The emperor of the Tiste Edur stood before the grand entrance to the Eternal Domicile. Mottled sword in his right, glittering hand. Dusty bearskin riding shoulders grown massively broad with the weight of gold. Old blood staining his back in map patterns, as if he was redrawing the world. Hair now long, ragged and heavy with oily filth.
Trull was standing behind him, and so could not see his brother’s eyes. But he knew, should he look into them now, he would see the destiny he feared, he would see the poison coursing unopposed, and he would see the madness born of betrayal.
It would have taken little, he knew. The simple reaching out for a nondescript, sad-eyed slave, the closing of hands, to lift Rhulad upright, to guide him back into sanity. That, and nothing more.
Rhulad turned to face them. ‘The doors stand unbarred.’
Hannan Mosag said, ‘Someone waits within, sire. I sense… something.’
‘What do you ask of us, Warlock King?’
‘Permit me and my K’risnan to enter first, to see what awaits us. In the corridor…’
Rhulad’s eyes narrowed, then he waved them forward, and added, ‘Fear, Trull, Binadas, join us. We shall follow immediately behind.’
Hannan Mosag in the lead, the K’risnan and the slaves dragging the two sacks immediately behind him, then Rhulad and his brothers, all approached the doors of the Eternal Domicile.
Standing just outside the throne room’s entrance, Brys Beddict saw movement down the corridor, on this side of the motionless form of the Ceda. The Champion reached for his sword, then let his hand fall away as the First Consort, Turudal Brizad, emerged from the shadows, approaching nonchalantly, his expression calm.
‘I did not,’ Brys said in a low voice, ‘expect to see you again, First Consort.’
Turudal’s soft eyes lifted past Brys to look into the throne room beyond. ‘Who waits, Champion?’
‘The king, his concubine. The First Eunuch and the Chancellor. And six of my guards.’
Turudal nodded. ‘Well, we will not have to wait much longer. The Tiste Edur are but moments behind me.’
‘How fares the city?’
‘There has been fighting, Brys Beddict. Loyal soldiers lie dead in the streets. Among them, Moroch Nevath.’
‘And Gerun Eberict? What of him?’
Turudal cocked his head, then frowned. ‘He pursues… a woman.’
Brys studied the man. ‘Who are you, Turudal Brizad?’
The eyes met his own. ‘Today, a witness. We have come, after all, to the day of the Seventh Closure. An end, and a beginning-’
Brys raised a hand to silence the man, then took a step past him.
The Ceda was stirring in the hallway beyond. Then, rising to his feet, adjusting his grimy, creased robes, he lifted the lenses to his face and settled them in place.
Turudal Brizad turned to join Brys. ‘Ah, yes.’
The silhouettes of a group of tall figures had appeared at the distant doors, which were now open.
‘The Ceda…’
‘He has done very well, thus far.’
Brys shot the First Consort a baffled look. ‘What do you mean? He has done… nothing.’
Brows rose. ‘No? He has annihilated the sea-god, the demon chained by Hannan Mosag. And he has been preparing for this moment for days now. See where he stands? See the tile he has painted beneath himself? A tile from which all the power of the Cedance shall pass, upward, into his hands.’
The gloom of the hallway vanished, a white, glowing light suffusing the dusty air.
Revealing the row of Tiste Edur now facing the Ceda, less than fifteen paces between them.
The Edur in the centre of the row spoke. ‘Ceda Kuru Qan. The kingdom you serve has fallen. Step aside. The emperor wishes to claim his throne.’
‘Fallen?’ The Ceda’s voice was thin in comparison, almost quavering. ‘Relevant? Not in the least. I see you, Hannan Mosag, and your K’risnan. I feel you gathering your power. For your mad emperor to claim the throne of Lether, you shall have to pass through me.’
‘It is pointless, old man,’ Hannan Mosag said. ‘You are alone. All your fellow mages are dead. Look at you. Half blind, barely able to stand-’
‘Seek out the demon you chained in the sea, Warlock King.’
From this distance, Trull could not make out Hannan Mosag’s expression, but there was sudden fury in his voice. ‘You have done this?’
‘Letherii are well versed in using greed to lay traps,’ Kuru Qan said. ‘You’ll not have its power today, nor ever again.’
‘For that,’ the Warlock King said in a growl, ‘you will-’ The white mist exploded, the roar shaking ceiling and walls, and thundered forward, striking the Tiste Edur warlocks.
Ten paces behind Hannan Mosag and his K’risnan, Trull Sengar cried out, ducking away at the blazing concussion, his brothers following suit. He heard screams, cut short, then a body skidded across the polished floor to thud against Trull’s feet, knocking him down-
He found himself staring at a K’risnan, burnt beyond recognition, blackened slime melting away from split bones. Rising to his hands and knees, Trull looked up.
Only two Edur remained standing, battling the raging sorcery of the Ceda. Hannan Mosag and Binadas. The other K’risnan were all dead, as were the four slaves who had been crouching beside the two sacks.
As Trull stared, he saw Binadas flung to the ground as if by a thousand fists of light. Blood sprayed-
Then Fear was diving forward, skidding on the bucking tiles to within reach of his brother. Hands closed on a wrist and an ankle, then Fear was dragging Binadas back, away from the conflagration.
Hannan Mosag bellowed. Swirling grey tendrils sprang up from the floor, entwining the raging motes of fire. A blinding detonation-
Then darkness once more, slowly giving way to gloom.
Hannan Mosag, standing alone now, facing the Ceda.
A heartbeat-
Kuru Qan struck again, a moment before Hannan Mosag’s own attack. The two powers collided three paces in front of the Warlock King-
– and Trull saw Hannan Mosag stagger, sheathed in blood, his hands reaching back, groping, the left one landing atop one of the sacks and clutching tight. The other hand then found the other and grasped hold. The Warlock King steadied himself, then began to straighten once more against the onslaught.
The sorcery pouring from the Ceda had twisted the marble walls, until they began to bleed white liquid. The ceiling overhead had sagged, its paints scorched away, its surfaces polished and slick. Brys had stared, disbelieving, as the magic swatted away whatever defensive spells the K’risnan had raised before themselves, swatted it away in an instant, to rush in and slaughter them.
Against Hannan Mosag himself, it battered again and again, driving ever closer.
Then the Warlock King riposted, and the pressure in that hallway pushed Brys and Turudal back a step, then two.
All at once, the two battling powers annihilated each other in a flash, the thunder of the detonation sending cracks through the floor, bucking tiles into the air – everywhere but where the two sorcerors stood.
Dusty silence.
The marble columns to either side were burning in patches, melting from the top down like massive tallow candles. Overhead, the ceiling groaned, as if moments from collapse.
‘Now,’ Turudal Brizad hoarsely whispered, ‘we will see the measure of Hannan Mosag’s desperation…’
The sorceries roared to life once again, and Brys saw the Warlock King stagger.
The Ceda, Kuru Qan, the small, ancient man, stood unscathed, and the magic raging from him in wave after wave seemed to Brys to be that of a god.
The Warlock King would not survive this. And, once he fell, this ancient, primal sorcery would sweep out, taking the emperor and his kin, devouring them one and all. Outward, into the city. An entire people, the Tiste Edur,
