No ashes. Even his sword had disappeared.
Bruthen Trana suspected that if this man were to return, now, he would face Rhulad again, and do what he did before. No, it was more than suspicion. A certainty.
Unseen by Rhulad, as the new Emperor lay there, cut to shreds on the floor, Bruthen had edged into the chamber to see for himself. And in that moment’s fearful glance, he had discerned the appalling precision of that butchery. Brys Beddict had been perfunctory. Like a scholar dissecting a weak argument, an effort on his part no greater than tying on his moccasins.
Would that he had seen the duel itself, that he had witnessed the artistry of this tragically slain Letheriij swordsman.
He stood, looking down at the dusty, web-covered urn.
And prayed for Brys Beddict’s return.
A pattern was taking shape, incrementally, inexorably. Yet the Errant, once known as Turudal Brizad, Consort to Queen Janall, could not discern its meaning. The sensation, of unease, of dread, was new to him. Indeed, he considered, one could not imagine a more awkward state of mind for a god, here in the heart of his realm.
Oh, he had known times of violence; he had walked the ashes of dead empires, but his own sense of destiny was even then, ever untarnished, inviolate and absolute. And to make matters worse, patterns were his personal obsession, held to with a belief in his mastery of that arcane language, a mastery beyond challenge.
Then who is it who plays with me now?
He stood in the gloom, listening to the trickle of water seeping down some unseen wall, and stared down at the Cedance, the stone tiles of the Holds, the puzzle floor that was the very foundation of his realm. The Cedance. My tiles. Mine. 1 am the Errant. This is my game.
While before him the pattern ground on, the rumbling of stones too low and deep to hear, yet their resonance grated in his bones. Disparate pieces, coming together. A function hidden, until the last moment-when all is too late, when the closure denies every path of escape.
Do you expect me to do nothing? I am not just one more of your victims. I am the Errant. By my hand, every fate is turned. All that seems random is by my design. This is an immutable truth. It has ever been. It shall ever be.
Still, the taste of fear was on his tongue, as if he’d been sucking on dirtied coins day after day, running the wealth of an empire through his mouth. But is that bitter flow inward or out?
The grinding whisper of motion, all resolution of the images carved into the tiles… lost. Not a single Hold would reveal itself.
The Cedance had been this way since the day Ezgara Diskanar died. The Errant would be a fool to disregard link’ age, but that path of reason had yet’to lead him anywhere. Perhaps it was not Ezgara’s death that mattered, but the Ceda’s. He never liked me much. And I stood and watched, as the Tiste Edur edged to one side, as he flung his spear, transfix^ ing Kuru Qan, killing the greatest Ceda since the First Empire. Mv game, I’d thought at the time. But now, I wonder…
Maybe it was Kuru Qan’s. And, somehow, it still plays out. I did not warn him of that imminent danger, did I? Before his last breath rattled, he would have comprehended that… amission.
Has this damned mortal cursed me? Me, a god!
Such a curse should be vulnerable. Not even Kuru Qan was capable of fashioning something that could not be dis-mantled by the Errant. He need only understand its structure, all that pinned it in place, the hidden spikes guiding these tiles.
What comes? The empire is reborn, reinvigorated, revealing the veracity of the ancient prophecy. All is as I foresaw.
His study of the blurred pavestones below the walkway 1 became a glare. He hissed in frustration, and watched his 1 breath plume away in the chill.
An unknown transformation, in which I see naught but the ice of my own exasperation. Thus, I see, but am blind, blind to it all.
The cold, too, was a new phenomenon. The heat of 1 power had bled away from this place. Nothing was as it should be.
Perhaps, at some point, he would have to admit defeat. And then I will have to pay a visit to a little, crabby old man. Working as a servant to a worthless fool. Humble, I will come in search of answers. I let Tehol live, didn’t I? That must count for something.
Mael, I know you interfered last time. With unconscionable disregard for the rules. IsAy rules. But 1 have forgiven you, and that, too, must count for something.
Humility tasted even worse than fear. He was not yet ready for that.
He would take command of the Cedance. But to usurp the pattern, he would first have to find its maker. Kuru Qan? He was unconvinced.
There are disturbances in the pantheons, new and old. Chaos, the stink of violence. Yes, this is a god’s meddling. Perhaps Mael himself is to blame-no, it feels wrong. More likely, he knows nothing, remains blissfully ignorant. Will it serve me to make him aware that something is awry?
