Dust of Dreams

She hissed under her breath. ‘The Terondai, now.’

Beyond the scores of buildings now occupied by the Shake and refugee islanders, Kharkanas remained a place of ghosts. The witches decided they liked that. They had found an estate situated on a terrace overlooking an overgrown park. The outer wall’s main gate had been burned down, leaving ancient soot smears on the marble frame and deep heat cracks latticing the lintel stone. The garden flanking the formal approach was now a snarl of stunted trees on both sides, their roots tilting the flagstones of the path.

Atop four broad steps double doors marked the entrance to the residence. These had been shattered from the inside. Bronze statues reared on either side of the staircase, each standing on an ornate marble pedestal. If they had been fashioned in the likeness of living creatures, decided Pully, then the world was a stranger place than she had ever imagined. Towering, the statues were of warriors, human from the shoulders down, whilst their necks and heads belonged to a hound. Both sentinels bore weapons. A double-bladed axe for the one on the left, a two-handed sword for the one on the right. Verdigris marred the details of the beastly visages, but there was enough to see that the two were not identical. The sword-wielder was terribly scarred, a slash that had cleaved through one eye, deep enough to bite bone.

Humming under her breath, Pully set one knee on this particular statue’s horizontal penis, and pulled herself up for a closer look at that face. ‘Now them’s big teeth, an’ precious so.’

Skwish had already gone inside, likely painting a thick red line down the middle, staking her half of the estate. Pully had forgotten how competitive the cow had been in her youth, but now it was all coming back. Wrinkles gone, bitch returns! An what was I sayin? Right, bitter’s a habit, Skwish. Bitter’s a habit. No matter. Skwish could have her half of the estate and half of every room. But then half of everything was half of nothing. They could live here, yes, but they couldn’t own the place.

She clambered down from the statue, brushed the dust from her hands, and then ascended the steps and strode inside. Eight paces opposite her was a wall bearing a carved crest of some sort, arcane heraldry announcing the family that had claimed this place, or so she supposed. Even so, one sniff told her there was sorcery in that sigil, latent, possibly a ward but too old to manage much. She could hear Skwish rummaging about in a room down the corridor on the right. Tripped nothing. Dead ward, or as good as. Did you even notice, sister?

One thing was impossible not to notice. Ever since they’d crawled out of that deathly sleep, they’d felt the presence of the goddess. Mother Dark had looked upon them both, had gathered up their souls like a pair of knuckled dice. A rattle or two, curious fingertips exploring every nuance, every pit and crack. Then the cast. Dismissive, all interest lost. Damned insulting, yes. Infuriating. Who did the hag think she was, anyway? Pully snorted, eyes still on the marble crest. Something about it made her uneasy. ‘Never mind,’ she muttered, and then raised her voice: ‘Skwish!’

‘Wha?’

‘We ain’t welcome here.’

Skwish reappeared, stood in the corridor’s gloom. ‘The Queen will take the palace. Her and Witchslayer. We don’t want t’be anywhere close to ’em. There’s power here, Pully. We can use it, we can feed on it-’

‘Risky. It ain’t as quiet as I’d like.’

‘It’s memories is all.’

‘What do you mean?’

Skwish rolled her eyes, approached. She halted directly in front of the crest. ‘Old symbols,’ she said. She pointed. ‘See that? That’s the Terondai, and there, that’s the sigil of Mother Dark herself.’

‘Empty throne! This ain’t a Royal House, is it?’

‘Not quite, but as good as. See that mark? The one in the centre. That’s the Consort-you never was interested in studying the Oldings. So, this house, it belonged to a man lover to some princess or maybe even the queen herself. See, that’s his name, the one there.’

‘What was it?’

‘Daraconus, something like that.’

They heard someone in the courtyard and turned in time to see Captain Brevity climbing the steps.

‘What?’ demanded Pully, her harsh voice startling the Letherii.

‘Was looking for you,’ Brevity said, slightly out of breath.

‘What for?’ Skwish asked.

‘Visitors.’

‘From where?’

‘Best come with me, you two. There’s a woman. Tiste Andii.’

‘Bluerose?’

‘What? No. She was born here.’

Pully and Skwish exchanged glances. And then Pully scowled. Bad news. Competition. Rival. ‘But she’s not alone?’

‘Got a man with her. A Meckros.’

‘Where’d they come from, then? They ain’t always been here-we’d a sensed that. The city was empty-’

‘Up the road, Pully,’ said Brevity, ‘same as us.’

‘We got here first,’ Skwish growled.

Brevity blinked. ‘It’s a big city, witch. Now, you coming?’

‘Where is she?’ Pully asked.

‘The temple.’

Bad news. The worst. ‘Fine then,’ she snapped.

Yedan Derryg had walked a thousand or more paces along the ethereal First Shore, but now at last he was returning. And in one hand, Yan Tovis saw, he held a sword. The weapon flashed green in the incandescent fall of liquid light. The blade was long as a man’s leg yet thinner than the width of a hand. A wire basket hilt shielded the grip. As he came up to where she stood, something lit his eyes.

‘A Hust sword, sister.’

‘And it’s healed.’

‘Yes.’

‘But how can a broken sword grow back?’

‘Quenched in dragon’s blood,’ he replied. ‘Hust weapons are immortal, immune to all decay. They can shear other blades in two.’ He held up the sword. ‘This is a five-blade sword-tested against five, cut through them all. Twilight, there is no higher calibre of sword than the one you see here. It was the possession of a Hustas, a Master of the House itself-only children of the Forge could own such weapons.’

‘And the woman threw it away.’

‘It is a mystery,’ Yedan Derryg said.

‘She was Gallan’s escort-’

‘Not that. The matter of how a five-blade Hust sword broke in the first place.’

‘Ah. I see your point.’

He looked round. ‘Time dissolves here, this close to the Sea of Light. We have been away from our people too long-’

‘Not my fault,’ she said.

‘True. Mine. No matter. It is time to go back.’

Yan Tovis sighed. ‘What am I to do?’ she asked. ‘Find the palace, sink down on to whatever throne I find?’

The muscles of his jaws knotted beneath his beard and he glanced away. ‘We have things to organize,’ he eventually said. ‘Staff for the palace, officers for the guard. Work teams. Is the river rich with fish? If not, we are in trouble-our stores are depleted. Will crops grow here? Darkness seems to somehow feed the trees and such, but even then, we face a hungry season before anything matures.’

The list alone exhausted her.

‘Leave all that to me,’ Yedan said.

‘Indolence for the Queen-I will go mad with boredom.’

‘You must visit the temple again, sister. It is no longer empty. It must be sanctified once more.’

‘I am no priestess.’

‘Royal blood will suffice.’

She shot him a look. ‘Indeed. How much?’

Yedan shrugged. ‘Depends.’

‘On what?’

‘On how thirsty she is.’

‘If she drains me dry…’

‘The threat of boredom will prove unfounded.’

The bastard was finding himself again. Wit dry as a dead oasis, withered palm leaves rustling like the laughter of locusts. Damned Hust sword and the illusion of coming home. Brother. Prince. Witchslayer. He’d been waiting for this all his life. When she had not. I’d believed nothing. Even in my desperation, I walked cold as a ghost doomed to repeat a lifetime’s path to failure. And my blood-gods below-my blood. This realm demands too much of me.

Yedan faced her again. ‘Sister, we have little time.’

She started. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The Shake-the very impulse that drove you to set us on the Road of Gallan-it was all meant to bring us here. Kharkanas, the First Shore. We must find out why. We must discover what the goddess wants of us.’