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And then, looking upon this Champion of the Letherii king, this brother of Hull Beddict – Fear could not recall if he’d ever heard his name, but if he had, he’d forgotten it. That itself was a crime. He would have to learn that man’s name. It was important to learn it.
Fear was skilled with his sword. One of the finest sword-wielders among the Tiste Edur, a truth he simply accepted, with neither pride nor affected modesty. And, he knew, had he stood face to face with that Champion in the throne room, he would have lasted some time. Some fair time, and might well have, on occasion, surprised the Letherii. But Fear had no illusions about who would have been left standing when all was done.
He wanted to weep. For that Champion. For his king. For Rhulad, the brother he’d failed again and again. For Trull, whom he had now abandoned – to a choice no warrior should be forced to make.
Because he had failed Rhulad yet again. Trull could see that, surely. There was no way to hide the cowardice raging through Fear. Not from his closest, most cherished brother. Who gave voice to all my doubts, my terrors, so that I could defy them – so that I could be seen to defy them.
Shaped by Ha
Not even Ha
There had been a moment, back then, when everything was still simple. He was certain of it. Before the fated choices were made. And to all that had occurred since, there was only one who could give answer, and that was Father Shadow himself.
He walked the dusty streets, past corpses lying here and there like passed-out revellers from some wild fete the night before. Barring the blood, the scattered weapons.
He was… lost. They had asked too much of him, far too much. There in that throne room. We carried his body back. Across the ice wastes. I thought I had sent Trull to his death. So many failures, and every one of them mine. There must be other ways… other ways…
Motionless, now, looking down upon a body.
May en.
The hunger, he saw, was gone from her face. Finally, there was nothing but peace there. As he’d seen before, when he’d looked upon her sleeping. Or singing with the other maidens. When he’d carried the sword which she then took into her hands. To bury at the threshold of her home. He would not think of other times, when he caught a certain darkness in her eyes, and was left wondering on the twisting of her mind – such things a man could not know, could never know. Fearful mysteries, the ones that lured a man into love, into fascination and, at times, into trembling terror.
Her face held none of that now. Only peace. Sleeping, like the child within her, here on this street.
Fear crouched, then knelt beside her. He closed a hand on the horn grip of the fisher knife, then pulled it from her chest. He studied the knife. A slave’s tool. A small sigil was carved near its base, one he recognized.
The knife had belonged to Udinaas.
Was this his gift? An offering of peace? Or simply one more act of deadly vengeance against the family of Edur who had owned him? Who had stolen his freedom? He abandoned Rhulad. As I have done. For that, I have no right to hate. But… what of this?
He rose, tucking the knife into his belt.
Mayen was dead. The child he would have loved was dead. Some force was here, some force eager to take everything away from him.
And he did not know what to do.
Weeping, ceaseless, weeping from the blood-spattered, twisted form lying on the floor of the throne room. On his knees ten paces away, Trull had his hands to his ears, wanting it to end, wanting someone to end it. This moment… it was trapped, deep within itself. It would not end. An eternal chorus of piteous crying, reaching into his skull.
Ha
Among the Letherii, only one remained, his reappearance a mystery, yet he stood, expression serene yet watchful, near the far wall. Young, handsome and somehow… soft. Not a soldier, then. He had said nothing, seeming content to observe.
Where were the other Edur? Trull could not understand. They had left Binadas, unconscious but alive, at the far end of the corridor. He turned his head in that direction, saw the huddled shapes of the queen and her son beside the entranceway. The prince looked either dead or asleep. The queen simply watched Ha
I need to find Father. He will know what to do… no, there is nothing to know, is there? Just as there is… nothing to do. Nothing at all, and that was the horror of it.
‘Please… Trull…’
Trull shook his head, trying not to hear.
‘All I wanted… you, and Fear, and Binadas. I wanted you to… include me. Not a child any longer, you see? That’s all, Trull’
Ha
‘Be quiet,’ Trull said.
‘Do not speak to your king that way, Trull Sengar. It will… cost you.’
‘I am to quail at your threats, Warlock King?’
Trull let his hands fall away from his ears. The gesture had been useless. This chamber carried the slightest whisper. Besides, there could be no deafness without when there was none within. He caught slight movement from the Letherii at the far wall and looked over to see that he had turned his head, attention fixed now upon the entranceway. The man suddenly frowned.
Then Trull heard footsteps. Heavy, dragging. A sound of metal, and something like streaming water,
Ha
Trull did not move.
Rhulad’s weeping resumed, indifferent to all else.
The thudding footsteps came closer.
A moment later, an apparition shambled into view, blood pouring down from its gauntleted hands. Nearly the size of a Tarthenal, it was sheathed in black, stained iron plates, studded with green rivets. A great helm with caged eye-slits hid the face within, the grille-work hanging ragged on its shoulders and beneath its armoured chin. The figure was encrusted with barnacles at the joins of its elbows, knees and ankles. In one hand it carried a sword of Letherii steel, down which the blood flowed ceaselessly.
Rhulad hissed, ‘What is it, Trull? What has come?’
The monstrosity paused just within the entrance. Head creaking as it looked round, it fixed its focus, it seemed, on the corpse of the King’s Champion. It resumed walking forward, leaving twin trails of blood.
‘Trull!’ Rhulad shrieked.
The creature halted, looked down at the emperor lying on the floor. After a moment, a heavy voice rumbled from within the helm. ‘You are gravely injured.’
Trembling, Rhulad laughed, a sound close to hysteria. ‘Injured? Oh yes. Cut to pieces!’
‘You will live.’
Ha
‘You can try,’ it said. And moved forward once more. Until it stood directly in front of the Champion’s body. ‘I see no wounds, yet he lies dead. This honourable mortal.’
‘Poison,’ said the Letherii at the far wall.
The creature looked over. ‘I know you. I know all your names.’