and one source alone, though she could not believe it.
‘Tellann?’
‘What was that?’ Tayschrenn asked. ‘Tell …’
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. Tellann! Impossible!
‘Are you—’
But she was at the door and descending the circular stone staircase. The mage shouted something after her, but she shifted in mid-stride and was gone.
She stood at the bottom of a deep ravine of bare rocky cliffs, their faces pockmarked by cave openings. The light was dim here, as it was late afternoon and the ravine lay in shadows. She clambered up to the nearest cave.
Within, she found four bearded hermit ascetics, naked but for soiled loincloths, seated on dirty reed mats. Were she a normal person the stink of excrement, urine, and long unwashed bodies would have caused her to gag; instead, she surveyed the men then pointed to the opening.
‘Out! All of you! Get out. Take your damned mats and go squat elsewhere.’
The four blinked up at her, uncomprehending, and she realized that they probably weren’t even certain she was really there before them.
She sighed, then raised her hands into the air and announced: ‘Get thee hence! Spirits are stirring and t
hey demand private communion! Dare not witness their glory!’
All four drew sudden breaths and bowed to her, two so vehemently that they bashed their heads on the bare rocky ground. They hurriedly gathered up their mats and shambled out.
‘You!’ she called to the last to leave. ‘Bring firewood.’
He bowed again.
Alone, Sister of Cold Nights surveyed the dark filthy cave and shook her head; why K’rul favoured such desolate, out of the way locales was beyond her. She raised her chin, shouting, ‘K’rul! Come to me, damn you! You know why!’
Perhaps as a measure of the gravity of the question – or the heat of her anger – she only had to wait that night, the following full day, and part of the next night. During her vigil the firewood kept being delivered, and she noticed a growing crowd of the valley’s ascetics, hermits and pilgrims gathering outside the entrance like some sort of gawking audience.
She paced the entire time before the fire, clasping and reclasping her hands at her back as she worried about that sudden renewed presence she’d sensed; everything had been quiet since, after all, and that was quite unlike them.
She turned in her pacing and there he was, hunched cross-legged before the meagre fire, in a dirty hooded cloak. Sister of Cold Nights nearly pounced on him. ‘There you are! Did you foresee this? Did you?’
The hooded head nodded. ‘Yes, Sister—’
‘Tellann awoken?’
‘Yes, Sister. I—’
‘The very worst eventuality I would wish?’
K’rul raised his hands imploringly. ‘Please, Sister. Hear me out …’
Sister of Cold Nights crossed her arms, jerking a nod. She suppressed her rage, but so great was its power that she saw the flame of the fire jump, while the ground beneath her feet shuddered. Loose rocks fell from the uneven ceiling and a great gust of dust and sand burst from the cavern mouth.
She heard the gathered crowd’s distant murmur of awe.
‘Sister,’ K’rul began, ‘be assured we are in accord. We agree that the only way forward is to leave behind these ancient vendettas and crusades. And I know the Jaghut in particular concern you, though they remain indifferent to your efforts.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘They are a … difficult … kind. In any case, ask yourself: how can a conflict end if one of the contestants remains hidden?’
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