Chapters (35)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Acknowledgements
- Maps
- Dramatis Personae
- The Tiste: Holds, Greater and Lesser Houses, Priesthood and Court
- Prelude
- Part One : In These Gifts the Shapes of Adoration
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Part Two : The Solitude of This Fire
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Part Three : The Proofs of Your Ambition
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Part Four : The Forge of Darkness
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- About the Author
- Also by Steven Erikson
- Copyright
He pushed himself upright, wondering at her invitation. Had Bursa put her up to this? Did they think him a coward, someone they needed to keep an eye on? Shamed, he wiped his mouth with a sleeve, spat out the bitter taste, and set off, the woman falling in beside him.
‘We’re going to make this a horror, Waft.’
He nodded, a gesture she could not even see.
‘As bad as can be. You can’t let it get to you. You got to shut it all down, understand? Do but don’t think, that’s the soldier’s creed. If you think of anything at all, think of the peace to come, a year or two from now. Think of a new way of things in Kurald Galain, the nobles knocked down and weak, real people – like you and me – living well and living respected.’
Living respected. Empty Abyss, woman, you think that’ll take the place of self-respect? It won’t. You’re fooling yourself. We all are.
‘You with me, Waft?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
There was a lightening of the way ahead, the trees thinning, stumps rising from beaten down grasses. A bulky shape – a carriage – and a row of horses tied to a rope stretching between two upright banners. The glimmer of an ebbing fire.
And figures at the clearing’s edge, motionless, seeming to stare directly at Narad.
Sudden shouts, the hiss of iron on scabbard rims—
‘Let’s go!’ barked the woman.
And then they were running into the clearing, upon the open grounds of the Great House of Andarist.
* * *
Lord Jaen had stood the night, fully dressed, as if in vigil. He had walked the round, checking on his Houseblades, sharing a few quiet words. Andarist and his retinue were at least a day away, with the guests to follow the day after. The night was measured by his circling strides, a slow spiral that, eventually, brought him once more to his position beside the waning fire.
His heart ached for his daughter, for the blindness of youth. And every thought of hostage Cryl was a twisted pressure deep inside him: fear for the young man who might have to defend Enes House from an attack; pain for the wounds his daughter had delivered upon him.