The Mhybe watched as Korlat strode to meet her master. She had seen Anomander Rake but once before, just south of Blackdog Forest, and then from a distance as the Son of Darkness spoke with Caladan Brood. She remembered Moon's Spawn, filling the sky above the Rhivi Plain. Rake had been about to ascend to that floating fortress. A pact with the wizards of Pale had been achieved, and the city was about to be besieged by Onearm's Host. He had stood then as he did now: tall, implacable, a sword emanating sheer terror hanging down the length of his back, his long, silver hair drifting in the breeze.
A slight turn of his head was his only acknowledgement of Korlat's approach.
Off to their right appeared Caladan Brood, Kallor, Dujek and the others.
Tension bristled in the air, yet one that the Mhybe recalled as being present at that last meeting, years before. Anomander Rake was an ascendant as unlike Caladan Brood as to make them seem the opposite ends of power's vast spectrum. Rake was an atmosphere, a heart-thudding, terror-threaded presence no-one could ignore, much less escape. Violence, antiquity, sombre pathos, and darkest horror — the Son of Darkness was a gelid eddy in immortality's current, and the Mhybe could feel, crawling beneath her very skin, every Rhivi spirit awakened in desperation.
The sword, yet more than the sword. Dragnipur in the hands of cold justice, cold and unhuman. Anomander Rake, the only one among us whose presence sparks fear in Kallor's eyes. the only one. except, it seems, for Silverfox — for my daughter. What might Kallor fear most, if not an alliance between the Son of Darkness and Silverfox?
All traces of exhaustion torn away by the thought, the Mhybe stepped forward.
Kallor's voice boomed. 'Anomander Rake! I seek your clearest vision — I seek the justice of your sword — allow none to sway you with sentiment, and that includes Korlat, who would now whisper urgent in your ear!'
The Son of Darkness, a lone brow raised, slowly turned to regard the High King. 'What else, Kallor,' he said in a low, calm voice, 'keeps my blade from your black heart. if not sentiment ?'
With the light of the dawn finally stealing into the sky, the ancient warrior's weathered, lean face assumed a paler shade. 'I speak of a child,' he rumbled. 'No doubt you sense her power, the foulest of blossoms-'
'Power? It abounds in this place, Kallor. This camp has become a lodestone. You are right to fear.' His gaze swung to the Mhybe, who had stopped but a few paces from him.
Her steps ceased. His attention was a fierce pressure, power and threat, enough to make her softly gasp, her limbs weakening.
'Forces of nature, Mother,' he said, 'are indifferent to justice, would you not agree?'
It was a struggle to reply. 'I would, Lord of Moon's Spawn.'