Four leagues north of Ehrlitan, Apsalar stood facing the sea. The promontory on the other side of A'rath Strait was just visible, rumpling the sunset's line on the horizon. Kansu Reach, which stretched in a long, narrow arm westward to the port city of Kansu. At her feet prowled two gut-bound skeletons, pecking at grubs in the dirt and hissing in frustration as the mangled insects they attempted to swallow simply fell out beneath their jaws.
Even bone, or the physical remembrance of bone, held power, it seemed.
The behaviour patterns of the lizard-birds the creatures once were had begun to infect the ghost spirits of Telorast and Curdle. They now chased snakes, leapt into the air after rhizan and capemoths, duelled each other in dominance contests, strutting, spitting and kicking sand. She believed they were losing their minds.
No great loss. They had been murderous, vile, entirely untrustworthy in their lives. And, perhaps, they had ruled a realm. As usurpers, no doubt. She would not regret their dissolution.
'Not-Apsalar! Why are we waiting here? We dislike water, we have discovered. The gut bindings will loosen. We'll fall apart.'
'We are crossing this strait, Telorast,' Apsalar said. 'Of course, you and Curdle may wish to stay behind, to leave my company.'
'Do you plan on swimming?'
'No, I intend to use the warren of Shadow.'
'Oh, that won't be wet.'
'No,' Curdle laughed, prancing around to stand before Apsalar, head bobbing. 'Not wet, oh, that's very good. We'll come along, won't we, Telorast?'
'We promised! No, we didn't. Who said that? We're just eager to stand guard over your rotting corpse, Not-Apsalar, that's what we promised.
I don't understand why I get so confused. You have to die eventually.
That's obvious. It's what happens to mortals, and you are mortal, aren't you? You must be, you have been bleeding for three days – we can smell it.'
'Idiot!' Curdle hissed. 'Of course she's mortal, and besides, we were women once, remember? She bleeds because that's what happens. Not all the time, but sometimes. Regularly. Or not. Except just before she lays eggs, which would mean a male found her, which would mean…'
'She's a snake?' Telorast asked in a droll tone.
'But she isn't. What were you thinking, Telorast?'
The sun's light was fading, the waters of the strait crimson. A lone sail from a trader's carrack was cutting a path southward into the Ehrlitan Sea.
'The warren feels strong here,' Apsalar said.
'Oh yes,' Telorast said, bony tail caressing Apsalar's left ankle. '
Fiercely manifest. This sea is new.'
'That is possible,' she replied, eyeing the jagged cliffs marking the narrows. 'Are there ruins beneath the waves?'
'How would we know? Probably. Likely, absolutely. Ruins. Vast cities.
Shadow Temples.'
Apsalar frowned. 'There were no Shadow Temples in the time of the First Empire.'
Curdle's head dipped, then lifted suddenly. 'Dessimbelackis, a curse on his multitude of souls! We speak of the time of the Forests. The great forests that covered this land, long before the First Empire.
Before even the T'lan Imass-'
'Shhh!' Telorast hissed. 'Forests? Madness! Not a tree in sight, and those who were frightened of shadows never existed. So why would they worship them? They didn't, because they never existed. It's a natural ferocity, this shadow power. It's a fact that the first worship was born of fear. The terrible unknown-'
'Even more terrible,' Curdle cut in, 'when it becomes known! Wouldn't you say, Telorast?'
'No I wouldn't. I don't know what you're talking about. You've been babbling too many secrets, none of which are true in any case. Look! A lizard! It's mine!'
'No, mine!'
The two skeletons scrambled along the rocky ledge. Something small and grey darted away.
A wind was picking up, sweeping rough the surface of the strait, carrying with it the sea's primal scent to flow over the cliff where she stood. Crossing stretches of water, even through a warren, was never a pleasant prospect. Any waver of control could fling her from the realm, whereupon she would find herself leagues from land in dhenrabi-infested waters. Certain death.
She could, of course, choose the overland route. South from Ehrlitan, to Pan'potsun, then skirting the new Raraku Sea westward. But she knew she was running out of time. Cotillion and Shadowthrone had wanted her to take care of a number of small players, scattered here and there inland, but something within her sensed a quickening of distant events, and with it the growing need – a desperate insistence – that she be there without delay. To cast her dagger, to affect, as best she could, a host of destinies.
