‘Was your prison Hood’s realm, Prince, or Dragnipur?’
Tulas straightened, tilted his head. ‘You refuse me my proper title.’
‘I see no throne, Tulas Shorn. Was “prince” not honorific enough? Would you prefer pretender ?’
‘If I was not bound still – and eternally so, I fear – to this state of undeath, Silchas Ruin, I might take offence at your words.’
‘If you wish, we could still cross blades, you sperm-clouded abomination of darkness.’
Tulas considered the proposition. ‘You are returned to this world, Silchas, leading me to the inescapable conclusion that the Azath do indeed know how to shit.’
‘Tulas,’ said Silchas Ruin as he strode closer, ‘do you remember the night of the whores?’
‘I do.’
‘You are such a rotted mess now, I doubt a kingdom’s wealth could buy you their favour.’
‘As I recall, they blindfolded themselves before lying with you – what did they squeal? Oh yes. “ He has the eyes of a white rat! ” Or words to that effect.’
They faced one another.
‘Tulas, would a smile crack what’s left of your face?’
‘Probably, old friend, but know that I am smiling – in my heart.’
Their embrace was savage with memories thought for ever lost, a friendship they’d thought long dead.
‘Against this,’ Silchas whispered, ‘not even Hood can stand. My friend .’
After a time, they drew apart.
‘Do not weep for me,’ said Tulas Shorn.
Silchas made a careless gesture. ‘Unexpected joy. But … too bad about the war.’
‘The war in which we did our level best to kill each other? Yes, those were bad times. We were each caught in whirlpools, friend, too vast and powerful for us to escape.’
‘The day Emurlahn shattered, so too did my heart. For you, Tulas. For … everything we then lost.’
‘Do you know, I do not even remember my own death? For all I know, it could well have been by your hand.’
Silchas Ruin shook his head. ‘It was not. You were lost in the shattering – so even I do not know what happened to you. I … I searched, for a time.’
‘As I would have done for you.’
‘But then Scara—’
‘Curse of the Eleint.’
Silchas nodded. ‘Too easily embraced.’
‘But not you. Not me.’
‘It pleases me to hear you say that. Starvald Demelain—’
‘I know. The Storm will be a siren call.’
‘Together, we can resist it.’
‘This smile upon my soul, it grows. At last, my heart’s dream – we shall fight side by side, Silchas Ruin.’
‘And the first to fall …’
‘The other shall guard.’
‘Tulas.’
‘Yes?’
‘He saw my grief. He joined with me in my search.’
Tulas Shorn looked away, said nothing.
‘Tulas, Anomander—’
‘No, friend. Not yet – I – I am not yet ready to think of him. I am sorry.’
Silchas Ruin’s breath was ragged. He lifted a hand to his face, looked away, and then nodded. ‘As you wish.’ He laughed harshly. ‘It matters not, anyway. Not any more. He is dead.’
‘I know that,’ Tulas said, reaching out to grasp Silchas’s right shoulder. ‘And more than ever, it matters . If we do not speak of your loss – for a time – it does not mean I feel nothing of your grief. Understand me, please.’
‘Very well.’
Tulas eyed the Tiste Andii. ‘Curse of the Eleint,’ he said.
But his friend flinched. Neither spoke for a time. The Hust sword at Silchas’s belt was muttering in its scabbard. Then Silchas looked up. ‘Oh, there is one other thing – a spawn of Menandore—’
‘An enemy?’
‘He was born this side of Starvald Demelain.’
‘Ah, then a potential ally. Three … a good number. Does this child command the power inside him, does he rule the rage within?’
‘If he did, he would be here with us now.’
‘I see. Then what shall be his fate?’
‘I have not yet decided.’
They began walking north. The tundra stretched out on all sides. Small birds flitted among the low growth, and spinning clouds of midges lifted from the path they took. In the vast distance stretched a gleaming white line, marking the edge of the ice fields.