Dust of Dreams

hairs downing his cheeks. ‘Would these words of yours have come from my father, had I remained at home?’
    ‘In his own way, yes. Udinaas is a man of great strength—’
    ‘But—’
    ‘Great strength, Ryadd. He is strong enough to stand exposed, revealing all that is vulnerable within him. He is brave enough to invite you ever closer. If you hurt him, he will withdraw, as he must, and that path to him will be thereafter for ever sealed. But he begins with the gift of himself. What the other does with it defines the future of that particular relationship.’
    ‘What of trust?’
    The red eyes flicked to his and then away again. ‘I kept them safe for a long time,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Evading the Letherii mages and soldiers. None of that was necessary.’
    ‘My father knew.’
    ‘I believe Fear Sengar did as well.’
    ‘So neither then trusted you.’
    ‘On the contrary. They trusted me to hold to my resolve.’
    Now it was Ryadd’s turn to look away. ‘Did she really have to die?’
    ‘She was never really alive, Ryadd. She was sent forth as potential. I ensured that it was realized. Are seeds filled with hope? We might think so. But in truth hope belongs to the creator of that seed, and to those who choose to plant it.’
    ‘She was still a child to everyone’s eyes.’
    ‘The Azath used what it found.’
    ‘Is she still alive then?’
    Silchas Ruin shrugged. ‘Perhaps more now than ever before. Alive, but young. And very vulnerable.’
    ‘And so now,’ Ryadd said, ‘my father yearns for the survival of the Azath, and he hopes too for your continued resolve. But maybe “hope” is the wrong word. Instead, it’s
trust.
’
    ‘If so, then you have answered your own question.’
    But what of my resolve? Do you trust in that, Silchas Ruin?
    ‘They draw nearer,’ the Tiste Andii said, rising from his perch on the stone. Then he paused. ‘Be wary, Ryadd, she is most formidable, and I cannot predict the outcome of this parley.’
    ‘What will she make of me?’ he asked, also straightening.
    ‘That is what we shall discover.’
     
    His horse had stepped on a particularly vicious fist of cactus. Torrent dismounted, cursing under his breath. He went round and lifted the beast’s hoof and began plucking spines.
    Olar Ethil stood to one side, watching.
    It had turned out that escaping the hoary old witch wasn’t simply a matter of riding hard and leaving her behind. She kept reappearing in swirls of dust, with that ever-present skull grin that needed no laugh to add sting to its mockery.
    Following the heavy wagon tracks, he had ridden past two more dragon towers, both as lifeless and ruined as the first one. And now here they were, approaching yet another. Arcane machinery had spilled out from rents in the stone, lying scattered, spreading outward from the foot of the edifice a hundred or more paces on all sides. Crumpled pieces of armour and broken weapons lay amidst the wreckage, as well as grizzled strips and slabs of scaled hide. The violence committed at this particular tower remained, intrusive as bitter smoke.
    Torrent tugged loose the last thorn and, collecting the reins, led the horse forward a few steps. ‘Those damned things,’ he said, ‘were they poisoned?’
    ‘I think not,’ Olar Ethil replied. ‘Just painful. Local bhederin know to avoid stepping on them.’
    ‘There are no local bhederin,’ snapped Torrent. ‘These are the Wastelands and well named.’
    ‘Once, long ago, warrior, the spirits of the earth and wind thrived in this place.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    Her shrug creaked. ‘When it is easy to feed, one grows fat.’
    What the fuck does that mean?
He faced the tower. ‘We’ll walk for—’ Motion in the sky caught his attention, as two massive shapes lifted from the enormous carved head of the stone dragon. ‘Spirits below!’
    A pair of dragons—
real ones
. The one on the left was the hue of bone, eyes blazing bright red, and though larger than its companion, it was gaunter, perhaps older. The other dragon was a stunning white deepening to gold along its shoulders and serrated back. Wings snapping, sailing in a curving descent, the two landed directly in their path, halfway between them and the tower. The earth trembled at the twin impacts.
    Torrent glanced at Olar Ethil. She was standing still as a statue.
I thought you knew everything, witch, and now I think you thought the same. Look at you, still as a hare under the cat’s eyes.
    He