Jute stood alone for a time. He studied the night sky as if he could somehow discern there a portent of what might lie ahead, but he was no Seer or mage. He turned to the ridge with its tall tossing grasses – who knew what enemies or dangers lay hidden within? Finally, he drew a deep breath and headed to a fire to find a place to lie down.

* * *

Silverfox walked the dunes of the coast. Her hair, long uncut and uncombed, whipped about her head. She hugged herself as she went; the wind was cold this day. Sea-birds hovered overhead, their wings backswept like strung bows. It was odd, she considered as she went, how she was alone yet felt as if she had to be on her own. Because of course she was never truly alone. Within her Bellurdan, the giant Thelomen, raged for action, while Nightchill, the ancient Sister of Cold Nights, and the true wellspring of her power, counselled patience. Closest to her in her humanity was Tattersail, the mage, once of the Malazan imperial cadre. She too urged patience.

And yet what of Silverfox? What of her? What did she wish? The sad fact was that she had no idea. Hers was the mere frail soul of a girl, full of doubts and fears. How could she set herself against such potent beings? How could she even be certain which thoughts were her own?

She raised her hands to study them, turned them over. Skin sun-darkened, stretched thin and dry, age-spotted, joints knotted and swollen – not the hands of the young girl she held in her mind’s eye. Her creation, birth, and maturation had consumed the life of her mother. As now it was consuming hers. Yet she was content; it was just. She only hoped there would be enough time. The Imass had waited untold thousands of years for her arrival, a living Bonecaster who could release them from their ritual, and now that life was slipping away. Should she fail, how much longer would they have to wait again?

If there ever could be a second chance for redemption.

The wind gusted, sands hissing about her, lashing her, and she turned her face away. The stiff brown grasses clinging to the dunes shushed and grated. She saw Pran Chole standing alone on the shore, facing out to sea, and her chest tightened in bands of dread. No – not again.

Though it was the last thing she wanted to face, she clambered down the sand slopes to the strand. He did not turn when she joined him. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

Pran was slow to answer. ‘I am not certain. I sense something … different.’

‘Different? How?’

Dry tendons creaked as he turned his ravaged face to hers. ‘Powerful.’

She suddenly found it difficult to breathe. Nightchill wavered close to her consciousness as if to reassure her with the message: do not fear, I am here.