The Cold Commands

CHAPTER 42

It took him an hour and three deaths to reach Menkarak’s apartments. The first death was sheer bad luck. Scuttling along a narrow corridor somewhere under the south wall, he came around a corner and ran straight into a hurrying young invigilator. They collided, bounced apart, and neither of them quite fell down. The other man gaped for a fatal second in the dim light, then opened his mouth to yell.

Ringil was already on him.

Dragon-tooth dagger rising in his hand, cloak flaring out like ragged wings. He slammed his free hand over the man’s open mouth, muffled the yell, and bore him to the ground, dagger upraised. The invigilator thrashed, eyes wide, head-shaking desperate denial and muffled blurting against Gil’s palm. Ringil hooked his thumb under the man’s chin, jerked his head sideways and up, cut his throat. He whipped his knife-hand clear to avoid the upwelling blood, watched intently as the invigilator’s face went slack.

Drew a deep breath and got himself upright. Shit, fuck.

He stared down at his handiwork. The invigilator’s blood spread out across the stone flagging, black in the gloomy light. The man’s eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Ringil scanned the corridor in both directions, peeked around the corner. No one else around, but neither was there anywhere obvious to hide the body. He summoned the Citadel map to memory, placed himself on it. There was an ornamental orchard planted out in a small courtyard a level above him and back the way he’d come. Though the amount of blood he was going to get on himself carrying the body that far…

Getting a bit prissy in our old age, aren’t we, Gil?

He stooped and gathered the soggy weight of the dead man under the arms, dragged it to the corridor wall. Then he hauled the body up and over his right shoulder, straightened up with an effort—well fucking fed, these invigilators—and tottered off in search of the stairs. He’d left broad swipings of blood on the stone-flagged floor, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. There were no torches in this stretch of the corridor, and he had hopes anyone walking there would miss the stains in the dark. With luck no one else would even come down this way until the new day dawned.

With luck, yeah. Leaning a bit hard on your luck lately.

He grimaced in the dark, under the deadweight of his burden.

Come on, Dakovash. I take it all back. I’ll be your dog.

Kwelgrish. You saved me from the plague for something, right? Talk to the Lady Firfirdar, will you. Get the bitch to blow me a little bit of black assassin’s luck.

What are gods for, after all?

He got to the orchard without meeting anyone else, with or without the Dark Court’s help, hard to say. Went through the apple-scented air and dumped the invigilator’s body unceremoniously behind a tree near the back wall. He settled the corpse upright against the trunk on the far side from the courtyard’s main entrance. Leaned for a moment against the trunk over the dead man’s head, getting some breath back. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a sleeve, checked his cloak for blood—there was a lot—and rolled his eyes. Great—and we’re not even into the senior invigilators’ wing yet. He drew a deep breath, tapped a saluting finger to his temple at the dead man, and left.

On his way out, he saw an owl watching him from a branch in one of the other trees. It didn’t say anything, or flap heavily away into the sky with his good luck in its talons or anything. In fact, it barely did anything at all beyond blink cryptically down at him and plump up its feathers.

That’s because it’s just a fucking owl, Gil. Not an omen, or a psycho-pomp, or a demon familiar from beyond the band.

Now get a fucking grip, will you, and let’s get this done.

He slipped out of the orchard yard, and away down the darkened corridors again.

SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY, THE IKINRI ’SKA WOKE UP.

Perhaps he summoned it, perhaps it simply felt it was time. Hjel had told him—somewhere, somewhen, out there on the marsh—that the deeper into the craft you went, the less it became a tool you could use, the more you became the gate and channel for its force. At the end, he said, you are simply wedded to it. You cannot tell where it ends and you begin.

Now he felt it drip through him at the fingertips, radiate out from his heart and lungs, dance behind his eyes, and Hjel’s warning took on a shivery fever-cold significance he’d previously ignored. It was a chilly siren song now, down at the edges of his will, singing in his blood. It was an excited black chittering along his nerves, like too much krinzanz an hour before dawn.

It wasn’t, to be honest, an ideal companion at a time like this.

But it was there in him, manifest, when he stepped into one more courtyard, warmly torchlit this time, and was instantly spotted by a man-at-arms on an overlooking wall.

Their eyes met. The man on the wall reared back from where he’d been leaning in peaceful contemplation of the ground below. He grabbed at his short-sword. The yell was in his throat, halfway formed—

Ringil grabbed, right arm upflung, as if he could reach physically into the man’s mouth and tear out the sound. He made the convulsive locking gesture, Be Still!, with his hand, and the cry strangled before it could take voice. The man-at-arms doubled over, coughing. Ringil shifted posture, breathed in the trembling potential, shook out the fingers of his raised right hand, and wrote the Veil glyph onto the air.

You do not see me.

It hissed out of him like rattlesnakes stirring, syllables in old Myrlic, barely recognizable as his own voice at all. He faded back into the gloom.

“What the fuck’s up with you, Darash?” Another man-at-arms, wandering along the walkway from the other side, yawning. “Stuffing yourself with stolen chicken again.”

The first man stifled his coughing with an effort. From down in shadows at the edge of the courtyard, Ringil could see him frown.

“No, man. Just thought I saw…”

“Saw what?” The second man peered down into the torchlit space below and shrugged. “Nothing down there, mate.”

“Yeah.” Darash shook his head. “Weird fucking thing, though…”

By which time, Ringil was gone, across the courtyard in a twist of unseeing, and into the rising corridors to the senior invigilator’s wing. Torchlight flickered off him, seemed to shun him as he went.

Once into the upper levels of the eastern keep, his briefing from the King’s Reach evaporated in best guesses and theory. They had some sense of where Menkarak should be resident, given his lineage and his recent promotions within the hierarchy. They had rumor and report that might further reduce the possibilities, but could not really be relied upon. They had information that he liked to meet the rising sun with prayers each morning on his balcony, they had gossip that there’d been a major falling-out with another, more moderate senior invigilator who had later, so the story went, choked to death on a piece of gristle at dinner, and Menkarak got his opulent rooms. They had reason to believe that his apartments were relatively modest, and that he shunned most of the luxury available to priests of his rank.

Like that.

It was a dozen possible apartments, however you looked at it. Time to narrow the field.

He stalked the gloom, looking for lights. Eventually, he found another invigilator, a spry, white-haired old man in robes of rank, poring over unscrolled paperwork in a study dimly lit by candles. Ringil watched him for a while from beyond the window, out in the cloister, then, when he was sure the man was working alone, he lifted the latch and walked quietly inside.

The invigilator did not look up from his scrolls and ink.

“If that’s another heretic warrant, Naksen,” he said mildly, quill scratching across parchment, “then it’s going to have to wait until the morning. I already told you that. Added to which”—a meticulously crossed and dotted character—“I have already told his eminence we have our hands full out in the city. We simply do not have the manpower to enforce—”

The dragon-tooth dagger slid in under his chin. A hand pressed against the back of his skull.

“It’s not another heretic warrant,” Ringil told him.

The invigilator went rigid. “What do you want?”

“Good. I’m looking for Pashla Menkarak. Which is his apartment?”

The old man tried to turn. There was a surprising degree of wiry strength in the move. Ringil swapped dagger for forearm across the invigilator’s throat and pulled tight.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Jackal!” It was spat out, despite the choking grip. “So, it has come to this once more! Once again, the palace sends its lickspittle backstabbing faithless against our holiest men.”

“Something like that,” Ringil agreed. “You going to tell me how to find Menkarak, or are you going to die?”

He loosened his grip hopefully. The invigilator placed gnarled hands flat on the scroll-strewn tabletop. Gil caught a couple of lines from the half-written document. For the crime of lascivious seduction and bearing of a child not blessed by the Revelation, the accused is sentenced to… He felt the man’s spine stiffen against the chair back.

“Hear me, scum. I would rather die than betray my brothers in faith. I will go to my God with a joyous cry—”

“You’ll go choking on your own blood. Is that what you want? Where is Menkarak?”

“Go back to your Emperor, lickspittle!” There was a sneer in the old man’s voice, and a tight hysteria building behind it. No sign of fear at all. “Go back, infidel, and tell the debauched apostate he may rule over half the world, but he cannot have our souls. Demlarashan is but the beginning. We have angels on our side now, we will sweep—”

Ringil sighed and sliced the throat across. Blood gushed out, all over the warrants the man had been writing. He held the invigilator’s head by the hair while he spasmed, waited, waited, then lowered the dead man’s face gently into the mess. He cleaned the dagger on one of the pieces of parchment, and stood for a moment in the candlelight, brooding.

If Naksen does show up with a bundle more warrants, you’re blown. Out like a fucking candle. And that’s without counting the dwenda into the balance.

This is taking too long.

He blew out all the candles before he left, closed the door quietly behind him, and hoped that would be enough to keep Naksen or his pals from investigating further. There was a door-locking glyph somewhere in the ikinri ’ska, but he couldn’t remember how it went, had never, in any case, really mastered it. Not a lot of locking doors to practice on, out on the marsh.

With luck, they’ll assume the old bastard went to bed.

With better luck, they won’t come back at all until morning. Got my back, Kwelgrish?

Let’s hope so.

He prowled about the upper levels, listening for voices, looking for lights. It took him another half an hour to find what he wanted. Passing an apartment door, he heard farewells traded within. He skulked back into the gloom of an alcove. Shortly after, the apartment door unlatched and a man in invigilator’s robes came out. He was, Ringil noted, considerably younger than the old man in the study, he had a fair belly on him and a neatly barbered beard, and he walked with a self-important poise that looked promising. Gil trailed him through corridors and a stairway to a lower-level apartment door where the invigilator produced a key from his robes and slotted it into the lock. Ringil crept forward an inch at a time. The key turned with an iron clunk.

The door swung open. Ringil leapt out of the shadows and grabbed the man from behind. He shoved him through the doorway and threw him to the floor, stepped inside, caught the swinging edge of the door and slammed it closed behind him. His gaze flickered about—broad entryway, unlit, leading to a well-appointed lounging area beyond. A window let in bandlight enough to see by.

The invigilator had gone sprawled to hands and knees on a fine silk carpet laid out between the two spaces. Ringil checked that the door was firmly closed, kicked the man hard in his prodigious belly, and scooped up the fallen key. He turned it in the lock and left it there, listened for any sound of occupancy and judged the apartment empty.

“Who the holy blue fuck do you think—”

Ringil grabbed him again, hauled him to his feet and slung him against the nearest wall. He hit him in the face a couple of times, broad backhand slaps that didn’t do any real damage but would hurt like hell. The invigilator reeled and stumbled, tried to fall down. Gil got in close and held him up against the wall, put the dragon-tooth dagger to his face.

“I’m in a hurry,” he said.

“But, but—” The invigilator had gone abruptly still when he saw the knife, or maybe it was just Ringil’s eyes. “What do you want? I’m not—”

“I’m looking for Pashla Menkarak. You’re going to tell me where his apartment is, or you’re going to die. Your choice.”

“You—” The man wet his lips. “You’re from the palace?”

“Does it matter?”

“I, but I—I took a holy oath. Holy orders. I am bound by…” Ringil looked at him.

“The end apartment on the level above,” whispered the invigilator, eyes bulging wide in the dim light. “The door is—you will see it—it has the mark of the book and scepter.”

“And is he in?”

“Yes. He retires early, always. He will be at last prayer.”

Ringil leaned closer. “You know I’m going to come back here if you’re lying.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” the man was babbling now. “His faith is iron. He is at prayer. The whole Citadel knows it.”

“Excellent.” Gil stepped back and clapped the invigilator on the shoulder with his left hand.

Then he slashed the man’s throat open, stepped sharply left on the stroke, and shoved his victim around at the shoulder to the right. Blood gouted, missed his clothes, and the invigilator went down, flapping and gurgling. He floundered on hands and knees and tried to crawl away. Gil followed him cautiously, making sure. The dying man made a couple of feet across the blood-drenched silk of the carpet, then sank to the floor, whimpering, and finally bled out.

Ringil checked himself once more for blood, knelt, and cleaned the dagger on an unstained corner of the carpet. He slipped back out of the apartment, locked the dead man inside, and pocketed the key. Got back onto the level above and along the corridor to the end without seeing or hearing another living soul. Luck still holding, it seemed. That Dark Court touch, Lady Firfirdar apparently riding in his pocket this evening. Torches guttered in their brackets on either side; somewhere very distant he heard the wind through some window or cranny. The ikinri ’ska chuckled and surged within. He reached Menkarak’s door, saw the gull-wing symbol of the book and the scepter carved into the wood, reached up and knocked hard.

There was a long pause, and then he heard soft footfalls approaching from within the apartment.

“Yes. Who is it?” Voice puzzled and hesitant. “This is no hour for—”

“Your Holiness, it is an emergency! The palace has—” Ringil, putting on what he felt was a pretty fair approximation of the well-fed invigilator’s voice. He swallowed. “His Eminence craves your presence, your wisest counsel.”

“The palace has what?” The lock turned, the door started to swing open, though Menkarak’s tone hadn’t got any less irritable. “Look, you can’t just—”

Menkarak, in a simple gray robe, slippers on his feet. The face was a match for the charcoal sketch. He gaped at the black-clad figure before him.

“What—”

Ringil punched him in the face, knocked him backward into the apartment and followed him in. Menkarak staggered and managed to stay upright; Gil punched him again and he went down. Ringil closed the door. A quick glance to take in the surroundings—similar to the apartment he’d just been in, but far more expansive, the lounging area had multiple windows, there was a balcony beyond. Lamps burned in various corners of the place. No carpets, there was a cold austerity to everything. No one around.

Menkarak, on the floor, struggling to rise.

Ringil went straight to him, dumped one knee on his chest, used the other to pin a flailing right arm. He seized the man’s head, turned it, and pressed it to the floorboards.

“Message from the debauched apostate,” he said. “He is not amused. This has gone far enough. I’m paraphrasing, of course.”

He chopped down with the dagger, into Menkarak’s neck where the artery pulsed. Twisted and worked the blade to be sure. Blood welled up, thick in the gash he’d opened, spilled and splattered everywhere. Menkarak pawed desperately at him with his free arm, made bleating noises, but his face was already slackening with lack of fight. His mouth moved, no words came out. His breathing stilled, his eyes turned slowly dull and incurious. His arm drooped away, his knuckles knocked gently on the floorboards. His legs kicked a couple of times, and then went slack.

Ringil eased up into a crouch. Looked at the body thoughtfully for a moment.

“There, that wasn’t so hard,” he muttered. “You’d have thought—” Menkarak’s face… changed.

It was like watching the image in a still pond surface stirred to choppy fragments by a sudden splash. The dead man’s features wavered, blurred. Any likeness to the charcoal sketch vanished as Ringil stared. A far younger man lay dead in Menkarak’s place.

Flicker of blue fire.

Oh, no—

The blow hit him from behind, before he could turn, before he could even begin to rise. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a dwenda helm—smooth, blunt, black surface, still shimmering with faint traceries of blue light, faceless. But someone spoke his name, and it was a voice he knew.

Then the world went out in a shower of sparks.

WAKEFULNESS ROLLED BACK AROUND. HIS HEAD LOLLED. SOMEONE splashed water in his face.

“—sure we should not—”

“Believe me, Pashla Menkarak, he cannot harm you now. We have his weapons, his sorcery is in check. When angels watch over you, there is no threat you need fear.”

Weird, limping inflection on that last voice—a real mangling of the Tethanne syllables. And Archeth says my accent’s bad, he thought muzzily, trying to lift his head.

Someone did it for him. A smooth-gloved hand. He blinked, jerked his chin free of the hold. Hauled in focus.

Menkarak stood before him, in black robes a lot more ornate than the simple gray affair his dummy had worn. There was thick gold brocade at the sleeves and along the lapels where they folded across each other. His eyes were beady and intent, his lean features suffused with triumph. He looked like a particularly smug prostitute crow.

“How now, infidel,” he sneered.

Ringil nodded groggily. “Fuck-face.”

Most of him was taking in the other figures. The one who’d lifted his chin stood closest, clad neck-to-boots in the smooth leather-like dwenda mail, helmet pulled free to expose a face that was dry-bone white and severe—slash mouth, narrow nose, cheekbones high and sharp under the skin. Featureless eyes, like balls of fresh, wet pitch set in white stone sockets, but gathering in a faint rainbow sheen on the curve of all that smooth, black emptiness. It was like looking at a statue come to life. And behind him—

Risgillen.

She stepped closer. The same dwenda face, pale beyond pale and sculpted tight to the bone, lacking only the heaviness of brow and jaw and nose that had given Seethlaw’s otherwise delicate features their masculinity. He thought she might have lost some weight since he last saw her. Grown gaunt around the eyes and mouth.

It stabbed at him how closely she resembled her brother.

She stepped closer. They had him roped across the chest into a heavy oak chair, arms and legs secured with thick coils of the same cord. The stuff had a sorcerous look to it; it gleamed a little in the low light and he thought, uneasily, that every now and then it seemed to shift restlessly about on itself, like disturbed snakes in a nest.

“Ringil.” She touched his face almost like a lover’s, the same urgent tone under soft, the same promise of something to come. “It has been long. But in the end, here you come to me as was always doubtless and entire.”

He coughed. “Hello, Risgillen. I see your Naomic’s improved.”

“I have had cause for practice in its pattern.” She let go his face, made a modest gesture. Rainbow sheen on the nails of her hand in motion. “Did you think the cabal in Trelayne was our only pathway to walk in the north?”

Menkarak turned self-importantly to the other dwenda. “What are these spells?”

“She binds him,” said the dwenda disinterestedly, Tethanne still appallingly accented. “There is much sorcery in him, rituals are required.”

“But—what rituals? And why not in the Tongue of the Book?” Menkarak drew himself up. “Lathkeen has told me clearly—sorcery from the north must always wither in the Revelation’s true light. Why do we need—”

“Lathkeen reveals truth to you as mortals can digest it.” The other dwenda glanced at Risgillen—Gil thought he caught a hint of weariness in the look. “You would do better not to question the Revelation, and lend us instead the strength of your faith and prayers.”

“Well.” Menkarak cleared his throat. “Yes. But to seek illumination is in itself a part of what the Revelation teaches. To understand—”

The dwenda turned on him and Menkarak shut up. Ringil, knowing the power of that blank stare, was quite impressed the invigilator actually stood his ground.

“Forgive me.” Menkarak bowed his head, murmuring. “Atalmire, forgive my heedless zeal. I am incomplete and mortal, I crave illumination only to serve the Revelation better.”

The dwenda stood like stone. “Illumination is coming, Pashla Menkarak. Rest assured. Possess your soul in patience. That is what your God and His servants ask of you now.”

Ringil thought vaguely about disabusing Menkarak of the line of shit they were feeding him, but his head hurt from the blow he’d been dealt and he really couldn’t be bothered. Doubtful he’d put a dent in what the invigilator chose to believe anyway. He had seen hard-line faith before, knew its blindness inside and out.

“Illumination is coming, eh,” he said to Risgillen. “You’ve really got this twat on a string, don’t you?”

She shrugged. “The priest is useful. He hates the black scourge as demons, he will wash away their mark upon his people if he can.”

“Yeah, well I doubt the rest of Yhelteth is going to see it that way.”

“Do you?” It was as if Risgillen could smell the lie on him. “This is not my post, I visit only. But as I understand, there is but a single Kiriath remaining. And the humans turn away, the humans throw away whatsoever they cannot easily comprehend. Ever thus, it was. With this, we ruled them once. We will do such again. And whatsoever the southern Emperor sends now against us, as you are witness, it is easily turned aside.”

Ringil grunted. At the corner of his eye, sprawled on the stone floor where the hallway began, he saw the protruding slippered legs of the man he’d killed in Menkarak’s place. He switched to Tethanne.

“Hey, you bearded fuck,” he said, nodding at the body. “Who’d you hide behind back there? Who took the chop for your sweet, lily-livered cheeks?”

Menkarak bristled. “Let infidel slaughter infidel, if it serve our cause. Hanesh Galat was apostate in the making. He diluted faith with his cheap compassion, he sowed doubt in his flock and his colleagues like a disease. He had congress with infernal workings of the Black Folk, and he came here proud of the fact. Weep for him if you care to, his soul is already in hell.”

The dwenda called Atalmire placed hands on the invigilator’s shoulders and steered him away. “Come, Pashla Menkarak, there is much to do elsewhere. The Talons of the Sun must be sharpened. The gateway blessed. Leave this infidel in our keeping. We will show him to his own prepared place in the depths.”

“Yes.” Menkarak was breathing heavily as he looked back at Ringil. “The Talons of the Sun. This city will burn, infidel, and all who are not purely of the Revelation will burn with it.”

“That’s enough.” Atalmire’s grip tightened and he propelled the invigilator less gently toward the hallway. “There is work to do.”

He spoke to Risgillen, fluid, lilting syllables of a tongue Ringil had last heard when he was with Seethlaw. Then he escorted Menkarak out of sight into the hall, stepping unceremoniously over the dead fall guy’s body as they went.

“Well,” said Risgillen. “Alone at last.”

Ringil shook his head wearily. “I’m sorry, Risgillen. I don’t think you have any idea how sorry I am. It didn’t end the way I planned.”

For some reason, it seemed to unleash in her a fury previously held in check.

“Sorry?” She leapt at the chair, grabbed it by the back on either side of his head. Blank black eyeballs, inches from his own. She hissed in his face. “You’re sorry? You took my brother from me.”

“You think I’d forgotten?”

She recoiled. Stood staring at Gil as if he was too hot to get near again. “He’s out there, you know that? Seethlaw is out there, in the Gray Places. Lost, I hear him howling, I hear…”

She mastered herself again. Wiped angrily at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

“You still don’t understand what you’ve done,” she whispered. “Do you?”

“I don’t care, Risgillen.” And then his own temper was suddenly out, unsheathed. He leaned hard into the bite of the ropes across his heart. “Don’t you fucking get it? You think I care what I’ve done, you think I’d go on living if I did? Do you really think what happened to your brother is the worst thing I’ve ever done? It doesn’t even come close!”

The ropes scorched and stung him. He leaned harder, breathed in the pain, glared up at her. The chair rocked back and forth. He found the strength to hiss.

“Go back to the Gray Places, Risgillen. Take your playmates with you. You’re not fucking wanted here anymore. We have outgrown you.”

Risgillen gestured sharply. Spoke a word. The ropes slithered and tightened, chopped off his breath, killed his voice, snapped him upright against the back of the chair.

“Excellent,” she said softly. “This is better than I had hoped.”

He tried to sag. The ropes would not let him.

“You stupid fucking bitch,” he wheezed.

And screamed weakly as the ropes sprouted long jagged thorns, tearing into his flesh at the arms and legs and across his crushed chest.

Risgillen came back to stand beside the chair. She leaned down and looked into his face from the side. Patted him on the shoulder like a favored pet.

“Do you know how long it’s taken,” she murmured, “for you to finally have something worth taking away?”

She jerked forward, he had a rushed glimpse of lengthening fangs in her mouth, and then she tore a living chunk out of his cheek and cracked the bone beneath.

Agony stormed him, black behind the eyes. He convulsed with the force of it. The ropes held him rigid, crushed the scream out of his chest before it could leave his lungs. He croaked and the agony washed about within him. The thorns writhed and stabbed. Risgillen spat out his flesh. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Leaned close again.

He flinched away. He couldn’t help it.

“Do you know the dealings I’ve had to have with the Ahn Foi over you?” Now her voice rose. “The contracts and cajoling it has taken to bring you here, to this moment? To find a life that matters to you, to work the skeins so it is put into your keeping? So it will be lost, on your account? I have rehearsed this, Ringil Eskiath, I have lived for this day to come.”

She lunged in again, he saw the teeth again, becoming fangs in the act of baring. Her tongue lashed, speared into his eye socket, exploded his sight. Her jaws fastened again, on bone this time. He heard something crack like the joint on a fowl dinner. Would have screamed if he could. Heard her growling as she worried at him.

Heard her unlatch her jaws with a click, and spit again.

His head hung. Blood dripped thickly into his lap. Vomit burned in his throat. Dimly, he realized he’d pissed himself. The agony spidered back and forth across the left side of his face. She leaned down next to his ear.

Oh no please no…

Her voice came softer than ever.

“In three days, Ringil, we will unleash the Talons of the Sun on this city, and it will burn. The Yhelteth Empire will collapse, and those who crawl from the ruins will be told it was the Black Folk and their knowledge who caused it. Any of that cursed race who remain, they will hunt down and torture to a slow death. Then, this idiot religion they own will burn all books but their own, and condemn all learning not from that book. They will regress to grubbing about on their knees in their own unworth. They will forget. There will be nothing to challenge the rise of the north, and with the north, we will rise, too. We will carve out a new Aldrain realm, and it will have Seethlaw’s name on it.” He made a noise, like choking.

“But that’s in three days.” She patted him on the shoulder again. He thrashed away from the touch. “First, your friend and great love Egar, slayer of dragons, will wait in vain for you to come back and free him. He will be taken and executed, slowly, in as much agony as your rather limited imaginations can manage. This, I have seen already, in the scrying of days. He will wait for you right to the end, and he will die, screaming, unmanned, knowing you failed him. I will bring you news of it, to season your other suffering.

“And only when that’s done will we unleash the Talons of the Sun.”

Ringil lifted his head. It was like raising a dressed-stone building block with his bare hands. His vision jerked about crazily, shot through with black and red and too much light. Risgillen was a wavering presence, like someone seen from under water. Trembling consumed him.

He thought he managed to snarl at her, but could not really be sure.

“Very good,” she said, from somewhere in a gathering darkness. “Strength. Where you now go, the more you have of strength, the more cursed you will be.”

Then she reached over his head with both arms and took hold of the chair by its back. She rocked it experimentally a couple of times, then shoved hard, so it went over backward with him in it.

He waited for it to crash against the floor, but it never did.

“Seethlaw is waiting” was the last thing he heard her say in the closing, roaring darkness as the Gray Places took him.

He fell then, forever.