Seren Pedac stepped back. No, dammit! She struggled to cast the vision away.

It would not leave.

Eyes bulging, face blackening, Udinaas closed his own hands about his neck, but there was nothing to pull away-

‘Seren!’ Kettle shrieked.

Errant fend! What, how… oh, I’m killing him! Hull Beddict stood, crushing the life from Udinaas. She wanted to reach out to him, drag his grip loose, but she knew she would not be strong enough. No, she realized, she needed someone else-

And conjured into the scene within her mind another figure, stepping close, lithe and half seen. A hand flashing up, striking Hull Beddict in his own throat. The Letherii staggered back, then fell to one knee, even as he released Udinaas. Hull then reached for his sword.

A spear shaft scythed into view, caught Hull flat on the forehead, snapping his head back. He toppled.

The Edur warrior now stood between Hull Beddict and Udinaas, spear held in a guard position.

Seeing him, seeing his face, sent Seren reeling back. Trull Sengar? Trull-

The vision faded, was gone.

Coughing, gasping, Udinaas rolled onto his side.

Kettle rushed to crouch beside the ex-slave.

A hand closed on Seren’s shoulder and swung her round. She found herself staring up into Fear’s face, and wondered at the warrior’s strange expression. He-he could not have seen. That would be-

‘Shorn,’ Fear whispered. ‘Older. A sadness-’ He broke off” then, unable to go on, and twisted away.

She stared after him. A sadness upon his eyes.

Upon his eyes.

‘Deadly games, Acquitor.’

She started, looked over to see that Silchas Ruin was now studying her from where he sat. Beyond him, Clip had not turned round, had not even moved. ‘I did not. I mean. I didn’t-’

‘Imagination,’ Udinaas grated from the ground to her right, ‘is ever quick to judge.’ He coughed again, then laughter broke from his ravaged throat. ‘Ask any jealous man. Or woman. Next time I say something that annoys you, Seren Pedac, just swear at me, all right?’

‘I’m sorry, Udinaas. I didn’t think-’

‘You thought all right, woman.’

Oh, Udinaas. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.

‘What sorcery have you found?’ Fear Sengar demanded, his eyes slightly wild as he glared at her. ‘I saw-’

‘What did you see?’ Silchas Ruin asked lightly, slipping one sword into its scabbard, then drawing the other.

Fear said nothing, and after a moment he pulled his gaze horn Seren Pedac. ‘What is Clip doing?’ he demanded.

‘Mourning, I expect.’

This answer brought Udinaas upright into a sitting position. Glancing at Seren, he nodded, mouthed Jarack.

‘Mourning what?’ Fear asked.

‘All who dwelt within the Andara,’ Silchas Ruin replied, ‘are dead. Slaughtered by Letherii soldiers and mages. Clip is the Mortal Sword of Darkness. Had he been there, they would now still be alive-his kin. And the bodies lying motionless in the darkness would be Letherii. He wonders if he has not made a terrible mistake.’

‘That thought,’ the young Tiste Andii said, ‘was fleeting. They were hunting for you, Fear Sengar. And you, Udinaas.’ He turned, his face appalling in its calm repose. The chains spun out, snapped in the cold air, then whirled back inward again. ‘My kin would have made certain there would remain no evidence that you were there. Nor were the Letherii mages powerful enough-nor clever enough-to desecrate the altar, although they tried.’ He smiled. ‘They brought their lanterns with them, you see.’

‘The gate didn’t stay there long enough anyway,’ Udinaas said in a cracking voice.

Clip’s hard eyes fixed on the ex-slave. ‘You know nothing.’

‘I know what’s spinning from your finger, Clip. You showed us once before, after all.’

Silchas Ruin, finished with the second sword, now sheathed it and rose. ‘Udinaas,’ he said to Clip, ‘is as much a mystery as the Acquitor here. Knowledge and power, the hand and the gauntlet. We should move on. Unless,’ he paused, facing Clip, ‘it is time.’

Time? Time for what?

‘It is,’ Udinaas said, using the Imass spear to get to his feet. ‘They knew they were going to die. Hiding in that deep pit took them nowhere. Fewer young, ever weaker blood. But that blood, well, spill enough of it…’

Clip advanced on the ex-slave.

‘No,’ Silchas Ruin said.

The Mortal Sword stopped, seemed to hesitate, then shrugged and turned away. Chain spinning.

‘Mother Dark,’ Udinaas resumed with a tight smile. ‘Open your damned gate, Clip, it’s been paid for.’

And the spinning chain snapped taut. Horizontally. At each end a ring, balanced as if on end. Within the band closest to them there was… darkness.

Seren Pedac stared, as that sphere of black began growing, spilling out from the ring.

‘She has this thing,’ Udinaas muttered, ‘about birth canals.’

Silchas Ruin walked into the Dark and vanished. A moment later there was a ghostly flit as Wither raced into the gate. Kettle took Udinaas’s hand and led him through.

Seren glanced over at Fear. We leave your world behind, Tiste Edur. And yet, 1 can see the realization awaken in your eyes. Beyond. Through that gate, Fear Sengar, waits the soul of Scabandari.

He settled a hand on his sword, then strode forward.

As Seren Pedac followed, she looked at Clip, met his eyes as he stood there, waiting, the one hand raised, the gate forming a spiralling tunnel out from the nearest ring. In some other world, she imagined, the gate emerged from the other ring. He’s carried it with him. Our way through to where we needed to go. All this time.

Clip winked.

Chilled by that gesture, the Acquitor stepped forward and plunged into darkness.

Third Maiden Isle was dead astern, rising into view on the swells then falling away again in the troughs. The ferry groaned like a floundering beast, twisting beneath its forest of masts and their makeshift sails, and the mass of Shake huddled sick and terrified on the deck. Witches and warlocks, on their knees, wailed their prayers to be heard above the gale’s swollen fury, but the shore was far away now and they were lost.

Yedan Derryg, drenched by the spume that periodically thrashed over the low gunnels with what seemed demonic glee, was making his way towards Yan Tovis, who stood beside the four men on the steering oar. She was holding on to a pair of thick ratlines, legs set wide to take the pitch and yawl, and as she studied her half-brother’s face as he drew nearer, she saw what she already knew to be truth.

We’re not going to make it.

Cleaving the lines once past the salt marsh, then up, rounding the peninsula and out along the north edge of the reefs, a journey of three days and two nights before they could tie up in one of the small coves on the lee side of Third Maiden Isle. The weather had held, and at dawn this day all had seemed possible.

‘The seams, Twilight,’ Yedan Derryg said upon reaching her. ‘These waves are hammering ‘em wide open. We’re going down-’ He barked a savage laugh. ‘Beyond the shore, be well as they say! More bones to the deep!’

He was pale-as pale as she no doubt was-yet in his eyes there was a dark fury. ‘Tour’s Spit lies two pegs off the line, and there’re shoals, but, sister, it’s the only dry land we might reach.’

‘Oh, and how many on the deck there know how to swim? Any?’ She shook her head, blinking salty spray from her eyes. ‘What would you have us do, crash this damned thing onto the strand? Pray to the shore that we can slip through the shoals untouched? Dear Watch, would you curl up in the lap of the gods?’

Bearded jaw bunched, cabled muscles growing so tight she waited to hear bone or teeth crack, then he looked away. ‘What would you have us do, then?’

‘Get the damned fools to bail, Yedan. We get any lower and the next wave’ll roll us right over.’

Yet she knew it was too late. Whatever grand schemes of survival for her people she had nurtured, deep in her heart, had come untethered. By this one storm. It had been madness, flinging this coast-creeping ferry out beyond the shore, even though the only truly dangerous stretch had been… this one, here, north from Third Maiden Isle to the lee of Spyrock Island. The only stretch truly open to the western ocean.