Four days now, this quest into the ravaged north, climbing the spine of the mountains. Skirting huge masses of broken ice that slid-almost perceptibly-ever downslope, voicing terrible groans and gasps. The leviathans are fatally wounded, Udinaas once observed, and will not go quietly.
Melting ice exuded a stench beyond the acrid bite of the mould spores. Decaying detritus: vegetation and mud frozen for centuries; the withered corpses of animals, some of them beasts long extinct, leaving behind twisted hides of brittle fur every whisper of wind plucked into the air, fractured bones and bulging cavities filled with gases that eventually burst, hissing out fetid breath. It was no wonder Seren Pedac’s body was rebelling.
The migrating mountains of ice were, it turned out, cause for the near-panic among the Tiste Andii inhabitants of the subterranean monastery. The deep gorge that marked its entrance branched like a tree to the north, and back down each branch now crawled packed snow and enormous blocks of ice, with streams of meltwater providing the grease, ever speeding their southward migration. And there was fetid magic in that ice, remnants of an ancient ritual still powerful enough to defeat the Onyx Wizards.
Seren Pedac suspected that there was more to this journey, and to Clip’s presence, than she and her companions had been led to believe. We walk towards the heart of that ritual, to the core that remains. Because a secret awaits us there.
Does Clip mean to shatter the ritual? What will happen if he does?
And what if to do so ruins us? Our chances of finding the soul of Scabandari Bloodeye, of releasing it?
She was beginning to dread this journey’s end.
There will be blood.
Swathed in the furs the Andii had provided, Udinaas moved up alongside her. ‘Acquitor, I have been thinking.’
‘Is that wise?’ she asked.
‘Of course not, but it’s not as if I can help it. The same for you, I am sure.’
Grimacing, she said, ‘I have lost my purpose here. Clip now leads. I… I don’t know why I am still walking in your sordid company.’
‘Contemplating leaving us, are you?’
She shrugged.
‘Do not do that,’ said Fear Sengar behind them.
Surprised, she half turned. ‘Why?’
The warrior looked uncomfortable with his own statement. He hesitated.
What mystery is this?
Udinaas laughed. ‘His brother offered you a sword, Acquitor. Fear understands-it wasn’t just expedience. Nor was your taking it, I’d wager-’
‘You do not know that,’ Seren said, suddenly uneasy. ‘Trull spoke-he assured me it was nothing more-’
‘Do you expect everyone to speak plainly?’ the ex-slave asked. ‘Do you expect anyone to speak plainly? What sort of world do you inhabit, Acquitor?’ He laughed. ‘Not the same as mine, that’s for certain. For every word we speak, are there not a thousand left unsaid? Do we not often say one thing and mean the very opposite? Woman, look at us-look at yourself. Our souls might as well be trapped inside a haunted keep. Sure, we built it-each of us-with our own hands, but we’ve forgotten half the rooms, we get lost in the corridors. We stumble into rooms of raging heat, then stagger back, away, lest our own emotions roast us alive. Other places are cold as ice-as cold as this frozen land around us. Still others remain for ever dark-no lantern will work, every candle dies as if starved of air, and we grope around, collide with unseen furniture, with walls. We look out through the high windows, but distrust all that we see. We armour ourselves against unreal phantasms, yet shadows and whispers make us bleed.’
‘Good thing the thousand words for each of those were left unsaid,’ Fear Sengar muttered, ‘else we find ourselves in the twilight of all existence before you are through.’
Udinaas replied without turning. ‘I tore away the veil of your reason, Fear, for asking the Acquitor to stay. Do you deny that? You see her as betrothed to your brother. And that he happens to be dead means nothing, because, unlike your youngest brother, you are an honourable man.’
A grunt of surprise from Udinaas, as Fear Sengar reached out to grasp the ex-slave, hands closing on the wrapped folds of fur. A surge of anger sent Udinaas sprawling onto the muddy scree.
As the Tiste Edur then whirled to advance on the winded Letherii, Seren Pedac stepped into his path. ‘Stop. Please, Fear. Yes, I know he deserved it. But… stop.’
Udinaas had managed to sit up, Kettle crouching down at his side and trying to wipe the smears of mud from his face. He coughed, then said, ‘That will be the last time I compliment you, Fear.’
Seren turned on the ex-slave. ‘That was a rather vicious compliment, Udinaas. And I second your own advice-don’t say anything like that again. Ever. Not if you value your life-’