Shadowthrone giggled. ‘Tell me, Jhess, do you see your cousin anywhere near? Where is the Queen of Dreams in this place of death?’
‘She hides—’
‘She is not here, Jhess,’ said Shadowthrone, ‘because she is awake. Awake! Do you understand me? Not sleeping, not dreaming herself here, not plucking all your mad tails, Jhess, to confuse mortal minds. You are all blind fools!’
‘You mean to betray us!’ shrieked Shedenul.
‘I care nothing for any of you,’ Shadowthrone replied, with a laconic gesture of one ethereal hand. ‘Betray? Too much effort over too little of worth.’
‘You come here only to mock us?’
‘I am here, Beru, because I am curious. Not about any of you. You’re nothing but gods, and if the Assail succeed you will all vanish like farts in the wind. No, my curiosity is with our unexpected guest, our Tiste Andii.’ The cane waved at Silchas Ruin. ‘O brother of heroes, why do you bless Coltaine’s Eternal Fall with your presence?’
‘I seek a weapon.’
‘The two you carry are not enough?’
‘For a companion. This battle you all seem so eager to join, I could warn you against it, but I admit that I see little use in that. You are all determined to join the fray, leaving me to wonder.’
‘Wonder what?’ demanded Beru.
‘When the dust settles, how many of your corpses will I see upon that field?’ Silchas Ruin shrugged. ‘Do as you will.’
‘Your brother slew our strongest ally.’
‘He did? And of what significance is that to me, Beru?’
‘You are as infuriating as he was! May you share his fate!’
‘We shall all share his fate,’ Silchas Ruin replied.
Shadowthrone giggled. ‘I have found you a weapon, but only if the one who wields it is worthy.’
Silchas Ruin looked round. ‘From this place?’
‘No, not from here. There is nothing to the weapons here but memories of failure.’ A sword appeared from the shadows swirling round the god and clattered at the Tiste Andii’s feet.
Looking down, he drew a sharp breath. ‘Where did you come by this?’
‘Recognize it?’
‘A Hust … but no.’ He hesitated. ‘I feel that I should, knowing well that sacred forge. The draconic theme is … distinctive. But the ferrules remind me of Hust’s earliest period of manufacture, and I thought I knew all of those so made. Where did you come by this?’
‘Of little relevance, Prince. You note the draconic theme, do you? What is the term? Pattern weld? So you might think, to see those scales glittering so prettily along the length of the blade.’ He giggled. ‘So you might think.’
‘This weapon is too good for the one I intended to arm.’
‘Indeed? How … unfortunate. Perhaps you could convince your friend to take the ones you now wield? And for yourself, this singular weapon. Consider it a gift to you, from Shadowthrone.’
‘And why should you so gift me?’ Silchas Ruin asked.
‘Perhaps the others here bemoan the loss of Hood. I do not. He was hoary and humourless, and ugly besides. Thus. If I cannot convey my best wishes to Hood’s noble slayer, then his brother shall have to do.’
Silchas Ruin looked back down at the Hust sword. ‘When we were children,’ he muttered, ‘he used to steal my things all the time, because he liked to see me lose my temper.’ He paused, remembering, and then sighed. ‘Even then, he was fearless.’
Shadowthrone was silent. The other gods simply watched.
‘And then,’ Silchas Ruin whispered, ‘he stole my grief. And now, what is there, I wonder … what is there left to feel?’
‘If I suggested “gratitude”, would that be insensitive?’
Silchas Ruin shot the god a sharp look, and then said, ‘I accept the gift, Shadowthrone, and in return I offer you this.’ He waved at the other gods. ‘This mob ill suits you. Leave them to their devices, Shadowthrone.’
The god cackled. ‘If I was blood kin to this family, I’d be the uncle slumped drunk and senseless in the corner. Luckily – dare I risk that word? – I am not kin to any of them. Rest assured I will humbly heed your advice, Prince.’
Silchas Ruin picked up the weapon. He looked at the gods, his crimson eyes slowly moving from one ghastly face to the next. And then he vanished.
Dessembrae wheeled on Shadowthrone. ‘What was all that? What scheme are you playing at?’
Shadowthrone’s cane snapped out, caught the Lord of Tragedy flush across the bridge of his nose. He stumbled back, fell on to his backside.
Shadowthrone hissed, and then said, ‘The best part of you wanders the mortal world, old friend. Long ago, he surrendered that emptiness called pride. At last, I see where it fetched up. Well, it seems one more lesson in humility shall find you.’ He glared at the others. ‘All of you, in fact.’
Beru growled. ‘You snivelling little upstart …’
But then his voice fell away, for the Lord of Shadows was gone.
‘Busy busy busy.’
Cotillion paused on the road. ‘It’s done?’
‘Of course it’s done!’ Shadowthrone snapped, and then grunted. ‘Here? What are we doing here?’
‘Recognize the place, then.’
‘Pah! Not more regrets from you. I’m sick of them!’
‘I am marking this site one more time—’
‘What, like a Hound pissing against a fence post?’
Cotillion nodded. ‘Crude, but apt.’
‘What of you?’ Shadowthrone demanded. ‘Did you return to Shadowkeep? Did you send her off? Did she need a few slaps? A punch in the nose, a quick roger behind the keep?’
‘She needed only my invitation, Ammanas.’
‘Truly?’
‘Of all the wolves on one’s own trail,’ Cotillion said, ‘there is always one, the pack’s leader. Cruel and relentless. Show me a god or a mortal with no wolves on their heels—’
‘Enough talk of wolves. This is me, after all. Fanged, eyes of fire, foul fur and endless hunger, a hundred beasts, each one named Regret.’
‘Just so.’ Cotillion nodded.
‘So you put her on a horse and gave her a blade, and sent her back down her own trail.’
‘To kill the biggest, meanest one, aye.’
Shadowthrone grunted again. ‘Bet she was smiling.’
‘Find me a fool who’ll take that bet,’ Cotillion replied, smiling himself.
The Lord of Shadows looked round. ‘See none hereabouts. Too bad.’
The air filled with the cries of gulls.
Tiste Liosan. The Children of Father Light. A star is born in the dark, and the heavens are revealed to all. Withal ran his hand along the pitted plaster, fragments of damp moss falling away where his fingers scraped it loose. The painted scene was in a primitive, awkward style, yet he suspected it was more recent than those glorious works in the city’s palace. Light like blood, corpses on the strand, faces shining beneath helms. A sky igniting …
A few survived the chaos, the civil wars. They cowered here in this forest. In coloured plaster and paint, they sought to make eternal their memories. He wondered why people did such things. He wondered at their need to leave behind a record of the great events witnessed, and lived through.
Sure enough, a discovery like this – here in the forest above the Shore, at the base of a vast sinkhole his errant step had inadvertently discovered – well, it led to questions, and mystery, and, like the missing patches and the thick clumps of moss, he found a need to fill in the gaps.