‘Great Elder! You could break those chains!’
‘I could,’ she replied. ‘But I have no reason to. After all, why risk the enmity of Edgewalker? Or Kilmandaros? No, they chained you two for a reason. Had you not sought the throne, you would have lived free.’
‘Eternal punishment-who deserves that?’ Curdle demanded.
Olar Ethil laughed. ‘I have walked with the T’lan Imass. Do not speak to me of eternal punishment.’
Torrent was startled by that. He faced her, his mouth twisting. ‘You did that to them, bonecaster. And now you call it a punishment? Those Imass. What had they done to you, to punish them for all eternity?’
She turned her back on him.
He stared. ‘Spirits of the earth! It was punishment! Olar Ethil-that Ritual-you were cursing them! Look at you-’
She spun round. ‘Yes! Look at me! Do I not choose to wear that curse? My own body, my own flesh! What more can I do-’
‘But wear your remorse?’ He studied her in horror. ‘You miserable, pathetic thing. What was it? Some offhand insult? A jilted love? Did your man sleep with some other woman? Why did you curse them for all eternity, Olar Ethil? Why?’
‘You don’t understand-’
Telorast chose this moment to thrash loose from her grip, landing lightly on the ground then darting a half-dozen paces away, where Curdle scrambled to join her. Olar Ethil stared at the two creatures for a moment-or so it seemed.
‘Why don’t you let it go?’ Torrent asked. ‘Bonecaster. Let them all go.’
‘No! I have no choice in this-none! You mortals are such fools-you just don’t see it, you don’t see anything!’
‘What am I supposed to see?’ Torrent shouted back.
‘I am trying to save your pathetic lives! All of you!’
He was silent for a long moment. Her gnarled hands had closed into fists. Then he said, ‘If to save us, Olar Ethil, means holding prisoner the souls of the T’lan Imass, then, as a pathetic mortal, I tell you: it’s too much. Free them. Leave us to die.’
She snorted-but he could sense his words had shaken her-‘You would speak for all humanity, Torrent, last of the Awl? You, who dream only of an end?’
‘Make it meaningful and I will not complain.’
‘So wish we all,’ she said in a rasp.
‘Besides,’ Torrent said, ‘it’s not their fight. Not their responsibility. Not yours, either. You seek redemption, bonecaster? Find another way. One that doesn’t devour souls. One that doesn’t close chains about an entire people.’
‘You know so little,’ she said, her tone filled with contempt. ‘The T’lan Imass-my T’lan Imass-do you even know what they are?’
‘Not really. But I’ve put enough together. All your conversations with strangers, and when you speak to the darkness at night-thinking me asleep. You command an army, and they are not far away from us. They are trapped in this Ritual of yours, Olar Ethil. You treat them as slaves.’
‘I need them.’
‘They don’t need you, though, do they?’
‘I summoned them! Without me they would be dust and nothing more!’
‘Maybe that’s how they want it,’ he replied.
‘Not yet. Not yet!’
Torrent gathered his reins. ‘You two,’ he called to the skeletons, ‘here’s my offer. No one, no matter how venal, deserves an eternity of punishment. I will seek a way to free your souls. In return, you guard my back.’
Curdle hopped forward. ‘Against whom?’
He glared across at Olar Ethil. ‘Her, for a start.’
‘We can do that!’ Telorast cried. ‘We’re stronger than she thinks!’
Curdle pranced up alongside Torrent’s horse. ‘Where are we going, Master?’
‘Call me Torrent, and I am not your Master. I make no claim to own you. We are, it seems, riding to that tower.’
‘Rooted!’ crowed Telorast, ‘but which one is it? Curdle? Which one is it?’
‘How should I know? Never been here.’
‘Liar!’
‘So are you!’
The bickering continued as Torrent urged his mount forward. A short time later he glanced back to see Olar Ethil trudging after him. Unbreakable, and yet… broken. You sour old woman. Let it go.
Kebralle Korish led a clan of four men and three women, all that remained of the B’ehn Aralack Orshayn T’lan Imass. Once, not long ago, the Copper Ashes Clan had numbered three thousand one hundred and sixteen. There were memories of living, and then there were the memories of death, such as remained to those of the Ritual. In her memories of death, the final battle with the Order of the Red Spires hung blazing in her mind, a frozen scream, the abrupt howl of annihilation. She had stood upon the edge of the Abyss, longing to join her fallen kin but held back by the duty of her title. She was Clan Chief, and so long as will remained to her, she would be the last of the Copper Ashes to fall.
That time had not yet come, and the wake of the Red Spires was stretched out behind her, lifeless, desolate, the echoes of her scream like a bony hand at her back.
The First Sword had, perversely, elected to retain his corporeal form, walking with the weight of stone across this ravaged land, his long-bladed weapon dragging a careless furrow. The warriors of the Orshayn and the Brold had in turn surrendered the bliss of dust and now strode in a ragged, colourless mass behind him. She walked among them, her seven warriors arrayed around her. They were battered, permanently scarred by the sorcery of the Three. The tattered remnants of skin and tendon that remained were blackened, scorched. The sections of exposed bone were burnt white, webbed with cracks. The flint weapons they held had lost their sepia hue, the reddish brown replaced by mottled mauves and blue-greys. Furs, leather and hides were gone.
Among all in her clan, Kebralle Korish alone had succeeded in drawing close enough to the Three to swing her blade. She remembered, with vivid clarity, the shock upon the face of the Bearded One, when her curved weapon’s edge had bit deep, scoring the flesh deep and wide across his chest. Blood, the gleam of notched ribs, rings of mail scattering against the stones of the parapet. He had staggered in retreat but she was in no mood to relent-
His companions had driven her back, a concatenation of magics hammering her from the ledge. Engulfed in raging sorcery, she had tumbled to the foot of the wall. It should have ended there, but Kebralle was Clan Chief. She had just witnessed the slaughter of almost her entire clan. No, she would not yield to oblivion. When she had risen, shrugging off the terrible chaotic flames, she had looked up to see two of the Three-they were in turn peering down at her. In their faces, disbelief, the stirrings of fear-
Inistral Ovan had sounded the withdrawal then. She could have defied him, but she had obeyed. For the seven who remained standing. For the last of her kin.
Yet even now, her memory of the bite of her blade’s edge was the sweetest nectar in the hollowed husk of her soul. Kebralle Korish stood on the wall of the Fastness. She delivered a wound upon one of the Three, the only T’lan Imass to have done so. Had he stood alone, she would have killed him. The Bearded One would have fallen, the first breach in the defences of the Three. Kebralle Korish, who had made the curved blade she held, naming it Brol-Cold Eye-and see the stain of his blood? Running black as night. In the moment the war turned, she was recalled.
The Copper Ashes had fallen for nothing. No gaining of ground, no victory. They had been flung away, and one day she would make Inistral Ovan pay for that.
Enough reason to persist, this secret vow. The First Sword could have his war, his search for answers, his demand for an accounting with Olar Ethil. Kebralle Korish had her own reasons for continuing on. Olar Ethil-who had summoned them all-was welcome to her secret motives. Kebralle did not care. Besides, Olar Ethil had given her another chance, and for that alone Kebralle would do as she asked. Until such time that the opportunity for vengeance presented itself.