to invite settlement, and the weather was often fierce.
Clambering over the edge of the gorge into noon sunlight, the figure paused in a crouch and scanned the vicinity. Seeing nothing untoward, he straightened. Tall, thin, his midnight-black hair long, straight and unbound, his face unlined, the features somewhat hooded, eyes like firerock, the man reached into a fold in his faded black hide shirt and withdrew a length of thin chain, both ends holding a plain finger-ring-one gold, the other silver. A quick flip of his right index finger spun the rings round, then wrapped them close as the chain coiled tight. A moment later he reversed the motion. His right hand thus occupied, coiling and uncoiling the chain, he set off.
Southward he went, into and out of swaths of shadow and sunlight, his footfalls almost soundless, the snap of the chain the only noise accompanying him. Tied to his back was a horn and bloodwood bow, unstrung. At his right hip was a quiver of arrows, bloodwood shafts and hawk-feather fletching; at the quiver’s moss-packed base, the arrowheads were iron, teardrop-shaped and slotted, the blades on each head forming an X pattern. In addition to this weapon he carried a baldric-slung plain rapier in a silver-banded turtleshell scabbard. The entire scabbard and its fastening rings were bound with sheepskin to deaden the noise as he padded along. These details to stealth were one and all undermined by the spinning and snapping chain.
The afternoon waned on, until he moved through unbroken shadow as he skirted the eastern flank of each successive valley he traversed, ever southward. Through it all the chain twirled, the rings clacking upon contacting each other, then whispering out and spinning yet again.
At dusk he came to a ledge overlooking a broader valley, this one running more or less east-west, whereupon, satisfied with his vantage point, he settled into a squat and waited. Chain whispering, rings clacking.
Two thousand spins later, the rings clattered, then went still, trapped inside the fist of his right hand. His eyes, which had held fixed on the western mouth of the pass, unmindful of the darkness, had caught movement. He tucked the chain and rings back into the pouch lining the inside of his shirt, then rose.
And began the long descent.
The Onyx Wizards, purest of the blood, had long since ceased to struggle against the strictures of the prison they had created for themselves. Antiquity and the countless traditions that were maintained to keep its memory alive were the chains and shackles they had come to accept. To accept, they said, was to grasp the importance of responsibility, and if such a thing as a secular god could exist, then to the dwellers of Andara, the last followers of the Black-Winged Lord, that god’s name was Responsibility. And it had, over the decades since the Letherii Conquest, come to rival in power the Black-Winged Lord himself.
The young archer, nineteen years of age, was not alone in his rejection of the stolid, outdated ways of the Onyx Wizards. And like many of his compatriots of similar age-the first generation born to the Exile-he had taken a name for himself that bespoke the fullest measure of that rejection. Clan name cast away, all echoes of the old language-both the common tongue and the priest dialect-dispensed with. His clan was that of the Exiled, now.
For all these gestures of independence, a direct command delivered by Ordant Brid, Reve Master of the Rock among the Onyx Order, could not be ignored.
And so the young warrior named Clip of the Exiled had exited the eternally dark monastery of Andara, had climbed the interminable cliff wall and eventually emerged into hated sunlight to travel overland beneath the blinded stars of day, arriving at an overlook above the main pass.
The small party of travellers he now approached were not traders. No baggage train of goods accompanied them. No shackled slaves stumbled in their wake. They rode Letherii horses, yet even with the presence of at least three Letherii, Clip knew that this was no imperial delegation. No, these were refugees. And they were being hunted.
And among them walks the brother of my god.
As Clip drew nearer, as yet unseen by the travellers, he sensed a presence flowing alongside him. He snorted his disgust. ‘A slave of the Tiste Edur, tell me, do you not know your own blood? We will tear you free, ghost- something you should have done for yourself long ago.’
‘I am unbound,’ came the hissing reply.
‘Then I suppose you are safe enough from us.’
‘Your blood is impure.’
Clip smiled in the darkness. ‘Yes, I am a cauldron of failures. Nerek, Letherii-even D’rhasilhani.’
‘And Tiste Andii.’
‘Then greet me, brother.’
Rasping laughter. ‘He has sensed you.’
‘Was I sneaking up on them, ghost?’
‘They have halted and now await.’
‘Good, but can they guess what I will say to them? Can you?’
‘You are impertinent. You lack respect. You are about to come face to face with Silchas Ruin, the White Crow-’
‘Will he bring word of his lost brother? No? I thought not.’
Another hiss of laughter. ‘Oddly enough, I believe you will fit right in with the ones you are about to meet.’
Seren Pedac squinted into the gloom. She was tired. They all were after long days traversing the pass, with no end in sight. Silchas Ruin’s announcement that someone was approaching brought them all to a halt beside the sandy fringe of a stream, where insects rose in clouds to descend upon them. The horses snorted, tails flicking and hides rippling.
She dismounted a moment after Silchas Ruin, and followed him across the stream. Behind her the others remained where they were. Kettle slept in the arms of Udinaas, and he seemed disinclined to move lest he wake her. Fear Sengar slipped down from his horse but made no further move.
Standing beside the albino Tiste Andii, Seren could now hear a strange swishing and clacking sound, whispering down over the tumbled rocks beyond. A moment later a tall, lean form appeared, silhouetted against grey stone.
A smudge of deeper darkness flowed out from his side to hover before Silchas Ruin.
‘Kin,’ said the wraith.
‘A descendant of my followers, Wither?’
‘Oh no, Silchas Ruin.’
Breath slowly hissed from the Tiste Andii. ‘My brother’s. They were this close?’
The young warrior drew closer, his pace almost sauntering. The tone of his skin was dusky, not much different from that of a Tiste Edur. He was twirling a chain in his right hand, the rings on each end blurring in the gloom. ‘Silchas Ruin,’ he said, ‘I greet you on behalf of the Onyx Order of Andara. It has been a long time since we last met a Tiste Andii not of our colony.’ The broad mouth quirked slightly. ‘You do not look at all as I had expected.’
‘Your words verge on insult,’ Silchas Ruin said. ‘Is this how the Onyx Order would greet me?’
The young warrior shrugged, the chain snapping taut for a beat, then spinning out once more. ‘There are K’risnan wards on the trail ahead of you-traps and snares. Nor will you find what you seek in Bluerose, not the city itself nor Jasp nor Outbound.’
‘How is it you know what I seek?’
‘He said you would come, sooner or later.’
‘Who?’
Brows rose. ‘Why, your brother. He didn’t arrive in time to prevent your getting taken down, nor the slaughter of your followers-’
‘Did he avenge me?’
‘A moment,’ Seren Pedac cut in. ‘What is your name?’
A white smile. ‘Clip. To answer you, Silchas Ruin, he was not inclined to murder all the Tiste Edur. Scabandari Bloodeye had been destroyed by Elder Gods. A curse was laid upon the lands west of here, denying even death’s release. The Edur were scattered, assailed by ice, retreating seas and terrible storms. In the immediate aftermath of the Omtose Phellack curse, their survival was at risk, and Rake left them to it.’
‘I do not recall my brother being so… merciful.’
