Orb ,Sceptre ,Throne

Thurule was there, silent, one arm indicating the way out. He bowed his exit to Lady Envy though her back was turned.

There is nothing for me here anyway.

CHAPTER IX

For ages the citizens of Darujhistan were amazed by the riches dug from the tunnels and vaults beneath the region known as the Dwelling Plain. Yet while sitting in a tavern this visitor did overhear one fellow opining the following: ‘Is it not so that better these ancients had been men and women of worth than to possess things of worth?’

Silken Glance, traveller, of One Eye Cat

A kick to her foot woke Kiska and she blinked up to see Leoman kneeling next to her. He motioned her to follow. ‘They’re on the move.’

He led her up the slope of one of the dunes of black sand. Together they lay down just short of the crest and peered over. The troop of misfits and malformed survivors of the Vitr were shuffling off round a headland of jagged tumbled stone. Back the way she and Leoman had come.

Kiska pushed herself away from the crest. ‘We missed him?’

‘Perhaps he crossed back when we were in the cave,’ Leoman suggested, thoughtfully brushing at his moustache.

The sight irked Kiska and she climbed to her feet, taking care to remain crouched. ‘Let’s circle round inland.’ She jogged off without waiting to see whether he followed or not.

Soon the faint metallic jingle of armour and the chains of morningstars sounded just to her rear and she knew he’d caught up. Please, Oponn and the Enchantress — let this be it! This is no place for me … or even Leoman. This is a land for gods and Ascendants, not plain old mortals such as us. Let us please complete our mission and meekly slink away!

Keeping to the highlands and cliff-tops, they shadowed the file of waddling creatures as they made their slow awkward way along the shore. Against the sky she could just make out the mountain-tall shadowy figure of Maker as he continued his unending labour. Some, she knew, would consider his task a divine curse. For her own part she had yet to decide. After all, he was holding back the Vitr — wasn’t he?

Below, the creatures had gathered on a stretch of shallow beach where a broad strand ran out to the glimmering sea of light — what on any body of water would be called a tidal flat. And she wondered, could this ocean of seething energy even be said to have a tide? She’d seen no sign of any.

The creatures faced the shallow waves, perhaps waiting for something, or someone. Kiska shaded her gaze into the blinding brightness, but saw nothing.

‘Anything?’ she asked Leoman.

The man shook his head, his eyes slitted against the glare. ‘We’ll wait.’ He sat down, his back to the rocks, and stretched his legs out before him. ‘Kiska,’ he began after a time, tentatively, ‘if he wanted to return … don’t you think-’

‘Quiet,’ she hissed, not even glancing down.

She heard him shift impatiently, exhale his irritation, then ease into a reluctant silence. She kept watch. He had to be out there. Why else would these outcasts be waiting?

Eventually, after staring into the stabbing brilliance, her eyes came to water so furiously she couldn’t see anything at all and she had to cuff Leoman to signal him to take over. She sat down, blinking and rubbing her gritty eyes. Please, all the gods come and gone, let this be it.

After a time there came a tap on her shoulder. ‘Movement.’ She leapt up, but the hand on her shoulder pressed her back down. ‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’

Crouched, she scanned the expanse of scintillating shimmering glare. At first she saw nothing: the stunning intensity of the sea of brightness blinded her to all else. ‘On the left,’ Leoman murmured. She edged her gaze aside, shaded her eyes. Movement there: a shadowy flickering among the silver-bright waves. A shape approaching like a dark flame almost lost amid all that brightness.

Over time the figure resolved itself into a tall man pushing his way to shore through the knee-high waves of liquid Vitr. Kiska surged to her feet. ‘It’s him!’

‘We don’t know …’ Leoman began, then some instinct made him throw himself round, hands going to the morningstars at his sides, and at the same time someone else spoke.

‘Yes. I do believe it is he.’

The hair on Kiska’s head actually rose. I know that voice! Slowly, dreading what she would find, she willed herself to turn round. There stood a haggard battered man in torn robes, his face scalded livid red and swollen. The Seven Cities mage and holy Faladan, Yathengar.

Ye gods — he was supposed to have been destroyed by the Liosan! How could he still live? The man who, to avenge himself against the Malazan Empire, summoned the Chaos Whorl, that in the end consumed him and Tayschrenn, flinging them both to this edge of creation. ‘You live!’ she gasped in shocked disbelief.

The rabid gaze swung to her. ‘So I wished you to never suspect. Ingrates! Did you not consider that I could follow where you-’

Leoman leapt upon him, his morningstars keening, only to fly aside, the weapons clashing together about his head. Kiska lunged as well, stave flashing in a thrust, but Yathengar merely tilted his head and the weapon flashed searingly hot and she cast it away, yelling her agony. Hands useless, she spun a backward kick. Her foot rebounded from the man’s torso, which seemed as hard as oak. He scowled his irritation, gesturing, and a vice-grip took her at the neck to lift her from the ground. He gestured with his other hand and Leoman lurched upright. The morningstars hung wrapped about his neck.

Starting forward, Yathengar marched the two of them along, each fighting for breath. ‘Let us go and say hello to our old friend, shall we? I’m sure he will be very pleased to see the two of you.’

They descended the rocks. Kiska fought to yell a warning. Leoman’s face darkened alarmingly, the veins at his neck swelling. At the shore the pressure eased off a touch. Perhaps Yathengar was worried they would expire before he could torment them any further. However, the grip at Kiska’s throat was still too fierce for any shout. The shambling creatures caught sight of them and scattered, gabbling their panic and terror. Kiska had no time for them: her gaze was fixed upon the slim man slowly advancing through the last of the shallow surf.

It was Tayschrenn, former High Mage of the Malazan Empire.

He’d changed, of course, as would be expected of anyone who had endured the passage he had experienced. His hair was now almost entirely grey, and short, as if growing out from having been shaved, or burned off. He’d lost weight. A simple shirt was loose upon him, hanging down over ragged trousers. Oddly he wasn’t wet. The glimmering Vitr merely ran from him in beads, like quicksilver.

But what troubled her was his expression: it was all open puzzlement. Not one hint of recognition touched his night-dark eyes.

‘Tayschrenn! You have eluded me for the last time,’ Yathengar called out.

The lean aristocratic head tilted to one side, apparently bewildered. ‘You are from my past then, are you?’

‘He is your enemy!’ Kiska managed to grind out, feeling as if her throat were tearing.

Snarling, Yathengar threw her and Leoman down, punching them into the sands.

‘So … I had enemies,’ Tayschrenn said, speaking almost to himself.

‘Do not take me for a fool! No play-acting will help you now.’

‘You are harming those two.’

‘This is as nothing compared to what I will do to you.’

‘What will you-’