Dust of Dreams

Kettle?’
    ‘Knew? No. Guessed, mostly.’
    Onrack grunted. ‘You rarely err in your guesses, Udinaas. Very well, go then. Speak with him.’
    Udinaas smiled wryly. ‘Not bad at guessing yourself, Onrack. Will you wait here?’
    ‘Yes.’
    He was glad of that, for despite his conviction that Silchas Ruin did not intend violence, with the White Crow there was no telling. If Udinaas ended up cut down by one of those keening swords, at least his death would be witnessed, and unlikehis son, Rud Elalle, Onrack was not so foolish as to charge out seeking vengeance.
    As he drew closer to the albino Tiste Andii, it became increasingly evident that Silchas Ruin had not fared well since his sudden departure from this realm. Most of his armour was shorn away, leaving his arms bare. Old blood stained the braided leather collar of his scorched gambeson. He bore new, barely healed gashes and cuts, and mottled bruises showed below skin like muddy water beneath ice.
    His eyes, alas, remained hard, unyielding, red as fresh blood in their shadowed sockets.
    ‘Longing for that old Azath barrow?’ Udinaas asked as he halted ten paces from the gaunt warrior.
    Silchas Ruin sighed. ‘Udinaas. I had forgotten your bright gift with words.’
    ‘I can’t recall anyone ever calling it a gift,’ he replied, deciding to let the sarcasm pass, as if his stay in this place had withered his natural acuity. ‘A curse, yes, all the time. It’s amazing I’m still breathing, in fact.’
    ‘Yes,’ the Tiste Andii agreed, ‘it is.’
    ‘What do you want, Silchas Ruin?’
    ‘We travelled together for a long time, Udinaas.’
    ‘Running in circles, yes. What of it?’
    The Tiste Andii glanced away. ‘I was . . . misled. By all that I saw. An absence of sophistication. I imagined the rest of that world was no different from Lether . . . until that world arrived.’
    ‘The Letherii version of sophistication is rather narcissistic, granted. Comes with being the biggest lump of turd on the heap. Locally speaking.’
    Ruin’s expression soured. ‘A turd thoroughly crushed under heel, now.’
    Udinaas shrugged. ‘Comes to us all, sooner or later.’
    ‘Yes.’
    Silence stretched between them, and still Ruin would not meet his gaze. Udinaas understood well enough, and knew too that it would be unseemly to show any pleasure at the White Crow’s humbling.
    ‘She will be Queen,’ Silchas Ruin said abruptly.
    ‘Who?’
    The warrior blinked, as if startled by the question, and then fixed his unhuman attention once more upon Udinaas. ‘Your son is in grave danger.’
    ‘Is he now?’
    ‘I thought, in coming here, that I would speak to him. To offer what meagre advice of any worth I might possess.’ He gestured at the place where he stood. ‘This is as far as I could manage.’
    ‘What’s holding you back?’
    Ruin’s expression soured. ‘To the Blood of the Eleint, Udinaas, any notion of community is anathema. Or of alliance. If in spirit the Letherii possess an ascendant, it is the Eleint.’
    ‘Ah, I see. Which was why Quick Ben managed to defeat Sukul Ankhadu, Sheltatha Lore and Menandore.’
    Silchas Ruin nodded. ‘Each intended to betray the others. It is the flaw in theblood. More often than not, a fatal one.’ He paused, and then said, ‘So it proved with me and my brother Anomander. Once the Draconic blood took hold of us, we were driven apart. Andarist stood between us, reaching with both hands, seeking to hold us close, but our newfound arrogance surpassed him. We ceased to be brothers. Is it any wonder that we—’
    ‘Silchas Ruin,’ Udinaas cut in, ‘why is my son in danger?’
    The warrior’s eyes flashed. ‘My lesson in humility very nearly killed me. But I survived. When Rud Elalle’s own lesson arrives, he may not be so fortunate.’
    ‘Ever had a child, Silchas? I thought not. Giving advice to a child is like flinging sand at an obsidian wall. Nothing sticks. The brutal truth is that we each suffer our own lessons—they can’t be danced round. They can’t be slipped past. You cannot gift a child with your scars—they arrive like webs, constricting, suffocating, and that child will struggle and strain until they break. No matter how noble your intent, the only scars that teach them anything are the ones they earn themselves.’
    ‘Then I must ask you, as his father, for a boon.’
    ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘I am, Udinaas.’
    Fear Sengar had tried to stab this Tiste Andii in the back, had