The Errant withdrew, passing ghostly through rock. Sudden desire, impatience, pushed him onward. He would need a mortal’s hand for what he planned. A mortal’s blood.

He emerged onto a floor of mouldy, uneven pavestones.

How far had he travelled? How much time had passed? Darkness and the muted sound of dripping water. He sniffed the air, caught the scent of life. Tainted acrid by delving into old magic. And knew where he was. Not far, then. Not long. Never hide in the same place, child. Mouth dry-something like anticipation-he hurried down the crooked corridor.

I can do nothing, weak as I am. Edging askew the course of fates-1 was once far more. Master of the Tiles. All that power in those scribed images, the near-words from a time when no written words existed. They would have starved without my blessing. Withered. Does this mean nothing? Am I past bargaining?

He could feel now, within him, flaring to life, a once-dull ember of… of… of what? Ah, yes, I see it clear. I see it.

Ambition.

The Errant reached the secret chamber, could discern trickling heat at the entrance.

Crouched over a brazier, she spun round when he stepped into the room. The heady, damp air, thick with spices, made him feel half drunk. He saw her eyes widen.

‘Turudal Brizad-’

The Errant staggered forward. ‘It’s this, you see. A bargain-’

He saw her hand edge out, hovering over the coals of the brazier. ‘They all want to bargain. With me-’

‘The Holds, witch. They clash, clumsy as crones. Against the young ones-the Warrens. Only a fool would call it a dance of equals. Power was robust, once. Now it is…’ he smiled, taking another step closer, ‘gracile. Do you understand? What I offer you, witch?’

She was scowling to hide her fear. ‘No. You stink like a refuse pit, Consort-you are not welcome here-’

‘The tiles so want to play, don’t they? Yet they clatter down in broken patterns, ever broken. There is no flow. They are outmoded, witch. Outmoded.’

A gesture with the hovering hand, and Feather Witch’s eyes flicked past the Errant.

A faint voice behind him. ‘Do not do this.’

The Errant turned. ‘Kuru Qan. She summoned youV He laughed. ‘I could banish you with the blink of an eye, ghost.’

‘She was not to know that. Heed my warning, Errant; you are driven to desperation. And the illusion of glory-do you not understand what has so afflicted you? You stood too close to the ice. Assailed by a storm of desire from the trapped demon. Its ambition. Its lust.’

A sliver of doubt, stinging, then the Errant shook his head. ‘I am the Master of the Tiles, Elder. No pathetic well-spring spirit could so infect me. My thoughts are clear. My purpose-’ He turned again, dismissing the ghost behind him. And reeled slightly, needing a step to right himself.

The ghost of the Ceda spoke. ‘Errant, you think to challenge the Warrens? Do you not realize that, as the Tiles once had a Master, so too the Warrens?’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ the Errant said. ‘There are no tiles describing these warrens-^’

‘Not Tiles. Cards. A Deck. And yes, there is a Master. Do you now choose to set yourself against him? To achieve what?’

The Errant made no reply, although his answer whispered in his skull. Usurpation. As a child before one such as myself. 1 might even pity him, as I wrest from him all power, every drop of blood, his very life.

1 shall retreat from this world no longer.

Kuru Qan continued, ‘If you set the Holds to battle against the Warrens, Errant, you will shatter alliances-’

The Errant snorted. ‘They are already shattered, Ceda. What began as yet another march on the Crippled God to exact brutal punishment-as if the Fallen One commits a crime by virtue of his very existence-well, it is that no more. The Elders are awakened, awakened to themselves-the memory of what they once were, what they could be again. Besides,’ he added as he took another step towards the now trembling Letherii witch, ‘the enemy is divided, confused-’

‘All strangers to you. To us. Are you so certain that what you sense is true? Not simply what your enemy wants you to believe?’

‘Now you play games, Kuru Qan. Ever your flaw.’

‘This is not our war, Errant.’

‘Oh, but it is. My war. Rhulad’s war. The Crippled God’s. After all, it is not the Elder Gods who so hunger to destroy the Fallen One.’

‘They would if they but understood, Errant. But they are blinded by the lure of resurrection-as blinded as you, here, now. All but one, and that is the maker of the Warrens. K’rul himself. Errant, listen to me! To. set the Holds against the Warrens, you declare war upon K’rul-’

‘No. Just his children. Children who will kill him if they can. They don’t want him. He was gone, but now he walks the realms again, and drags with him the Tiles, the Holds, the ancient places he knew so well-there is the real war, Ceda!’

‘True, and K’ruls idiotic nostalgia is proving a most virulent poison-although he is yet to realize that. 1 am dead, Errant-the paths I have wandered-’

‘Do not interest me.’

‘Do not do this. This is all the Crippled God’s game!’

Smiling, the Errant reached out, the motion a blur. Grasped the Letherii witch round the throat. Lifted her clear of the floor.

In his other hand, a knife appeared.

Blood. Mortal’s gift to the Elder-

She held something in one hand. Thrashing, struggling against his life-stealing grip, her eyes bulging, face darkening, she lashed out with that hand.

And stabbed a severed finger into his left eye.

The Errant bellowed in shock, a spear of incandescence lancing into his brain.

His knife bit into the woman’s body. He flung her away, then lurched, flailing at his own face-where blood streamed down, where something dangled at the end of a thread against his cheek. Got her, never mind what she did to me-got her, that foul creature-her blood-my blood-Abyss take me, the pain!

Then she was back. Clawed hands gouging against his face-grasping something, tearing it away-pain! And her vicious snarl, close-‘I’m collecting.’ Twisting away, even as he slashed again with the knife, cutting into flesh, the edge rippling along bones.

She had torn away an eye. Gone. Crushed in one bloody hand.

But her blood gleamed on his knife. Enough. More than enough.

The Errant, one hand outstretched, lone eye struggling to make sense of a battered, broken perspective, staggered towards the doorway.

AH I need.

Trailing blood, Feather Witch dragged herself to the far wall, where she curled up, in one stained hand the eye of a god, in the other the severed finger of Brys Beddict-it felt swollen now, as if it absorbed the Errant’s blood. Warm, no, hot.

‘Collecting,’ she whispered.

The ghost of the Ceda drew close. ‘You are dying, child. You need a healer.’

She spat. ‘Then find me one.’

The brazier’s coals pulsed, but all she could feel was cold, deep in her body, spreading outward to steal all life from her limbs.

‘Hurry,’ she said in a mumble.

But no-one replied.

The Errant stumbled down the bridge. To either side, the tiles of the Cedance spun in confused mayhem. He barked out a laugh, holding the slick knife before him as if it was a torch-he could feel the heat searing his face, drying the blood and other fluids weeping down from his left socket.

Someone had been here. Not long past.

Hannan Mosag. Delving the mysteries of ancient power.

But he was Tiste Edur. A stranger to these forces.

No, they are mine. They were always mine. And now I come.

To reclaim them.

And 1 challenge you, Master of the Deck, whoever, whatever you are. Face me here, if you’ve the courage. I challenge you!

The Errant reached the centre dais, held the knife high, then flung it down onto the tiles.

The point sank deep into painted stone.