The words stilled the torment in Kellaras’s mind, and then horror rose in its wake. ‘What? Surely Lord Anomander would have—’

Endest Silann interrupted him. ‘Lord Anomander has been away. He relies upon his brother’s judgement.’

Kellaras looked to each man in turn, and back again, still uncomprehending despite the dread he felt, still lost by this turn of events. ‘Lord Draconus waits,’ he said.

This was a day of revelations, a cruel cacophony of simple words plainly stated. He saw the flush leave Cedorpul’s face. He saw Endest Silann flinch, and then come close to staggering before regaining his balance. Kellaras turned to the corridor behind him. ‘Here,’ he said, and started walking.

Neither man followed.

The war of fools. And the greatest folly of all, it is now clear to me, is to dream of peace. Faith, with all your promise, and all your betrayal… must I see you as the enemy of hope?

He reached the door and hesitated. Beyond it sat a man bereft of love, a man now profoundly vulnerable to betrayal. And once more, it would be delivered with banal declaration. The world had tilted in Kellaras’s mind. He saw voices, a torrent of words that had done their work, now slowly withdrawing, retreating from what was coming. And by the time this was done, the voices would be without words, reduced to piteous cries.

All to begin again. Born only to die. See what we have made of the time between the two.

Behind him, a priest wept, while another bled. Kellaras reached for the latch.

* * *

Wreneck knew he had nothing to fear as he hurried through the crowds in the street. Ghosts closed tight around him, and it seemed that they blinded most people to the young man slipping between them, rushing fast as his legs could carry him. They made for him a path in ways Wreneck had no hope of understanding.

The shaft of the spear rested heavily across his right shoulder. He held the weapon tilted high, to keep the leather-wrapped iron head away from others. The silver tore that Lord Anomander had given him was tucked under his coat. Among the ghosts he saw warriors, long dead, still bearing their fatal wounds. It was all he could do to avoid their faces, their steady gazes fixed so solemnly upon him. For all he knew, his father was among them.

Something was wrong. He understood that much. The dead of the Tiste belonged somewhere else, a world hidden away from mortals. They had no reason for being here. And yet, he now wondered, perhaps they were always present, and it was only his newfound curse that he could see what others could not. It was possible that such crowds always existed, thousands upon thousands, wherever living Tiste dwelt, drawn like moths, hovering and swarming around what they had lost.