Orb Sceptre Throne

Book 4: Novels of the Malazan Empire

by Ian C Esslemont

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Military Fantasy

Synopsis

The tumult of great powers colliding has passed and the city of Darujhistan and its citizens can at last get on with what matters: trading, bickering, politicking and enjoying all the good things in life. However, not all are ready to leave the past behind.

A treasure hunter, digging amongst the burial grounds that surround the city, is about to uncover a hidden crypt. He will open the last of a series of sealed vaults — the one that no other dared touch — and, in so doing, set free something so terrifying that the knowledge of its internment may have been systematically wiped from all history.

Fortune hunters are also at work far to the south. When a fragment of Moon's Spawn, once the home of Anomander Rake, Son of Darkness, crashed into the Rivan Sea it created a chain of small islands. Legends and rumours already surround them. The most potent of these is that here is hidden the Throne of Night, claimed by some to be the seat of Mother Dark herself.

Either way, all who seek this ancient artefact — renegade mages, hardened mercenaries, even a Malazan army deserter — believe it will bestow unlimited power upon the eventual possessor. The stakes are high, greed is rife, betrayal inevitable, and murder and chaos lie in wait...

A Random House UK audio production.

Release date: May 22, 2012

Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Print pages: 608

Sample

Orb Sceptre Throne

BOOK I
Orb
CHAPTER I
The problem with paths is that once you have chosen one, You cannot choose the others.
Attributed to Gothos' Folly
ON THE SOUTH COAST OF GENABACKIS THE FORMER FISHING village of Hurly was a mess. Nearly two years before, its original inhabitants had drowned without warning in tidal waves that inundated it when the last fragments of the titanic floating mountain named Moon's Spawn crashed into the Rivan Sea. Then, when the flood waters receded, a motley army of treasure-hunters, scavengers and looters had descended upon its corpse like a swarm of flies, and soon after that came an even worse plague: the thieves, conmen and other swindlers who preyed upon them.
Representatives of the Southern Confederation of Free Cities were the first to arrive at the scene of devastation. Wreckers and pirates from way back, they salvaged everything they could, namely the surviving boats of the region, and established a concession out to the newly born isles. A few months later transport fees and tariffs were settled upon and four separate armed challenges to their monopoly had been successfully put down.
Now, after more than a year of trade, the Southern Confederation had firmly established itself as the sole representative of the islands, which they named, with characteristic directness, the Spawns.


Jallin, nicknamed the Jumper for his habit of ambushing from the rear, had to admit that the good times in Hurly were officially over. He and all the other hustlers and scavengers could feel the pinch of lean times. The one-time flood of fortune-hunters had thinned toa trickle of ragged men and women no better off than those who'd already clawed out a spot in the festering town.
Jallin the Jumper knew this well. He'd seen the cycle play itself out in town after town up north, where the Malazan wars had fuelled the rabid, cannibalistic economies of scarcity and demand. He sensed that here the frenzy of fortunes won overnight and even more quickly lost would never reach the pitch it had seasons ago. And it was ending before he'd made his big strike. Just as it had at Pale, Kurl and Callows. Only this time he wouldn't let that happen. Couldn't. Because Hurly was the end of the road. As far south as all these losers and dregs could slide. Everyone's last chance.
So he paid close attention when yet another new arrival came tramping down the town's muddy main track. The newcomer was a wiry ragged veteran, a foreigner by his ruddy hair and ginger moustache - a Malazan. He wore army-standard sandals and cloak, and carried battered leather panniers over one shoulder. That the man was a veteran didn't worry Jallin; almost all the loser fortune-hunters who came down that road had once marched in any number of armies up north - and usually deserted from every damned one. To him they were pathetic in their willingness to get maimed or killed for the promise of a handful of coin or a scratch of land.
This one appeared to have fared even worse than most. A single shortsword hung at his side, but other than that all he carried was the panniers slung over a shoulder and kept tightly gripped in one scarred and sun-browned hand. Those wide bags interested Jallin. What, he wondered, would an old soldier, cashiered or deserted, think vital enough to drag with him all the way down here to the Spawns?
The veteran stopped where so many of the other hopeful Spawn-looters had halted: where the cart-track ended at the strand of slate-black gravel that sloped down to the Rivan Sea. Here, the observant among them usually noticed two important things: that the Spawn Isles were those distant faint dots far out to sea, and that there wasn't a single boat in sight.
These discoveries often left even the hardiest and most resilient feeling lost, and so here was where Jallin preferred to approach his targets. As he came alongside, the fellow was still squinting out to sea, and so he murmured: 'There they are, hey? Pay-dirt.'
The old guy grunted something, eyed the wreckage-strewn gravel beach. 'I'm lookin' for a boat.'
Jallin smiled. 'Isn't everyone here, friend? And it just so happens I know a man who might have room for one more on his.'
That got a look. He could tell from the man's blunt gaze that he'd seen a lot. Most veterans had an odd hard stare that Jallin couldn't quite understand - himself not having ever been stupid enough to set foot on a battlefield. It could make a man think twice about giving them trouble. But despite this he'd gone ahead and robbed, cheated, rolled, and even murdered some. All from behind, or from a position of trust, of course. Which was why he considered their toughness and fighting skills irrelevant. After all, peacetime was a very different sort of war.
'How much?' the fellow asked. He relaxed his grip to shade his eyes against the western sun. Whatever was in those bags, it looked heavy. Jallin wet his lips then gave his friendliest chuckle.
'How much? Oh, it'll cost. I won't insult you by pretending I can get you some kinda special deal or some such shit. It'll cost. That we got to negotiate, right?'
Another neutral grunt. Jallin pointed back up the track to where it cut between slapped-up inns, stores and taprooms. 'The Island Inn maybe, hey? What d'you say? You look like you could use a drink.'
The fellow turned, squinted up the track, even chewed at an edge of his moustache. After one last lingering stare out to sea, his tensed shoulders fell and he sighed. 'Yeah. Could use a drink.'
Jallin showed the way. He kept up a constant distracting chatter about all the adventurers he knew who'd struck it rich out at the Spawns - which in truth was no one. None who had ever returned, that is. All the while he was thinking: we'll settle a price for tonight, not too low, not too high. Nothing to arouse suspicion. Then down at the beach he'd introduce him to his 'friend'. All the razor-sharp pointed length of it. His misericorde - the weapon he used to put old soldiers where they belonged: out of their misery.


The Island Inn was unique among Hurly's new buildings in that it possessed stone walls. It occupied all that remained of a temple to Poliel, goddess of disease, pestilence and plague. It seemed the old population of Hurly had been particularly anxious to appease her. Perhaps it had to do with all the neighbouring marshes. The new owner of the structure, Akien Threw, liked to joke that they would've been far better off appeasing the cult of Elder Dark, of which the Moon's Spawn had been a holy artefact.
As Jallin entered, guiding the old soldier to a table in the rear,he caught Akien's eye. All the town's touts and hustlers had an understanding with the man: a meal and a floor to flop on in exchange for heading clients his way. Plus a percentage of any take, of course.
Two tall tankards of beer arrived almost the instant they rested their arms on the tabletop of silvery-grey driftwood slats. The veteran's eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down. 'What's this?'
In the relative darkness of the inn Jallin was struck by the scars that lined the fellow's face and how his mangy ginger hair, grey in places, grew patchily one side as if over burns. But he'd seen old soldiers before and almost all carried scars. They all parted with what little coin they'd gathered over the years as easily as anyone, and more swiftly than most. 'So what's your name then, friend?'
After a time the man growled, 'Red. Red Dog.'
Jallin raised a brow at that but said nothing: he didn't give a damn what the fellow's name was. 'Well, Red, this is Elingarth ale. The good stuff.' He touched a finger to the side of his nose. 'The owner's a friend of mine.'
'I'll bet he is,' the soldier muttered darkly. But he lifted the tankard and took a long pull. Jallin noted the nest of white scar ridges up and down the man's forearm. He decided he'd be a touch worried if the fellow wasn't obviously so far past his prime. He also noted how the fellow kept a tight grip on the panniers on his lap.
The veteran wiped his mouth and grimaced his distaste. 'I doubt that's from Elingarth.'
Jallin gave an easy shrug. 'I wouldn't know. Another?'
'Abyss, no.'
'Sure. It's early yet.'
In keeping with the diminishing flow of treasure-hunters, the inn's common room was deserted. A pair of guards, no more than old-hand hustlers like Jallin, sat by the door. Two men sat hunched almost head to head at a table nearby, both staring sullenly out into the day's last slanting yellow rays. One elegantly dressed young man, a scion of some aristocratic family or other, commanded another table. He was with three others, all of whom Jallin knew as local thugs and would-be guides, like himself.
The young man leaned back suddenly and announced: 'Then there's no sense heading out. It's too late by far. The place has been picked clean by now.'
The old soldier, Red, turned to watch him.
One of the local guides said something to which the noblemananswered, dismissively, 'Well, who's come back recently? Has anyone? '
Another of the companions offered, 'If I found anything out there I sure as death wouldn't come back here.' They all had a good laugh at that, except the noble youth.
Jallin leaned forward, murmured, 'That's all just sour talk. He's afraid to head out.'
'So,' the veteran drawled, 'where are all the ships?'
Two more tankards arrived care of a shuffling serving boy. 'Anchored off shore. Launches put in at dawn and you buy your berth. But,' he added, lowering his voice, 'it's possible to slip out past them at night. For a fee.'
The soldier nodded his understanding. 'At dawn, when the boats put in. Why doesn't everyone just rush 'em?'
'Southern Free Cities Confederation soldiers, my friend. They got things wrapped up.'
'So what's to stop others from showing up with their own boats?'
Jallin laughed. 'Oh, they've tried. They've tried. But these Confederation boys are pirates and wreckers like none other. Sank the lot of them.'
'But a warship maybe? Malazan?'
Jallin drained his tankard. 'Yeah. A couple months back. A Malazan warship bulled its way through. Ain't been seen since.' He grinned toothily. 'Maybe they all got done in.'
The old soldier took a long pull from his tankard. 'Just like the guy said. No one's come back. Is that right?'
Jallin did his best to laugh good-naturedly. 'What? You want someone else to get out with a boatload of loot? Listen, the main isle is damned huge. It takes a lot of time to search through all that. You don't just arrive and trip over some kinda chest of gold.' He pretended to take a deep sip of his second tankard, unconcerned, but damned the loudmouth, whoever he was. Anyway, all that mattered was that the old guy accompany him down to the shore to meet his 'friend'. He would meet him all right.
The veteran sucked his teeth then brushed at his moustache. 'Right. Well, that's about all I need to hear. Thanks for the drink.' He stood, draped the bags over one shoulder.
Jallin stood with him. 'But I could get you out tonight. My friend--'
'Would bash me over the head,' the soldier finished.
Jallin caught Akien's eye, spread his hands. 'Fine. You don't want my help? To Hood with you.'
From the bar, Akien nodded to his two guards, who stood and blocked the door. The soldier pulled up short. He glanced to the big bull-like owner who was crossing the floor, tapping a truncheon in one hand. 'What's the problem?' the old guy asked.
'The problem, sir, is of the bill.'
Jallin had kept his distance, waiting for his chance, and the veteran motioned directly to him. 'This one here. He'll pay.'
Akien stopped before his guards, which put Jallin directly to the soldier's rear. Jallin curled his fingers around his belt, close to the worn grips of his daggers. 'No,' Akien said, slow and stubborn, like the bull he resembled. 'It is plain to me that you ordered the drinks, sir.'
The old soldier bit back any further argument; everyone knew he hadn't ordered the drinks but the claim had to be made for the sake of appearances. It was the dance of the clip joint - free to enter, but damned expensive to leave. 'All right,' he growled, resigned. 'How much is it then?'
Akien raised his bows, figuring. 'Four tankards of Elingarth ale, sir? That would be two Darujhistani gold councils.'
An awed whistle sounded through the inn. Everyone looked to the young nobleman. He had an arm hooked over the rear of his chair, leaning back. 'That, good innkeeper, is a ruinous price.'
Akien hunched his fat rounded shoulders, glowering. 'Cartage.'
The nobleman eyed the veteran, cocked a brow.
The soldier grasped a nearby chair to support himself. 'I don't have that kind of money!'
Jallin touched his shoulder to indicate the bags. Akien nodded. 'Then your bags, sir, in payment.'
The soldier's other hand went to the pannier. 'No.'
The two guards started forward, their truncheons ready. At that instant the soldier exploded into action: the chair flew into one guard while a boot hammered into the second. The veteran's speed surprised Jallin but he knew he was faster. Akien's bulk in the doorway caused the man to ease his rush and Jallin had him.
A voice barked: 'Your rear!' and the veteran twisted aside. Jallin's razor-honed friend missed the artery in a shallow slice. Then a blur at the edge of Jallin's vision smacked his head backwards and he fell. The last he heard was Akien's bellow of pain and outrage as the soldier dealt with him.




'The Moranth attaché awaits you, Ambassador.'
Ambassador Aragan of the Imperial Malazan delegation in Darujhistan held his head and groaned over his steaming infusion of koru nut. 'Burn's mercy, man. Can't it wait?'
His aide, Captain Dreshen Harad 'Ul, being one of the noble houses of Unta, stood spear-straight, his maroon and black Imperial dress uniform enviably crisp. 'The attaché is most insistent.'
Aragan tossed back the thimble of black liquid and winced. Gods, I should never have tried to keep up with those visiting Barghast. They just don't know when to quit. He blinked gritty eyes at Dreshen, picked up a knife and oven-roasted flatbread. 'Invite him to breakfast, then.'
His aide saluted.
He spread Rhivi honey on the bread. Haven't even found my footing yet and I'm supposed to negotiate with the Moranth? What do they expect in Unta - bouncing me all over? Damned cock-up is what it is. I'll probably never even meet this new damned Emperor Mallick what's-his-face.
The Moranth attaché was shown into Aragan's chambers, the outer of which he chose to use as a meeting room and office. He liked the view from the terrace overlooking the estate's rear gardens. The attaché was a Red veteran. His blood-hued chitinous armour bore a skein of scars and gouges from combat. Aragan rose, dabbed at his mouth. 'Commander Torn.'
The attaché bowed stiffly. 'Ambassador.'
Aragan sat, gesturing to the chair opposite. 'To what do I owe the honour?'
The attaché declined the invitation with a small wave of a gauntleted hand. He straightened and clasped those armoured gauntlets behind his back. 'We of the Moranth delegation request a favour from our old allies.'
Aragan's brows rose. Oho! Old allies is it now? When did this come about? They've been denying troop requests for the last year. 'Yes?'
It was hard to tell with the man's full helm and body-hugging armour, but the attaché appeared uncomfortable. He paced to the threshold of the double doors that opened on to the terrace, his back to Aragan. 'We request that you press the Council into interdicting the burial grounds to the south of the city.'
Aragan choked on his mouthful of toasted flatbread. The aide rushed forward to pour a glass of watered wine, which Aragangulped down. 'Gods, man!' he gasped. 'You do not ask much!' He cleared his throat. 'I suggest you press them yourself.'
'We have been. For months. They will not listen to us. There is a ... history ... between us.'
Aragan raised the glass to his aide, who nodded and exited. He edged his chair round to face the attaché's stiff back. 'So, what is it? Why the burial grounds?'
'There are those among us--' The attaché stopped himself, shook his helmed head. 'No, that will not do.' He turned, took a long bracing breath. 'You name our colours clans, so we understand. Yet "guilds" would really be a more accurate description. In any case, among us those you name the Silvers you could think of as closest to your mages. Though they are more like mystics, in truth.'
Aragan could only stare. This was more than he'd ever heard from all the Moranth he'd ever spoken to before. There were scholars in Unta who could establish careers on the information he'd just been afforded on these ferociously secretive people.
Attaché Torn crossed his arms. 'For some time disquiet has spread among the Silver. They are anxious regarding the burial grounds - and the things that many believe they hold.'
Captain Dreshen returned with the tiny cup of koru-nut infusion. Aragan took it, then signed for privacy. 'Torn, those ruins extend for leagues across the Dwelling Plain. An area larger than the city itself! Do you have any idea how many troops it would take ...'
'I'm told to point out your garrisons and the majority of the Fifth in the north. Elements of Onearm's Host in the south--'
Aragan threw his hands in the air. 'Hold on!' Grimacing in pain, he gulped down his infusion. 'I can't bring that many troops so close to the city! Think about it. It would be seen as tantamount to a Malazan putsch! An act of war.' He waved it aside. 'No. Out of the question.'
Torn dropped his arms, the keratin plates grinding. 'I thought not.' He almost sighed. 'However, my superiors commanded that the request be made. So be it. I ask, then, that you at least gather your most skilled mages and task them to delve into any activities out on the burial grounds.'
Aragan frowned, considering. 'I can probably do that, yes. But, think of it. What your Silvers are sensing is probably just the disturbances in the Warrens from what happened here ... Anomander Rake's sword broken, so they say. Hood cultists claiming he washere and died himself - if you can credit that. My cadre mages are still groaning from those shocks.'
'Be that as it may ... will you indulge me in this?'
'Of course, Torn. Of course. As a favour to you.'
The Moranth inclined his helmed head in thanks. 'Very good. Please pass on any intelligence. Until then, Ambassador.'
Aragan crossed to the door. 'Attaché.'
Once the Moranth had gone, Aragan waved in Captain Dreshen and returned to his breakfast. He ate staring out of the open twinned doors of the terrace. When he'd finished he sat back, sipping his watered wine. He raised his gaze to his aide. 'Pass word down south to Fist ... who is it down there?'
'Steppen.'
'Yes, Steppen. Tell her to send up all the troops she can spare. And who's Central Command, the Free Cities garrisons?'
'That would be Fist K'ess, in Pale.'
'Right. He should be able to knock together at least a few companies. They can rendezvous to the west, somewhere south of Dhavran.'
Dreshen merely cocked a brow. 'And when there are questions ... ?'
'Just a training exercise, Captain. Nothing more. The usual hurry up and wait.'
'I understand. Very good, Ambassador.' He turned to go.
Aragan gulped down the last of his watered wine. 'And whom do we have in the city whom we can rely on to do some quiet work for us, off the books?'
A smile crept up Captain Dreshen's lips. 'We keep a list, Ambassador. '




She was getting used to the strangeness of this bizarre realm so far from the world she knew. And she wondered whether that was a bad sign. Her companion, Leoman of the Flails, had named it the 'Shores of Creation'.
Firstly, there was the dawn - if such a term could be applied. It seemed to emerge from beneath the sea of molten light. It began as a brightening in one direction, call that the east if you must, though any magnet and needle brought here probably would not know what to do. The glimmering sea of energy seemed to give up some of its shine and this bright wash, or wave, swelled over the dome of thestarry sky, obscuring it in a kind of daylight that, in its turn, faded back into starry night.
Of their route of entry, the Chaos Whorl, she could find only the faintest bruising against the horizon in one direction, and that fading like the last traces of twilight. Perhaps the army of Tiste Liosan with Jayashul and her brother, L'oric, had overcome the magus who sustained that gap, or tear, in creation.
Or perhaps he'd simply fled. Who knew? Not she. Not trapped here in this eternal neverplace. Which was just as well, since yet again she'd failed. Even with the help of her witch aunt Agayla and the Enchantress, the Queen of Dreams herself, she'd failed. And now it was over, everything, over and done. No more striving. No more seeking. No more self-recrimination - what was the point?
It was, she decided, in one way deliciously liberating.
She laid her head on Leoman's bare arm. Was it then desperation that finally drove them together? Or mere loneliness? They were, after all, the only man and woman in all creation. And this man: one of the Malazan Empire's deadliest enemies. He had been bodyguard to the rebel leader Sha'ik. Then he'd commanded the Seven Cities Army of the Apocalypse and delivered to the Empire one of its bloodiest maulings at the city of Y'Ghatan.
Yet no ogre. Harsh, yes. Calculating, and a survivor. In the end not too unlike her.
His breathing pattern changed and she knew he was awake. He sat up, ran his gaze down her naked flank and thigh and smiled from beneath his long moustache. 'Good morning to you.'
Gods how she ached to tell him to get rid of that moustache! 'If it is a morning.'
Grunting, he crossed his legs and set his arms on his knees. 'We can only assume.'
'So, what now? Do we build a hut from driftwood? Weave hats from leaves and raise a brood of savages?'
'There is no driftwood,' he said absently, eyes narrowed to the south.
She sifted a hand through the fine black sand they lay upon. 'I'd always wondered how those old creation of the race myths ran. Populating the land was one thing, but what about the second generation? I suppose if you're all for polygamy and incest in the first place it wouldn't strike you as a problem ...'
She glanced up: his narrowed gaze was steady on the distance. 'Burn take it! You're not ignoring me already, are you?'
His mouth quirked. 'Not yet.' He raised his chin to the south. 'Our friend is gone.'
She rolled over, scanned the sky over the shore. Gone indeed, their titanic neighbour. A being so immense it seemed as if he could hug the entire floating mountain of the Moon's Spawn within the span of his arms. Now there was no sign of him. And she hadn't heard a thing.
She sprang to her feet, began dressing. 'Why didn't you say something, dammit!'
He peered up at her, still smiling. 'I didn't want to interrupt. You don't like it when I interrupt you.'
She threw her weapon belt over a shoulder. 'Very funny. C'mon.'
He pulled on the silk shorts he wore beneath his felt trousers - for the itching, he'd explained. 'Something tells me there's no hurry,
Kiska. If there's any place to abandon haste, this is it.'
She continued arming herself. 'Your problem is you're lazy. You'd be happy just to lie here all day.'
'And make love to you? Certainly.'
'Leoman! You can turn off the charm, yes?'
He pulled his stained quilted gambeson over his head, yanked it down. 'With you, Kiska? No charm. It's the moustache - the moustache gets them every time.'
'Gods deliver me!' Kiska headed off down the beach. If he only knew.


Three rocky headlands later Kiska stood peering down on yet another long scimitar arc of black beach. The clatter of jagged volcanic rocks announced Leoman's approach. He sat with a heavy sigh, adjusted the leather wrapping over his trouser legs. 'He'd have a hard time hiding, Kiska.'
She bit back a snarl of disgust. 'Don't you want to find out what's here?'
A disinterested wave: 'There's nothing here.'
She eyed the broad smooth expanse of the beach, noted something there, something tall. 'Over there.'
Closer, she saw now why she'd missed it. The same dull black as the sands, he was. Now about her height, since he was sitting. As they approached, feet shushing through the sands, he stood, towering to twice that. He reminded her of a crude sculpture of a person carved from that fine-grained black stone, basalt. His hands were broad fingerless shovels, his head a worn stone between boulder-likeshoulders. He was identical in every detail to the mountain-sized titan they'd watched these last weeks digging in the sea of light, apparently building up the shoreline. Leoman stepped up next to her, hands near his morningstars, but those weapons still sensibly strapped to his sides. 'Greetings,' she called, her voice dry and weak. Gods, how does one address an entity such as this?
Stone grated as it cocked its head aside as if listening.
'My name is Kiska, and this is Leoman.' She waited for an answer. The entity merely regarded them - or so she imagined, as now she could see that it had no eyes, no mouth, no features at all that could be named a face. 'Do you understand--'
She flinched as a voice spoke within her mind: 'Do you hear me? For I hear you.' The wonder in Leoman's widened eyes made it clear that he had heard as well. 'Yes. I - we - can hear you.'
'Good. I am pleased. Welcome, strangers! You are most welcome. For ages none have visited. I have been alone. Now even more come! I am gladdened.'
At that she could not suppress an eager glance to Leoman. More! It said more! His answering gaze held warning and caution. She brushed them aside: if this thing wanted to kill them there was little they could do about it. She took a steadying breath. 'And your name? What should we call you?'
'No name such as I understand your term. I carry what you would call a title. I am Maker.'
She stared, speechless. All the gods above and below. Maker. The Creator? No. It did not say Creator. It said Maker. Muttering distracted her: Leoman murmuring beneath his breath. She almost laughed aloud. The Seven Cities invocation of the gods! Cynical Leoman thrown back on to his roots! Yet the prayer seemed mouthed more in wonder than devotion.
She tried to speak, couldn't force words past her dry throat. Her knees felt watery and she stepped back, blinking. Leoman's hand at her shoulder steadied her. 'There are others, you say?' she managed to force out. 'More of us?'
'One other like you. One other not.'
'I see ...' I think. 'May we meet them? Are they here?'
'One is.' An arm as thick and blocky as a stalactite gestured further down the beach. 'This way.' Maker turned, stepping, and when the slab-like foot landed the sands beneath Kiska's feet shuddered and rocks cracked and tumbled down the surrounding headlands.
Now we hear him? Perhaps he has made himself somehowdifferent in order to communicate. Walking alongside, she saw no one else on the sweep of the black sands. Yet some object did lie ahead. A flat polished flag of stone, deep blood-red veined with black. Garnet, perhaps. And on the slab what appeared no more than a wind-gathered pile of trash: a fistful of twigs and leaves. Kiska gasped and ran ahead.
Their guide.
She knelt at the stone. Maker towered over her, his featureless domed head bent to peer downward. Leoman came walking up behind, his hands tucked into his wide weapon belt.
'Is it ... dead?'
'For this creature, a curious distinction. What essence animated it before was not its own. And now, though that vial essence might have fled, an even greater potentiality yet remains within.'
'It was with us.'
'I thought as much. You arrived soon after.'
Kiska swept the remains into its small leather bag. Struggling to keep her voice steady, she asked, 'And the other? The one like us?'
'The other is gendered as this one,' Maker said, indicating Leoman. 'He came to me out of the Vitr.'
She blinked up at him. 'The Vitr?'
Maker's blunt head turned to the restless surging sea of light. 'The Vitr. That from which all creation comes.'
'All ... creation? Everything?'
'All that exists. All distills out of the Vitr. And all returns to dissolution. You, I. All life essence. All sentience.'
Kiska felt her brows rising higher and higher. 'All? Everything? All races? Surely not the dragons ... the Tiste ... or the Jaghut.'
Maker's shovel hands clenched into fists with a grinding and crackling of rock. The sands at his wide feet hissed and glowed, sintering into black obsidian glass. The beach shuddered and a great landslide of rocks echoed among the distant headlands. Kiska found herself on the ground, and rolled away from the searing heat surrounding Maker.
'Speak not to me of the meddling Jaghut!'
The juddering of the ground faded away. She had covered her face to shield it from the radiance and now her leather sleeve came away red and wet. She coughed and spat out a mouthful of blood. Leoman was daubing at his nose. 'My apologies, Maker,' she managed, coughing more.
The entity had raised his fists before his blank stone face andseemed to regard them as if astonished. The hands ground open. 'No - it is I who must apologize. I am sorry. My anger ... they have done me a great wound.' The arms fell to hang loose at his sides. 'As to those you name dragons, the Eleint. I myself have assisted beings who emerged fully formed from the Vitr. Some took that form. I do not know whether they were the first of their kind, or if others came into existence elsewhere. As to the Tiste ... the Andii emerged from eternal night, true, yet what of the vital essence which animates? I believe the underlying energy which moves all originates here, in the Vitr. And for that some would name it the First Light.'
Kiska regarded the great shift