‘Indeed? Then why, may I ask, are you here?’
‘He volunteered himself,’ Buruk answered. ‘It was not for me to turn him away.’
‘True. That responsibility, as I understand the matter, belonged to the Acquitor.’ Hannan Mosag studied her, waiting.
‘I did not feel compelled to deny Hull Beddict’s decision to accompany us, sire.’
‘Yes,’ the Warlock King replied. ‘Isn’t that curious?’
Sweat prickled beneath her damp clothes. ‘Permit me to correct myself, sire. I did not believe I would succeed, had I attempted to deny Hull Beddict. And so I decided to maintain the illusion of my authority.’
Hannan Mosag’s sudden smile was profoundly disarming. ‘An honest reply. Well done, Acquitor. You may now go.’
She rose shakily, bowed. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Warlock King.’
‘I reciprocate the sentiment, Acquitor. I would we speak later, you and I.’
‘I am at your call, sire.’
Not meeting the eyes of her fellow Letherii, Seren stepped round the chair, then made her way outside.
The Warlock King had denied her the burden of witnessing all that followed this night between himself, Hull and Buruk. On a personal level, it stung, but she knew that he might very well have just saved her life.
In any case, all that had needed to be said had been said. She wondered if Hull Beddict had understood that. There was no doubt that Buruk had.
We are sorely unbalanced, indeed. Hannan Mosag, the Warlock King, wants peace .
The rain had returned. She drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders.
Poor Hull.
Someone edged to his side. Udinaas glanced over to see Hulad, the familiar lined face drawn, troubled and wan. ‘Are you all right?’
Hulad shrugged. ‘I was remembering the last time she cast, Udinaas. My nerves are ruined this night.’
Udinaas said nothing. It was with some measure of surprise that he himself was not feeling something similar. Changes had come to him, that much was clear. Feather Witch, he’d heard, had felt the brunt of Mayen’s displeasure. It seemed Uruth’s fury with the Nerek blessing, while delivered with quiet brevity, had been harsh in its content. Subsequently, Mayen had taken a switch to her slave’s back.
Of course, when it came to dealing with slaves, justice was without meaning.
He watched her move to stand in the centre of the cleared area. There were more slaves crowding the vast barn than there had been the last time. Enticed by the fraught tales of the past casting, no doubt. Almost as good as the Drownings .
Feather Witch sat down on the hard-packed floor and everyone else quickly followed suit, moving with an alacrity that she herself was not able to match, bruised and battered as she was. Udinaas saw the strain in her movements, and wondered to what extent she blamed him for her suffering. Mayen was no harder a mistress than any other Edur. Beatings were mercifully uncommon – most egregious crimes committed by slaves were punished with swift death. If one was not going to kill a slave, what value incapacitating them?
The last casting had not proceeded so far as to the actual scattering of the tiles. The Wyval’s sudden arrival had torn Feather Witch from the realm of the manifest Holds. Udinaas felt the first tremors of anticipation in his chest.
Sudden silence as Feather Witch closed her eyes and lowered her head, her yellow hair closing over her face like twin curtains. She shuddered, then drew a deep, ragged breath, and looked up with empty eyes, in which the black smear of a starless night sky slowly grew, as from behind thinning fog, followed by spirals of luminous light.
The Beginnings swept upon her with its mask of terror, twisting her features into something primal and chilling. She was, Udinaas knew, gazing upon the Abyss, suspended in the vast oblivion of all that lay between the stars. There were no Makers yet, nor the worlds they would fashion.
And now the Fulcra. Fire, Dolmen and the Errant. The Errant, who gives shape to the Holds -
‘Walk with me to the Holds.”
The Letherii slaves loosed long-held breaths.
‘ We stand upon Dolmen, and all is as it should be .’ Yet there was a strain to her voice. ‘ To live is to wage war against the Abyss. In our growth we find conquest, in our stagnation we find ourselves under siege, and in our dying our last defences are assailed. These are the truths of the Beast Hold. Blade and Knuckles, the war we cannot escape. Age has clawed the face and gouged the eyes of the Elder. He is scarred and battle-ravaged. Crone cackles with bitter spit, and twitches with dreams of flight. Seer’s mouth moves yet there are none to hear. Shaman wails the weft of the dead in fields of bones, yet believes none of the patterns he fashions from those scattered remains. Tracker walks his steps assured and purposeful, to belie that he wanders lost .’