Midnight Tides & The Bonehunters - By Steven Erikson Page 0,182

emperor asked.

'Sufficient for the journey.'

'And nothing is being left behind?'

'Naught but ashes, sire.'

'Good.'

Udinaas watched Hannan Mosag hesitate, then say, 'It is already begun. There is no going back now.'

'You have no reason to fret,' Rhulad replied. 'I have already sent wraiths to the borderlands. They watch. Soon, they will cross over, into Lether.'

'The Ceda's frontier sorcerors will find them.'

'Eventually, but the wraiths will not engage. Merely flee. I have no wish to show their power yet. I mean to encourage overconfidence.'

The two Edur continued discussing strategies. Udinaas listened, just one more wraith in the gloom.

Trull Sengar watched his father rebuilding, with meticulous determination, a kind of faith. Stringing together words spoken aloud yet clearly meant for himself, whilst his wife looked on with the face of an old, broken woman. Death had arrived, only to be shattered by a ghastly reprise, a revivification that offered nothing worth rejoicing in. A king had been cast down, an emperor risen in his place. The world was knocked askew, and Trull found himself detached, numb, witness to these painful, tortured scenes in which the innumerable facets of reconciliation were being attempted, resulting in exhausted silences in which tensions slowly returned, whispering of failure.

They had one and all knelt before their new emperor. Brother and son, the kin who had died and now sat bedecked in gold coins. A voice ravaged yet recognizable. Eyes that belonged to one they had all once known, yet now looked out fevered with power and glazed with the unhealed wounds of horror.

Fear had given up his betrothed.

A terrible thing to have done.

Rhulad had demanded her. And that was ... obscene.

Trull had never felt so helpless as he did now. He pulled his gaze from his father and looked over to where Binadas stood in quiet conversation with Hull Beddict. The Letherii, who had sworn his allegiance to Rhulad, who would betray his own people in the war that Trull knew was now inevitable. What has brought us all to this? How can we stop this inexorable march?

'Do not fight this, brother.'

Trull looked over at Fear, seated on the bench beside him. 'Fight what?'

His brother's expression was hard, almost angry. 'He carries the sword, Trull.'

'That weapon has nothing to do with the Tiste Edur. It is foreign, and it seeks to make its wielder into our god. Father Shadow and his Daughters, they are to be cast aside?'

'The sword is naught but a tool. It falls to us, to those around Rhulad, to hold to the sanctity of our beliefs, to maintain that structure and so guide Rhulad.'

Trull stared at Fear. 'He stole your betrothed.'

'Speak of that again, brother, and I will kill you.'

His eyes flinched away, and he could feel the thud of his heart, rapid in his chest. 'Rhulad will accept no guidance, not from us, Fear, not from anyone. That sword and the one who made it guide him now. That, and madness.'

'Madness is what you have decided to see.'

Trull grunted. 'Perhaps you are right. Tell me, then, what you see.'

'Pain.'

And that is something you share. Trull rubbed at his face, slowly sighed. 'Fight this, Fear? There was never a chance.' He looked over again. 'But do you not wonder? Who has been manipulating us, and for how long? You called that sword a tool – are we any different?'

'We are Tiste Edur. We ruled an entire realm, once. We crossed swords with the gods of this world—'

'And lost.'

'Were betrayed.'

'I seem to recall you shared our mother's doubts—'

'I was mistaken. Lured into weakness. We all were. But we must now cast that aside, Trull. Binadas understands. So does our father. Theradas and Midik Buhn as well, and those whom the emperor has proclaimed his brothers of blood. Choram Irard, Kholb Harat and Matra Brith—'

'His unblooded friends of old,' Trull cut in, with a wry smile. 'The three he always defeated in contests with sword and spear. Them and Midik.'

'What of it?'

'They have earned nothing, Fear. And no amount of proclaiming can change that. Yet Rhulad would have us take orders from those—'

'Not us. We too are brothers of blood, you forget. And I still command the warriors of the six tribes.'

'And how do you think the other noble warriors feel? They have all followed the time-honoured path of blooding and worthy deeds in battle. They now find themselves usurped—'

'The first warrior under my command who complains will know the edge of my sword.'

'That edge may grow dull and notched.'

'No. There will be no rebellion.'

After a moment,