#kellanved

"Tell Cotillion, I have done as he asked."

Shadowthrone made a whispering sound, like sighing, and one almost formless hand emerged from the folds of his ghostly cloak, gripping the silver head of a cane, that tapped once on the cobbles. "I watched, my dear. Your Shadow Dance. From the foot of Rampart Way and onward, I was witness."

She said nothing.

Shadowthrone resumed. "Not even Cotillion. Not even Cotillion."

Still, Apsalar did not speak.

The god suddenly giggled. "Too many bad judgements, the poor woman. As we feared." A pause, then another giggle. "Tonight, the Clawmaster, and three hundred and seven Claws – all by your hands, dear lass. I still… disbelieve. No matter. She's on her own, now. Too bad for her." The barely substantial hooded head cocked slightly. "Ah. Yes, Apsalar. We keep our promises. You are free. Go."

She held out the two long-knives, handles first.

A bow, and the god accepted Kalam Mekhar's weapons.

Then Apsalar moved past Shadowthrone, and walked on.

‘Eleint . . . ‘

‘Think of these people. Think of them, High King. The sacrifice they made for us all. Think of the Jaghut, and an impossible victory won in the heart of defeat. Think, and then you will come to understand all that is to come. Perhaps, then, you alone will know enough to honour their memory, the sacrifice they made for us all.

‘High King, the Jaghut’s only war, their greatest war, was against Death itself.’

The dragon turned away then, spreading its tattered wings. Sorcery blossomed round the huge creature, and it lifted into the air.

Kallor stood, watching the Eleint rise into the cinnamon sky. A nameless dead dragon, that had fallen in the realm of Death, that had fallen and in dying had simply . . . switched sides. No, there could be no winning such a war. ‘You damned fool,’ he whispered at the fast receding Eleint. ‘All of you, damned fools.’ Bless you, bless you all.

Gothos, when next we meet, this High King owes you an apology.

On withered cheeks that seemed cursed to eternal dryness, tears now trickled down. He would think long and think hard, now, and he would come to feelings that he’d not felt in a long time, so long that they seemed foreign, dangerous to harbour in his soul.

And he would wonder, with growing unease, at the dead Eleint who, upon escaping the realm of Death, would now choose the Crippled God as its new master.

A throne, Emperor Kellanved once said, is made of many parts. And then he had added, any one of which can break, to the king’s eternal discomfort. No, it did no good to simply sit on a throne, deluding oneself of its eternal solidity. He had known that long before Kellanved ever cast an acquisitive eye on empire. But he was not one for resonant quotations.

Well, everyone has a few flaws.

"They would not do so."

"Truly? Why?"

"Because we are all kin. Slaves to Shadow."

The old man peered closely at him, raised his brows. "Ah, I see. You have been taken by Shadow. You are a slave to the House. Very well. I shall allow you your small impertinences. But remember, while you are slave to Shadow, I command Shadow. Remember that."

Edgewalker said nothing.

The old man leant both his hands on the silver hound's head of his walking stick. He and his companion Cotillion faded from view, like proverbial shadows under gathering moonlight, until they disappeared, eventually, from sight.

Edgewalker turned and limped from the House. Out upon the open plain he struck a direction towards the featureless horizon. Dustdevils dogged his heels. How many times, he wondered, had he heard that very same conceit from a claimant to the Throne? Would they never learn? How long, he wondered, would this one last? Why was it none of the long chain of hopefuls ever bothered to ask why the Throne should be empty in the first place? After all, perhaps there was a reason.