Kurald Emurlahn, the Realm of Shadow. Not a fragment, not a torn smear riven through with impurities. Home, as it once was, before all the betrayals ripped it asunder. Paradise awaits us. In our minds. Ghost images, all perfection assembled by will and will alone. Believe what you see, Hannan Mosag. This is home.
And yet it resisted. Seeking to reject him, his broken body, his chaos-stained mind.
Mother Dark. Father Light. Look upon your crippled children. Upon me. Upon Emurlahn. Heal us. Do you not see the world fashioned in my mind? All as it once was. I hold still to this purity, to all that I sought to create in the mortal realm, among the tribes I brought to heel-the peace I demanded, and won.
None could have guessed my deepest desire. The Throne of Shadow-it was for me. And by my rule, Kurald Emurlahn would grow strong once again. Whole. Rightfully in its place.
Yes, there was chaos-the raw unbound power coursing like impassable rivers, isolating every island of Shadow. But 1 would have used that chaos-to heal.
Chains. Chains to draw the fragments together, to bind them together.
The Fallen God was a tool, nothing more.
But Rhulad Sengar had destroyed all that. In the reach of a child’s hand. And now, everything was dying. Poisoned. Crumbling into dissolution.
He reached the base of the scree, smooth round pebbles clacking beneath his clawed fingers. Coarse sand under his nails, wet, biting. My world.
Rain falling in wisps of mist, the pungent smell of moss and rotting wood. And on the wind… the sea.
Surmounting the steep slope of stones, the boles of Blackwood trees stood arrayed like sentinels.
There were no invasive demons here. This world was the world of the Tiste Edur.
The shadow of a gliding owl slipped over the glistening slide, crossing his intended path, and Hannan Mosag froze.
No. It cannot be. There is no-one alive to claim that title.
He is dead.
He was not even Tiste Edur!
And yet, who stood alone before Rhulad Sengar? Yes, she has his severed finger. The owl-most ancient of omens-the owl, to mark the coming of the one.
Yet anger surged within him.
It is for me to choose. Me! Mother Dark! Father Light! Guide me to the Throne of Shadow. Emurlahn reborn! It is this, I tell you both, this or the King in Chains, and behind him the Crippled God! Hear my offer!
‘Andii, Liosan, Edur, the Armies of the Tiste. No betrayal. The betrayals are done-bind us to our words as you have bound each other. Light, Dark and Shadow, the first elements of existence. Energy and void and the ceaseless motion of the ebb and flow between them. These three forces-the first, the greatest, the purest. Hear me. I would so pledge the Edur to this alliance! Send to me those who would speak for the Andii. The Liosan. Send them-bring your children together!
‘Mother Dark. Father Light. I await your word. I await…’
He could go no further.
Weeping, Hannan Mosag rested his head on the stones. As you say,’ he muttered. ‘I will not deny the omen. Very well, it is not for me to choose.
‘He shall be our Mortal Sword of Emurlahn-no, not the old title. The new one, to suit this age. Mortal Sword.’ Madness-why would he even agree? Letherii…
‘So be it.’
Dusk had arrived. Yet he felt a sliver of warmth against one cheek, and he lifted his head. The clouds had broken, there, to the east-a welling band of darkness.
And, to the west, another slash parting the overcast.
The lurid glow of the sun.
‘So be it,’ he whispered.
Bruthen Trana stepped back as the prostrate Warlock King flinched, Hannan Mosag’s legs drawing up like an insect in death.
A moment later, the warlock’s bloodshot eyes prised open. And seemed to see nothing for a moment. Then they flicked upward. ‘Warrior,’ he said thickly, then grimaced and spat a throatful of phlegm onto the grimy pavestones. ‘Bruthen Trana. K’ar Penath speaks boldly of your loyalty, your honour. You are Tiste Edur-as we all once were. Before-before Rhulad.’ He coughed, then pushed himself into a sitting position, raising his head with obvious effort to glower up at Bruthen Trana. ‘And so, I must send you away.’
‘Warlock King, I serve this empire-’
‘Errant take this damned empire! You serve the Tiste Edur!’
Bruthen Trana regarded the broken creature below, said nothing.
‘I know,’ Hannan Mosag said, ‘you would lead our warriors-through the palace above us. Room by room, cutting down every one of the Chancellor’s pernicious spies. Cutting Rhulad free of the snaring web spun about him-but that fool on his throne could not recognize freedom if it sprouted wings on his shoulders. He will see it as an attack, a rebellion. Listen to me! Leave the Chancellor to us!’
‘And Karos Invictad?’
‘All of them, Bruthen Trana. So I vow before you.’
‘Where do you wish me to go, Warlock King? After Fear Sengar?’
Hannan Mosag started, then shook his head. ‘No. But I
dare not speak the name of the one you must find. Here, in this realm, the Crippled God courses in my veins- where I travelled a few moments ago, I was free then. To understand. To… pray.’
‘How will I know where to look? How will I know when I find the one you seek?’
The Warlock King hesitated. He licked his lips, then said, ‘He is dead. But not dead. Distant, yet is summoned. His tomb lies empty, yet was never occupied. He is never spoken of, though his touch haunts us all again and again.’
Bruthen Trana raised a hand-not surprised to see that it trembled. ‘No more. Where shall I find the beginning of the path?’
‘Where the sun dies. I think.’
The warrior scowled. ‘West? But you are not sure?’
‘I am not. I dare not.’
‘Am I to travel alone?’
‘For you to decide, Bruthen Trana. But before all else, you must get something-an item-from the Letherii slave. Feather Witch-she hides beneath the Old Palace-’
‘I know those tunnels, Warlock King. What is this item?’
Hannan Mosag told him.
He studied the twisted warlock for a moment longer-the avid gleam in Hannan Mosag’s eyes bright as fever- then spun round and strode from the chamber.
Bearing lanterns, the squad of guards formed a pool of lurid yellow light that glimmered along the waters of Quillas Canal as they trudged, amidst clanking weapons and desultory muttering, across the bridge. Once on the other side, the squad turned right to follow the main avenue towards the Creeper district.
As soon as the glow trundled away, Tehol nudged Ublala and they hurried onto the bridge. Glancing back at the half-blood, Tehol scowled, then hissed, ‘Watch me, you fool! See? I’m skulking. No-hunch down, look about suspiciously, skitter this way and that. Duck down, Ublala!’
‘But then I can’t see.’
‘Quiet!’
‘Sorry. Can we get off this bridge?’
‘First, let me see you skulk. Go on, you need to practise.’
Grumbling, Ublala Pung hunched low, his beetled brow rippling as he looked first one way, then the other.
‘Nice,’ Tehol said. ‘Now, hurry up and skulk after me.’
‘All right, Tehol. It’s just that there’s the curfew, and I don’t want trouble.’
They reached the other side and Tehol led the way, thirty paces into the wake of the guards, then an abrupt cut to the left, coming within sight of the Tolls Repository. Into an alley, where he crouched, then gestured
