BOOK THREE
The art of Rashan is found in the tension that binds the games of light, yet its aspect is one of dissipation- the creation of shadow and of dark, although in this case the dark is not absolute, such as is the aspect of the ancient warren, Kurald Galain. No, this dark is particular, for it exists, not through an absence of light, but by virtue of being seen .
The Mysteries of Rashan-a madman’s discourse
CHAPTER TWELVE
Light, shadow and dark-This is a war unending.
GLISTENING SILVER, THE ARMOUR LAY OVER A T-SHAPED STAND. OIL had dripped down from the ragged knee-length tassels to form a pool on the flagstoned floor beneath. The sleeves were not loose, but appeared intended to be worn almost skin-tight. It had seen much use, and where mended the rings appeared to be a darker, carbon-stained iron.
Beside it, on a free-standing iron frame with horizontal hooks, waited a two-handed sword, the scabbard parallel directly beneath it on another pair of hooks. The sword was extraordinarily thin, with a long, tapered tip, edges on both sides, twin-fluted. Its surface was a strangely mottled oily blue, magenta and silver. The grip was round instead of flat, banded in gut, the pommel a single, large oblong sphere of polished haematite. The scabbard was of black wood, banded at the point and at the mouth in silver but otherwise unadorned. The harness belt attached to it was of small, almost delicate, black chain links.
Chain gauntlets waited on a wooden shelf on the wall behind the armour. The dull iron helm beside them was little more than a skullcap within a cage of studded bars, the bars reaching down like a massive hand, the gnarled fingers curving down to bridge nose, cheeks and jaw lines. A lobster tail of chain depended from the slightly flared neck rim.
Standing just within the entrance to the modest, low-ceilinged room, Cutter watched as Darist began preparations for donning his martial accoutrements. The Daru youth was finding it difficult to convince himself that such beautiful weapons and armour-which had clearly seen decades, if not centuries, of use-could belong to this silver-haired man, who carried himself like an absent-minded scholar, whose amber eyes seemed to hold a perpetual look of confused distraction beneath the glowing sheen. Who moved slowly as if protecting brittle bones-
Darist stood facing his suit of armour, as if frozen in some startled contemplation-as if he’d forgotten how to put it on.
‘These Tiste Edur, Darist,’ Cutter said. ‘How many are there?’
‘Will we survive the coming attack, is your question? Unlikely, is my answer. At least five ships survived the storm. Two have reached our shore and managed landing. There would have been more, but they were engaged by a Malazan fleet that happened upon them by chance. We witnessed the clash from the Cliffs of Purahl…’ The Tiste Andu slowly glanced back at Cutter. ‘Your human kin did well-far better than the Edur no doubt anticipated.’
‘A sea battle between the Malazans and the Tiste Edur? When was this?’
‘Perhaps a week ago. There were but three Malazan war dromons, yet each managed to find company before plunging to the deep. There was a skilled mage among the humans-the exchange of sorcery was impressive-’
‘You and your kin
Darist stepped towards the armour, lifted it seemingly effortlessly from its frame. ‘We no longer leave this island. For many decades now, we hold to our decision to remain isolated.’
‘Why?’
The Tiste Andu gave no answer. He slipped the mail suit over his shoulders. The sound it made as it flowed down was like liquid. He then reached for the sword.
‘That looks as if it would snap with the first block of a heavier weapon.’
‘It will not. There are many names for this particular sword.’ Darist lifted it free of the hooks. ‘Its maker named it Vengeance. T’an Arcs, in our language. But I call it K’orladis.’
‘Which means?’
‘Grief.’
A faint chill rippled through Cutter. ‘Who was its maker?’
‘My brother.’ He sheathed the sword, slipped his arms through the chain harness. Then he reached for the gauntlets. ‘Before he found one more suited to his nature.’ Darist turned, his gaze travelling the length of Cutter, head to toe, then back again. ‘Do you have skill with those knives hidden about your person?’
‘Some, though I draw no pleasure from spilling blood.’
‘What else are they for?’ the Tiste Andu asked as he donned the helm. Cutter shrugged, wishing he had an answer to that question. ‘Do you intend to fight the Edur?’
‘Since they are seeking the throne, yes.’
Darist slowly cocked his head. ‘Yet this is not your battle. Why would you choose to borrow this cause?’
‘On Genabackis-my homeland-Anomander Rake and his followers chose to fight against the Malazan Empire. It wasn’t their battle, but they have now made it so.’
He was surprised to see a wry smile twist the Tiste Andu’s weathered features beneath the crooked iron fingers of the guards.
‘That is interesting. Very well, Cutter, join me-though I tell you now it will prove your final fight.’
‘I hope not.’
Darist led him from the room, out into the broad hallway once more, then through a narrow, black-wood- framed archway. The passage within appeared to be a tunnel through a single piece of wood, like the hollowed core of a massive, toppled tree trunk. It stretched on into the gloom, inclining slightly upward.
Cutter walked behind the Tiste Andu, the sound of the man’s armour soft as the hiss of rain on a beach. The tunnel ended abruptly with an upward turn, the ceiling opening to reveal a vertical shaft. A rough ladder of roots climbed towards a small, pale disc of light.
Darist’s ascent was slow and measured, Cutter impatient on the rungs directly beneath until the thought that he might soon die struck him, at which point a dull lassitude settled into his muscles, and it became a struggle to keep up with the ancient Tiste Andu.
They eventually emerged onto a leaf-cluttered floor of flagstones. Sunlight speared shafts of dust from slitted windows and gaps in the roof overhead-the storm seemed to have missed this place entirely. One wall had mostly collapsed and it was towards this that Darist strode.
