“Do you see its oceans?” Apsalar asked.
“What?” He turned.
“Its oceans. Grallin's Sea. That's the big one. The Lord of the Dead Waters living there is named Grallin. He tends vast, beautiful underwater gardens. Grallin will come down to us, one day, to our world. And he'll gather his chosen and take them to his world. And we'll live in the gardens, warmed by the deep fires, and our children will swim like dolphins, and we'll be happy since there won't be any more wars, and empires, and no swords and shields. Oh, Crokus, it'll be wonderful won't it?”
Her profile was in silhouette. He stared at her. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Why not?” And then that question repeated itself in his head an entirely different reason. Why not?
BOOK SEVEN THE F?TE
The Flaying of Fander, She-Wolf of Winter, marks the Dawn of Gedderone. The priestesses race down the streets, strips of wolf-fur streaming from their hands. Banners are unfurled. The noises and smells of the market rise into the morning air. Masks are donned, the citizens discard the year's worries and dance across the day into night.
The Lady of Spring is born anew.
It is as if the gods themselves pause their breath:
Faces of Daruihistan Maskral jemre (b.1101)
CHAPTER TWENTY
It is said that the matron's blood like ice brought forth into this world a birthing of dragons and this flowing river of fate brought light into dark and dark into light, unveiling at last in cold, cold eyes the children of chaos.
7"matha's Children Heboric
Murillio wondered again at rallick's healed wound. He'd already concluded that whatever magic-deadening powder of Baruk's the assassin had used had been responsible for the healing. Nevertheless, much blood had been lost, and Rallick would need time to recover-time they didn't have. Was the assassin capable of killing Orr now?
In answer to his own question, Murillio laid a hand on the rapier at his side. He strode down the empty street, cleaving the low-lying mists that swirled like incandescent cloaks in the gaslight. Dawn was still two hours away. As was the Daru custom, the new year's celebrations would begin with sunrise, lasting through the day and well into the night.
He walked through a silent city, as if he were the last of the living yet to flee the past year's turmoil, and now shared the world with ghosts tolled among the year's dead. The Five Tusks had slipped behind in the ancient cycle, and taking its place was the Year of the Moon's Tears.
Murillio mused on such obscure, arcane titles. A massive stone disc in Majesty Hall marked the Cycle of the Age, naming each year in accordance with its mysterious moving mechanisms.
As a child, he'd thought the wheel magical in how it spun slowly as the year rolled by, coming into the new year aligned precisely with the dawn whether there was cloud in the sky or not. Mammot had since explained to him that the wheel was in fact a machine. It had been a gift to Darujhistan over a thousand years ago, by a man named Icarium. It was Mammot's belief that Icarium had Jaghut blood. By all accounts he'd ridden a Jaghut horse, and a Trell strode at his side-clear evidence, Mammot asserted, to add to the wonder of the wheel itself, for the Jaghut were known to have been skilled at such creations.
Murillio wondered at the significance of the names each year bore.
The close association of the Five Tusks with Moon's Tears held prophecy, according to the Seers. The Boar Tennerock's tusks were named Hate, Love, Laughter, War and Tears. Which Tusk would prove dominant in the year? The new year's name provided the answer. Murillio shrugged.
He viewed such astrology with a sceptical eye. How could a man of a thousand years ago-Jaghut or otherwise-have predicted such things?
Still, he admitted to more than a few qualms. The arrival of Moon's Spawn threw the new year's title into a different light, and he knew that the local scholars-particularly those who moved in the noble circles-had become an agitated and short-tempered lot. Quite unlike their usual patronizing selves.
Murillio turned a corner on his approach to the Phoenix Inn, and collided with a short, fat man in a red coat. Both grunted, and three large boxes that the man had been carrying fell between them, spilling out their contents.
“Aye, why, Murillio! Such fortune as Kruppe is known for! Thus does your search end, here in this dank, dark street where even the rats shun the shadow. What? Is something the matter, friend Murillio?”
He stared down at the objects on the cobbles at his feet. Slowly, Murillio, asked, “What are these for, Kruppe?”
Kruppe stepped forward and frowned down at the three expertly carved masks. “Gifts, friend Murillio, of course. For you and Rallick Nom. After all,” he looked up with a beatific smile, “the Lady Sinital's f?te demands the finest in workmanship, the subtlest of design perfectly mated with ironic intent. Don't you think Kruppe's taste is sufficiently expensive? Do you fear embarrassment?”