‘I grieve estrangement, Erekol.’
‘I am more than just a mother. I am the chosen huntress of my tribe. And so I am here, hunting.’
‘The pack fears you and will never give you the chance to kill its members one by one.’
‘They will make a mistake. I goad them.’
‘They are more likely to come at you in their pack, and so bring you down that way. And accusations of cowardice rarely sting the victors.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Go to the Azath House. That will be a mess, I’m sure. Some Seregahl will be taken. The yard needs them. The house needs their blood, their power.’
‘Who resides within?’
‘There is no one,’ Hood answered. ‘None for five hundred years.’
‘What fate befell the guardian?’
‘We killed him. Yes, a mistake. Precipitous. Regrettable. Should I meet him beyond the Veil of Death, I will apologize.’
‘By your hand, then?’
‘No. But that is of no matter. The Jaghut may be singular, but we can never deny that we are also one, and responsibility must be shared in all things. As Gothos would tell you, civilization plays its game of convenient evasion. Us. Them. Meaningless borders, arbitrary distinctions. We Jaghut are a people. As a people we must share the full host of our collective crimes. Anything else is a conceit, and a lie.’
Erekol shook her head, even as she straightened. ‘I will accept your offer, and make my own ambush, when they least desire it.’
‘I wish you luck, Erekol.’
She moved away a step, and then paused and glanced back. ‘What vision has found you, and what has it to do with my son?’
‘I see him in the High King’s shadow. That is not a good place to be.’
‘Whence this new gift of prophecy, Hood?’
‘I am not certain,’ Hood confessed. ‘But it may be this. I draw ever closer to death’s veil, and its flavour is, I think, timeless. Past, present, future, all one.’
‘Death,’ she muttered, ‘like a people.’
Hood tilted his head, startled by her words, but said nothing as she walked away.
The fire flickered on, colder now, duller, a thing leached of all life. Regarding it, the Jaghut nodded – mostly to himself. Things were coming along nicely, he concluded. He reached out with his hands once more, to steal more of what remained of the fire’s heat.
* * *
‘Unlocked door or not, Korya, there’s no one here.’
They stood in a sitting room made cosy by thick rugs, a settee and two chairs that flanked a stone fireplace where embers ebbed like dimming eyes. The air was warm but stale, lit too much by the feeble hearth.
‘These rugs,’ said Korya, staring down at what was beneath her feet. ‘Wild myrid wool, twisted raw, the strands knotted. Dog-Runner, not Jaghut.’
Arathan grunted. ‘Didn’t know the Dog-Runners wove anything but grasses and reeds.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘you didn’t know. But then, you’ve not been in their camps. You’ve not sat round their fires, cockles cooking in the ashes, watching the women make stone tools, watching the boys learn the knots and using spindles and combs – the skills they’ll need to make the nets and snares they use to trap animals and birds, for when they all begin their year of wandering.’
‘A year of wandering? All alone? I like the sound of that.’
She sniffed, at what he wasn’t sure, and then walked over to the fireplace. ‘Who’s been feeding this, I wonder?’
‘Korya, we’ve explored every room. The outer door unlocked by itself, because the house wanted us inside.’
‘And why would it do that?’ she asked. ‘You said the Jaghut couldn’t get in. You said they spent centuries trying.’
‘To keep us safe, from what you did outside, with that acorn.’
‘It was an old god. Forgotten. The Ilnap mages didn’t know what they were doing. But why should an Azath House care about us?’
They both turned at a strange shuffling sound from the doorway that led to the main inner corridor. A ghostly figure loomed suddenly in the entranceway. A Dog-Runner, his hair so blond as to be almost colourless, his tawny beard tangled and looking like a tuft of dead grass growing from his chinless jaw. The eye sockets beneath the heavy ridge of his brow were empty pits. A hole had been carved into his broad chest, where his heart should have been. What remained was withered and dry, ribs snapped and jutting from the wound.
‘Apparition,’ whispered Korya, ‘forgive us this intrusion.’
‘The dead are unforgiving,’ the ghost replied in a thin voice. ‘Which is, I suppose, why we are known to be such miserable company. Beg no pardon, plead no indulgence, pray no favour and seek no blessing. Take pleasure in my noticing you, if you must, or let loose a blood-curdling scream. I care neither way.’
Arathan sighed, and then straightened. ‘What do you want of us, Dog-Runner?’
‘What all old men want, living or dead. An audience for our life’s story. Sharp interest we can dull, curiosity we can deplete. An opportunity to dismember your very will to live, if possible. Hearken then to this wisdom, if you would hold to the conceit of being worthy of it.’
Arathan glanced at Korya. ‘And you willingly sat around the campfire in company like this?’
She scowled. ‘Well, the ones outside aren’t dead yet. I’d think dying changes how you think.’
‘Or simply exaggerates what was already there.’
‘I am now being ignored,’ observed the Dog-Runner ghost. ‘This, too, is typical. I was once a Bonecaster, a foolish man among chattering women, defenceless against their barbs until respect was earned in the manner they expected. Namely, a man’s legendary stubbornness. Although, between you and me, I was more addled than stubborn. What is perceived is rarely the truth, and what is true is only rarely perceived. Between the two, upon which is one best advised to rely? Some delusions, after all, are comforting. While truths, alas, are mostly unpleasant.’
‘How came you to this Azath House?’ Arathan asked.
‘By the front door.’
‘Who killed you?’
‘Jaghut. In the manner of fatal exploration, as they sought to determine all that was magical within me. Of course, there was nothing magical within me, barring life’s spark, which all mortals possess. Said exploration quenched that spark, an outcome I predicted at the top of my lungs to no avail, even as the knife descended. When next you see Jaghut, tell them this from Guardian Cadig Aval: “I told you so.” If brave, you may add “idiots” to my message.’
‘Oh,’ said Arathan, ‘I’ll do that for you. It would be my pleasure, in fact. Nor do I think Gothos would—’
‘Gothos? I’ve been looking for him, here in the realms of the dead, since he said he was going to kill himself. Yet still he lives? Typical. You can’t depend on anyone.’
‘He’s composing a suicide note.’
‘I got there first, as you would have discovered had you accepted my invitation to hear me confess my life’s story. For are not all such tales nothing more than suicide notes? A list of deeds, crimes and regrets, loves and still more regrets – in fact an endless litany of regrets, come to think on it. Never mind. It has been some time since I last had anyone else with whom to converse. In the interval, I find that I am a poor audience to my own thoughts. Too much catcalling and derision.’
Arathan stepped closer. ‘A moment ago, sir, you spoke of realms of the dead. They’re what we’re looking for, you see, with Hood and his legion—’
‘What now? Is there no refuge left you living won’t despoil? I happen to be quite fond of the realms of the dead. None have reason to argue there, or pose or preen. No one is obsessed with saving face, or stung to stupidity by brainless pride. No grudges to hold. Nothing left worth the gleeful gush of spite. Even vengeance proves laughable. Imagine that, friends. Laughable. Ha ha ha.’
‘Mother save us,’ muttered Korya, turning back to the fire.
‘One lost,
’ the ghost observed smugly. ‘And one still to go. Now then, young man, do offer me another mortal conceit I can happily dismantle. There is no end to what I can prove to be pointless in this miserable thing you call your life.’
‘Why bother?’ Arathan asked the ghost.
Cadig Aval tilted his head. ‘Well, you have a point there. Excuse me.’ With that, he vanished.
After a moment, Arathan turned to Korya. ‘It’s said that Azath Houses possess guardians. This Bonecaster was one such guardian, until the Jaghut killed him. But did you hear what he said about realms of the dead? Proof that such places exist! I will speak to Hood about this.’
Korya sneered at him. ‘Don’t expect that ghost to hold open the gate for you and the rest. Seems the dead prefer their realms to be empty of life.’
‘It doesn’t matter if we’re not welcome, or wanted. This is war, after all.’
‘Weren’t you listening? The dead have no need to fight, no reason worth fighting for.’
‘So we’ll give them one.’
‘Some woman jangled your jewels and stole your heart. That happens. It’s not a good enough reason to abandon the living world. Have you not noticed? Hood’s army has raised a standard of grief. But that grief is real, and serious. It’s the kind that crushes everything inside. In a way, they’re all already dead, or most of them, anyway. Especially Hood. But you, Arathan? Get over it. Get over yourself!’
‘And what about Haut, your keeper? Or Varandas? It’s not grief that’s brought them to Hood, is it?’
‘No. Just loyalty. And a sick sense of humour.’
‘But you’re not laughing.’
She crossed her arms. ‘I should have gone with the Jheleck hunters. Learned how to rut like a dog. And roll around on dead things. But I missed my chance. Regrets, like the ghost talked about. Who knows, maybe I’ll run into them on my way back to Kurald Galain. Worse things could—’
‘Did you hear that?’
The echoes of thunder reached them, and a moment later the walls groaned. The embers in the fireplace flared suddenly. Fierce heat gusted from the hearth, forcing both Korya and Arathan back a step, and then another. Sweat beaded the walls, and began trickling down.
The ghostly guardian reappeared in the entranceway. ‘See what you’ve done? More company. And me dead. What’s worse, no matter what the house thinks, you two won’t do as my replacement. Too restless, too eager to see the world. Too hopeful by far to be custodians to a prison.’
Frowning, Arathan approached the Bonecaster ghost. ‘A prison? Is that what these Azath Houses are? Then who built them?’
‘Now the whole yard’s awake. It’s all getting ugly. Stay here.’ The ghost disappeared again.
Arathan turned to Korya. ‘A prison.’
‘The Jaghut know that,’ Korya replied.
He nodded. ‘Yes, I think they do. But … the Azathanai? Why worship a prison?’
Shrugging, she moved past him and into the corridor beyond. ‘Find one and ask.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To the tower, get one of those shuttered windows open, and see what’s going on. You coming?’
He followed.
* * *
Haut watched as the Seregahl leader pulled himself over the low wall of the yard, tattered armour scraping as he rolled clear to thump heavily on the ground. Others were shouting as they clambered in his wake, leaving smears of blood on the stones, while from within the grounds terrible shrieks cut raggedly through the dusty air.
Haut stepped closer to the leader and looked down at the Seregahl’s face. Half of the man’s beard had been torn away, flensing the skin of his cheek. The look in his eyes was wild, his mouth opening and closing without sound. He had lost his double-bladed axe.
Haut cleared his throat and then said, ‘That’s the problem with ancient gods, I suppose. Their reluctance to just … die.’
Another Seregahl, missing the lower part of his left leg, the ruptured knee joint gushing blood, made a wild cavort of hops before falling seven or eight paces from the wall’s gate. Haut watched as the Thel Akai woman walked up to the cursing Toblakai and put the tip of her sword through his neck. The curses ended in a spitting gurgle.
‘Get her away from us!’ rasped the Seregahl leader, rolling on to his hands and knees. One hand scrabbled at his belt and drew out a knife the size of a shortsword. ‘Seregahl! To me!’
The others quickly moved in close around their leader, forming a defensive cordon. Many of them bore wounds from the grasping roots and branches of the frenzied forest of gnarled trees now crowding the house’s yard. And by Haut’s count, five warriors were missing. The Thel Akai woman stood over the corpse of the man she had just slain, eyeing the troop with an air of vague disappointment.
The tumult in the yard was dying down, although the occasional sharp retort of a snapping branch lingered. Someone was still busy in there. Glancing at the house, he saw that the shutters had been opened on the top level of the squat tower that formed one corner of the building. Two figures were leaning on the sill, their attention fixed on the yard below.
Haut frowned up at them.
‘How did they get in?’
He turned to find the Thel Akai woman now at his side, her gaze fixed on Korya and Arathan.
‘I’ve seen the girl,’ she continued. ’Tiste make my skin crawl. I don’t know why. She wanders your camp, stirring up trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
The woman shrugged. ‘She mocks them. Hood’s followers.’
‘The easy disdain of the young,’ Haut said, nodding. He paused, and then added, ‘I don’t know how they got into the Azath House.’
The woman was now regarding the huddle of battered Seregahl. Her lip curled, but she said nothing.
The gate slammed open off to their right and a moment later a figure stumbled into view. Haut drew a sudden breath, and then stepped forward.
A Jaghut, his clothes rotted, his leathers stained with mould. Roots threaded his long, unkempt hair, and soil had mottled the skin of his face and arms. Five hundred years buried beneath the yard had not treated him well. Sighing, Haut drew closer, and then spoke. ‘Gethol, your brother will be pleased to see you.’
The Jaghut slowly shifted his gaze, glancing briefly at Haut and then away again. He brushed feebly at the dirt covering him. ‘Not dead yet then.’
‘He’s working on it.’
Gethol spat mud from his mouth, and then coughed and looked over to the Seregahl. ‘Five went down,’ he said. ‘That should do.’
‘The house has the old god?’
‘Well enough.’ Gethol coughed and spat again.
‘Ah,’ said Haut. ‘That is a relief.’
‘Where is Cadig Aval?’
‘Dead. Apparently.’
‘Yet there are living souls in the house. I could feel them.’
Haut shrugged. ‘There are, but not for much longer. Will that be a problem?’
‘How should I know? No, the house will prevail. This time.’
Returning his attention to the two Tiste in the tower window, Haut waited until he was sure that Korya was looking at him. He waved her down. A moment later both figures pulled back from the window, drawing the shutters closed.
Gethol asked, ‘Where is he then?’
‘In the Tower of Hate.’
Gothos’s brother grunted, and then said, ‘Why, it’s as though I never left.’
* * *
‘This fire is dying,’ Cred said, leaning closer to study the hissing pumice stones in the bronze bowl. ‘Not my magic, not my prowess, but the fire itself.’ He straightened and looked around. ‘See how the firelight dims everywhere? Something is stealing the heat.’
Brella scowled across at him. ‘Then we starve.’
‘Or learn to eat things raw, as the Dog-Runners do,’ said Stark.
‘They cook their food like anyone else,’ Brella retorted. She turned her attention to the younger woman. ‘A simpl
e walk through the camp would have shown you that. Instead, you cling to ignorant beliefs as if they could redefine the world. I see belligerence settle in your face, so downturned, the frown and the skittish diffidence in your eyes – so like your mother, may the Sea Hoarder give peace to her soul.’
Cred grunted. ‘Stark’s mother would have defied the very water filling her lungs. Oh, but I admired her for that. In the days before magic, when helplessness haunted us all.’ He gestured at the ebbing glow in the brazier before him. ‘The ghosts of that time return. And all the driftwood gone from the strand, nothing but grasses in the plain inland. I sit here, facing all that I have lost.’
‘I am nothing like my mother,’ Stark said to Brella. ‘Just as you are nothing like your daughter.’
Grinning, Cred glanced over to see Brella’s scowl deepen. ‘Not my daughter any more,’ she said. ‘She casts off the name I gave her. So that she might command us all, and ever from a distance. Captain of a broken army. Captain of beaten refugees, the wreckage of a conquered people. What am I to her? Not her mother.’
‘The High King’s fleet did for our highborn,’ Cred pointed out. ‘You and your daughter come closest to anyone who might resurrect a claim to the royal line.’
Brella snorted.
Cred shook his head. ‘You held the Living Claim, Brella, and then gave it into my keeping. That is the responsibility of the Ilnap bloodline. By this one ritual, you assert your claim to the Lost Throne. Even your daughter does not deny this.’
‘“Captain.”’
‘She chooses that title because she sees no future awaiting us. This is why we’re here, Brella, vowing to march on death itself. The First Betrayal is the Last Betrayal. So it was prophesied.’
Hissing under her breath, Brella rose. ‘I am done with these pointless words. Defeat has become the nectar that sustains us, as would the vile smoke of d’bayang. She leads us on to the path of no return. So be it. But let there be no illusions. We do not lead, only follow. And where this will end, the Living Claim lives no longer.’
‘Curse the High King—’ began Stark, but Brella turned on her.
‘Curse him? Why? We did nothing but raid his coast, loot his merchants and send their ships to the deep. Year after year, season upon season, we grew indolent in our feeding upon the labour of others. Curse him not, Stark. The retribution was just.’
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