Dust of Dreams

‘I share your exultation, friend.’

‘It’s all cold around you,’ Ublala said.

‘That will pass.’

‘Are you a god?’

‘More or less, Toblakai. Does that frighten you?’

Ublala Pung shook his head. ‘I’ve met gods before. They collect chickens.’

‘We possess mysterious ways indeed.’

‘I know.’ Ublala Pung fidgeted and then said, ‘I’m supposed to save the world.’

The stranger cocked his head. ‘And here I was contemplating killing it.’

‘Then I’d be all alone again!’ Ublala wailed, tears springing back to his puffy eyes.

‘Be at ease, Toblakai. You are reminding me that some things in this world remain worthwhile. If you would save the world, friend, that Draconean armour is fine preparation, as is that weapon at your feet-indeed, I believe I recognize both.’

‘I don’t know,’ Ublala said. ‘I don’t know where to go to save the world. I don’t know anything.’

‘Let us journey together, then.’

‘Gods make good friends,’ nodded Ublala Pung, pleased at this turn of events.

‘And spiteful enemies,’ the stranger said, ‘but we shall not be enemies, so that need not concern us. Wielder of Rilk, Wearer of Dra Alkeleint, what is your name?’

He swelled his chest. He liked being called Wielder and Wearer of things. ‘Ublala Pung. Who are you?’

The stranger smiled. ‘We will walk east, Ublala Pung. I am named Draconus.’

‘Oh, funny.’

‘What is?’

‘That’s the word Old Hunch Arbat’s ghost screamed, before the black wind tore him to pieces.’

‘You must tell me how you came to be here, Ublala Pung.’

‘I’m no good with questions like that, Draconus.’

The god sighed. ‘Then we have found something in common, friend. Now, collect up Rilk there and permit me to refasten your straps.’

‘Oh, thank you. I don’t like knots.’

‘No one does, I should think.’

‘But not as bad as chains, though.’

The strangers hands hesitated on the fittings, and then resumed. ‘True enough, friend.’

Ublala Pung wiped clean his face. He felt light on his feet and the sun was coming up and, he decided, he felt good again.

Everybody needs a friend.

Chapter Twenty

Let the sun warm the day.
If light holds all the colours
then see the union as pure
and free of compromise.
Walk the stone and burden of earth
with its manes like cats lying in wait
as the wind slips silken
and slides round the curl
of your sure vision.

Let the sun warm this day
armoured against all argument,
solid in sanctity to opinion.
The hue does not deceive
and the blur hides no thought
to partake of grey masses in the sky
lowering horizon’s rim
where each step is balanced
on the day’s birth.

Wake to the warmth of the sun.
It knew other loves past
and stole all the colours
from eternal promises.
The dust only flows to life
in the lost-treasure golds of light.
Hold to nothing new
for even the new is old
and burden-worn.

Let the sun bring forth the day.
You have walked this way before
amid hunters in the grasses
and wheeling lovers of death
crowning every sky.
The armies have pursued anon;
riders risen along the ridge.
Maids and courtiers abide
in future’s perfect shadows
until what is lost returns.

LAY OF WOUNDED LOVE

FISHER

It’s no simple thing,’ he said, frowning as he worked through his thoughts, ‘but in the world-among people, that is. Society, culture, nation-in the world, then, there are attackers and there are defenders. Most of us possess within ourselves elements of both, but in a general sense a person falls to one camp or the other, as befits their nature.’

The wind swept round the chiselled stone. What guano remained to stain the dark, pitted surfaces had been rubbed thin and patchy, like faded splashes of old paint. Around them was the smell of heat lifting from rock, caught up, spun and plucked away with each gust of the breeze. But the sun did not relent its battle, and for that, Ryadd Eleis was thankful.

Silchas Ruin’s eyes were fixed on something to the northwest, but an outcrop of shaped stone blocked Ryadd’s line of sight in that direction. He was curious, but not unduly so. Instead, he waited for Silchas to continue, knowing how the white-skinned Tiste Andii sometimes struggled to speak his mind. When it did come, it often arrived all at once and at length, a reasoned, detailed argument that Ryadd received mostly in silence. There was so much to learn.

‘This is not to say that aggression belongs only to those who are attackers,’ Silchas resumed. ‘Far from it, in fact. In my talent with the sword, for example, I am for the most part a defender. I rely upon timing and counter-attack-I take advantage of the attacker’s forward predilections, the singularity of their intent. Counterattack is, of course, aggression in its own way. Do you see the distinction?’

Ryadd nodded. ‘I think so.’