‘It was, yes. But now it shall be reborn.’
Sechul shook his head. ‘You were right to surrender the first time-’
‘That was no surrender! I was driven out!’
‘You were forced to relinquish all that you no longer deserved.’ The haunted eyes lifted to trap the Errant’s glare. ‘Why the resentment?’
‘We were allies!’
‘So we were.’
‘We shall be again, Knuckles. You were the Elder God who stood closest to my throne-’
‘Your Empty Throne, yes.’
‘A battle is coming-listen to me! We can cast aside all these pathetic new gods. We can drown them in blood!’ The Errant leaned forward. ‘Do you fear that it will be you and me alone against them? I assure you, old friend, we shall not be alone.’ He settled back once more, stared into the fire. ‘Your mortal kin have found new power, made new alliances.’
Knuckles snorted. ‘You would trust to the peace and justice of the Forkrul Assail? After all they once did to you?’
‘I trust the necessity they have recognized.’
‘Errastas, my time is at an end.’ He made a rippling gesture with his fingers. ‘I leave it to the Twins.’ He smiled. ‘They were my finest cast.’
‘I refuse to accept that. You will not stand aside in what is to come. I have forgotten nothing. Remember the power we once wielded?’
‘I remember-why do you think I’m here?’
‘I want that power again. I will have it.’
‘Why?’ Knuckles asked softly. ‘What is it you seek?’
‘Everything that I have lost!’
‘Ah, old friend, then you do not remember everything.’
‘No?’
‘No. You have forgotten why you lost it in the first place.’
A long moment of silence.
The Errant rose and went over to pour himself a goblet of wine. He returned and stood looking down upon his fellow Elder God. ‘I am not here,’ he said, ‘for you alone.’
Knuckles winced.
‘I intend, as well, to summon the Clan of Elders-all who have survived. I am Master of the Tiles. They cannot deny me.’
‘No,’ Knuckles muttered, ‘that we cannot do.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Sleeping.’
The Errant grimaced. ‘I already knew that, Setch.’
‘Sit down, Errastas. For now, please. Let us just… sit here. Let us drink in remembrance of friendship. And innocence.’
‘When our goblets are empty, Knuckles.’
He closed his eyes and nodded. ‘So be it.’
‘It pains me to see you so,’ the Errant said as he sat back down. ‘We shall return you to what you once were.’
‘Dear Errastas, have you not learned? Time cares nothing for our wants, and no god that has ever existed can be as cruel as time.’
The Errant half-closed his remaining eye. ‘Wait until you see the world I shall make, Setch. Once more, you shall stand beside the Empty Throne. Once more, you shall know the pleasure of mischance, striking down hopeful mortals one by one.’
‘I do remember,’ Knuckles murmured, ‘how they railed at misfortune.’
‘And sought to appease ill fate with ever more blood. Upon the altars. Upon the fields of battle.’
‘And in the dark bargains of the soul.’
The Errant nodded. Pleased. Relieved. Yes, he could wait for this time, this brief healing span. It served and served well.
He could grant her a few more moments of rest.
‘So tell me,’ ventured Knuckles, ‘the tale.’
‘What tale?’
‘The one that took your eye.’
The Errant scowled and looked away, his good mood evaporating. ‘Mortals,’ he said, ‘will eat anything.’
In the tower of the Azath, within a chamber that was an entire realm, she slept and she dreamed. And since dreams existed outside of time, she was walking anew a landscape that had been dead for millennia. But the air was sharp still, the sky overhead as pure in its quicksilver brilliance as the day of its violent birth. On all sides buildings, reduced to rubble, formed steep-sided, jagged mounds. Passing floods had caked mud on everything to a height level with her hips. She walked, curious, half-disbelieving.
Was this all that remained? It was hard to believe.
The mounds looked strangely orderly, the chunks of stone almost uniform in size. No detritus had drifted down into the streets or lanes. Even the flood silts had settled smooth on every surface.
