House of Chains
A long moment of silence, then Bairoth replied, ‘At last, something to look forward to.’
Karsa almost fell to his knees, then. Grief, finally unleashed. At an end, his time of solitude. His penance was done. The journey to begin again. Dear Urugal, you shall witness. Oh, how you shall witness .
The hearth was little more than a handful of dying coals. After Felisin Younger left, Heboric sat motionless in the gloom. A short time passed, then he collected an armload of dried dung and rebuilt the fire. The night had chilled him-even the hands he could not see felt cold, like heavy pieces of ice at the end of his wrists.
The only journey that lay ahead of him was a short one, and he must walk it alone. He was blind, but in this no more blind than anyone else. Death’s precipice, whether first glimpsed from afar or discovered with the next step, was ever a surprise. A promise of the sudden cessation of questions, yet there were no answers waiting beyond. Cessation would have to be enough. And so it must be for every mortal. Even as we hunger for resolution. Or, even more delusional: redemption .
Now, after all this time, he was able to realize that every path eventually, inevitably dwindled into a single line of footsteps. There, leading to the very edge. Then… gone. And so, he faced only what every mortal faced. The solitude of death, and oblivion’s final gift that was indifference.
The gods were welcome to wrangle over his soul, to snipe and snap over the paltry feast. And if mortals grieved for him, it was only because by dying he had shaken them from the illusion of unity that comforted life’s journey. One less on the path.
A scratch at the flap entrance, then the hide was drawn aside and someone entered.
‘Would you make of your home a pyre, Ghost Hands?’ The voice was L’oric’s.
The High Mage’s words startled Heboric into a sudden realization of the sweat running down his face, the gusts of fierce heat from the now raging hearth. Unthinking, he had fed the flames with piece after piece of dung.
‘I saw the glow-difficult to miss, old man. Best leave it, now, let it die down.’
‘What do you want, L’oric?’
‘Why should I trust you? You are hidden-even to Sha’ik. You give no reason as to why you are here. In her cadre, in this war.’
Heboric sneered. ‘That earns you less than you might think. There can be no exchange because there is nothing you can tell me that I would be interested in hearing. The schemes of Febryl? The man’s a fool. Bidithal’s perversions? One day a child will slip a knife between his ribs. Korbolo Dom and Kamist Reloe? They war against an empire that is far from dead. Nor will they be treated with honour when they are finally brought before the Empress. No, they are criminals, and for that their souls will burn for eternity. The Whirlwind? That goddess has my contempt, and that contempt does naught but grow. Thus, what could you possibly tell me, L’oric, that I would value?’
‘Only the one thing that might interest you, Heboric Light Touch. Just as this Master of the Deck interests me. I would not cheat you with the exchange. No, I would tell you all that I know of the Hand of Jade, rising from the otataral sands-the Hand that you have touched, that now haunts your dreams.’
‘How could you know these-’ He fell silent. The sweat on his brow was now cold.
‘And how,’ L’oric retorted, ‘can you sense so much from a mere description of the Master’s card? Let us not question these things, else we trap ourselves in a conversation that will outlive Raraku itself. So, Heboric, shall I begin?’
‘No. Not now. I am too weary for this. Tomorrow, L’oric.’
‘Delay may prove… disastrous.’ After a moment, the High Mage sighed. ‘Very well. I can see your exhaustion. Permit me, at least, to brew your tea for you.’
The gesture of kindness was unexpected, and Heboric lowered his head. ‘L’oric, promise me this-that when the final day comes, you be a long way from here.’
‘A difficult promise. Permit me to think on it. Now, where is the hen’bara?’
‘Hanging from a bag above the pot.’
‘Ah, of course.’
Heboric listened to the sounds of preparation, the rustle of flower-heads from the bag, the slosh of water as L’oric filled the pot. ‘Did you know,’ the High Mage murmured as he worked, ‘that some of the oldest scholarly treatises on the warrens speak of a triumvirate. Rashan, Thyr and Meanas. As if the three were all closely related to one another. And then in turn seek to link them to corresponding Elder warrens.’