It is as my friend says. Men twist to what they suffer inside. Jinia, I will find them and kill them. They won’t be able to hide, because what they did will be right there, on their faces.

‘The life of a child finds strength,’ said his friend, now a man again, ‘in its potential. That potential is stubborn. It doesn’t understand surrender … until it does, and with that understanding, the child withers and dies. You, Wreneck, don’t comprehend the notion of surrender. This is what draws us to you. You have the will of tender shoots, as they emerge from cracks in stone, or between the flagstones. Victory is far away, but inevitable. In this manner, the child is closest to nature, when the adult has long since fled the cost of ambition, and must live, day upon day, with the price of an entire language built around notions of surrender.’

Who are you? Wreneck asked.

‘We are dying gods.’

Why are you dying?

‘To make way for our children.’

But they need you!

‘They think not. Lessons, Wreneck, are not easily won. We see a future filled with blood. But you, child, we were drawn to you. Even so near death, you shine bright. We will leave you now. Do not ask our blessing. It has become a curse. Nature is an eternal child. Thus we, the eternal children of the world, now understand the notion of surrender. It is time, alas, to go away.’

Some memories returned to Wreneck, and with them, his friend vanished.

He had felt them lift his body from the grave. He was light in their hands, almost floating, and the rags he wore were stiff with frost. He thought he heard them speaking and there were two voices thus far. Just the two, and then the smell of woodsmoke and maybe heat, and now he was swaddled in furs. Beneath his back was a thick, tanned hide, and beneath that there were hot stones lifted out from the fire. Still, the hand upon his brow was the warmest thing he felt, and yet it remained impossibly far away.

Dying gods, I miss you.

The world beyond the farm and the town of Abara Delack was bigger than he had imagined. It just went on and on, like someone repeating the words of creation over and over again. Trees, hills, rocks, river, ditch, trees, trees, track and trail, road and ditch, hills, trees, stream, trees. Sky and sky and sky and sky … and the further it sprawled, the colder it got, as if the words had lost their love of themselves, as if the creator of the world was just getting tired of the whole thing, the over-and-over-again of it. Trees and sky and trees and glade and graves and pit and down here, yes, just down here, is what you need. See how small it is? Perfect.

‘Some never awaken,’ said a voice, and this one was real.

‘He will,’ replied the other, closer, belonging to the one whose hand was upon his brow. ‘You ever underestimate the strength of the Tiste.’

‘Perhaps I do at that.’

‘And he’s young, but not too young. A tough boy, I should say. See the burn scars and whip marks? And that one I’d wager was a sword-thrust. Should have killed him. It is difficult to claim that this child knows nothing of survival.’

‘What will you do with him?’

‘Dracons Keep is nearest us.’

‘Ah, I see. But Lord Draconus is not in residence, is he?’

‘Probably not, as you say, Azathanai.’

‘Mother Dark still holds him close.’

‘It may be that, yes.’

‘What else?’

There was a pause, and then came the reply, ‘He steps away from things. He chooses to remain in darkness, unseeing and unseen. By deliberate absence from all affairs, he wishes to be forgotten.’ The voice sighed and then continued. ‘Hopeless, yes. Events will drag him out before too long.’

‘As they will drag you back. To Kharkanas.’

‘Will you accompany me, then?’

‘To the Citadel? I think not. Walls and stone overhead makes me uncomfortable. No, I will simply await you, nearby.’

The hand slipped away, and Wreneck felt its sudden absence with a pang. But he heard the soft laugh, and then, ‘The High Mason cringes from walls and stone roof.’

A few moments passed, and then the other man said, ‘Every monument I raise from the earth is a prison, First Son. In being made, it is contained. In its shape, it displaces emptiness. In its conceit, it seeks to defy time.’

‘Well tended, such a monument can withstand ages, Caladan.’

Tags: Steven Erikson The Kharkanas Trilogy Fantasy
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