We who stand here have heard it before On this the other side Of the Gates of Madness.
Prayer of Child The Masked Monks of Cabal
Dragging his soul from its place of exhaustion and horror, the sound of a spinning chain awoke Nimander Golit. He stared up at the stained ceiling of his small room, his heart thumping hard in his chest, his body slick with sweat beneath damp blankets. That sound-it had seemed so real-And now, with eyes widening, he heard it again. Spinning, then odd snaps! Then spinning once more. He sat up. The squalid town outside slept, drowned in darkness unrelieved by any moon. And yet… the sound was coming from the street directly below;
Nimander rose from the bed, made his way to the door, out into the chilly hallway. Grit and dust beneath his bare feet as he padded down the rickety stairs.
Emerging, he rushed out into the street.
Yes, night’s deepest pit, and this was not-could not be-a dream.
The hissing chain and soft clack, close, brought him round. To see another Tiste Andii emerge from the gloom. A stranger. Nimander gasped.
The stranger was twirling a chain from one upraised hand, a chain with rings at each end.
‘Hello, Nimander Golit.’
‘Who-who are you? How do you know my name?’
‘I have come a long way, to this Isle of the Shake-they are our kin, did you know that? I suppose you did-but they can wait, for they are not yet ready and perhaps will never be ready. Not just Andii blood, after all. But Edur. Maybe even Liosan, not to mention human. No matter. Leave Twilight her island…’ he laughed, ‘empire.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You, Nimander Golit. And your kin. Go now, gather them. It is time for us to leave.’
‘What? Where?’
‘Are you truly a child?’ the stranger snapped in frustration. The rings clicked, the chain spiralled tight about his index finger. ‘I am here to lead you home, Nimander. All you spawn of Anomander Rake, the Black-Winged Lord.’
‘But where is home?’
‘Listen to me! I am taking you to him!’
Nimander stared, then stepped back. ‘He does not want us-’
‘It does not matter what he wants. Nor even what I want! Do you understand yet? I am her Herald!’
Her?
All at once Nimander cried out, dropped hard down onto his knees on the cobbles, his hands at his face. ‘This-this is not a dream?’
The stranger sneered. ‘You can keep your nightmares, Nimander. You can stare down at the blood on your hands for all eternity, for all I care. She was, as you say, insane. And dangerous. I tell you this, I would have left her corpse lying here in the street, this night, if she still lived. So, enough of that.
‘Go, bring your kin here. Quickly, Nimander, while Darkness still holds this island.’
And Nimander climbed to his feet, then hobbled into the decrepit tenement.
Her Herald. Oh, Mother Dark, you would summon our father, as you now summon us?
But why?,
OK, it must be. Yes. Our exile-Abyss below-our exile is at an end!
Waiting in the street, Clip spun his chain. A pathetic bunch, if this Nimander was the best among them. Well, they would have to do, for he did not lie when he said the Shake were not yet ready.
That was, in fact, the only truth he had told, on this darkest of nights.
And how did you fare in Letheras, Silchas Ruin? Not well, I’d wager.
You’re not your brother. You never were.
Oh, Anomander Rake, we will find you. And you will give answer to us. No, not even a god can blithely walk away, can escape the consequences. Of betrayal.
Yes, we will find you. And we will show you. We will show you just how it feels.
Rud Elalle found his father seated atop a weathered boulder at the edge of the small valley near the village. Climbed up and joined Udinaas, settling onto the sun-warmed stone at his side.
A ranag calf had somehow become separated from its mother, and indeed the entire herd, and now wandered the valley floor, bawling.
‘We could feast on that one,’ Rud said.
‘We could,’ Udinaas replied. ‘If you have no heart.’
‘We must live, and to live we must eat-’
‘And to live and eat, we must kill. Yes, yes, Rud, I am aware of all that.’
‘How long will you stay?’ Rud asked, then his breath caught in his throat. The question had just come out-the one he had been dreading to ask for so long.
Udinaas shot him a surprised look, then returned his attention to the lost calf. ‘She grieves,’ he said. ‘She grieves, so deep in her heart that it reaches out to me-as if the distance was nothing. Nothing. This is what comes,’ he added without a trace of bitterness, ‘of rape.’