You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me!

A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander’s brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on-gods, for ever!

There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood-and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back-every crippling knob and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation.

Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the god’s second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn-did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river?

A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding.

Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick’s weight. Too late-they would turn about, rise, set out for the field-the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace-too late, now-

He heard the inn’s door slam open behind them.

Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door-where more hands took them, tugged them inside-

And all at once the compulsion vanished.

Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss’s face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression.

A cough from Skintick at his side. ‘Mother Dark save us!’

‘Not her,’ said Kedeviss. ‘Just Aranatha.’

Aranatha, who flinches at shadows, ducks beneath the cry of a hunting hawk.

She hides her other self behind a wall no power can surmount. Hides it. Until it’s needed.

Yes, he could feel her now, an emanation of will filling the entire chamber. Assailed, but holding. As it would.

As it must.

Another cough from Skintick. ‘Oh, dear…’

And Nimander understood. Clip was out there. Clip, face to face with the Dying God. Unprotected.

Mortal Sword of Darkness. Is that protection enough?

But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. ‘What do we do?’

‘I don’t know. He may already be… lost.’

Nimander glanced over at Aranatha. ‘Can we make it to the tavern?’

She shook her head.

‘We should never have left him,’ announced Nenanda.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kedeviss snapped.

Skintick still sat on the floor, clawing periodically at his face, wracked with shivers. ‘What manner of sorcery afflicts this place? How can a god’s blood do this?’

Nimander shook his head. ‘I have never heard of anything like what is happening here, Skintick. The Dying God. It bleeds poison.’ He struggled to keep from weeping. Everything seemed stretched thin, moments from tearing to pieces, a reality all at once in tatters, whipped away on mad winds.

Skintick’s sigh was ragged. ‘Poison. Then why do I thirst for more?’

There was no answer for that. Is this a truth made manifest? Do we all feed on the pain of others? Do we laugh and dance upon suffering, simply because it is not our own? Can such a thing become addictive? An insatiable need?

All at once the distant moaning changed pitch, became screams. Terrible, raw-the sounds of slaughter. Nenanda was suddenly at the door, his sword out.

‘Wait!’ cried Kedeviss. ‘Listen! That’s not him. That’s them! He’s murdering them all-do you want to help, Nenanda? Do you?’

Nenanda seemed to slump. He stepped back, shaken, lost.

The shrieks did not last long. And when the last one wavered, sank into silence, even the Dying God’s cries had stilled. Beyond the door of the inn, there was nothing, as if the village-the entire outside world-had been torn away.

Inside, none slept. Each had pulled away from the others, coveting naught but their own thoughts, listening only to the all too familiar voice that was a soul’s conversation with itself. On the faces of his kin, Nimander saw, there was dull shock, a bleakness to the staring, unseeing eyes. He felt the surrender of Aranatha’s will, her power, as the threat passed, as she withdrew once more so far inward that her expression grew slack, almost lifeless, the shy, skittering look not ready to awaken once more.

Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue. if such a thing existed, If she wus not just a creature of of sensation, riding currents of Instinct, every choice reframed into simple demands of neccessity.

‘Their is cruelty in your thoughts’

Phaed. leave me alone, ghost.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut’s brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power’s whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.’

Go away.

‘But you don’t really want that, because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words-do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?’

Stop.

‘In the cage of your imagination, blissfully immune to all that was real-the cruel indifferences, yes-you make so much of so little, Nimander. A chance smile. A look. In your cage she lies in your arms, and this is the purest love, isn’t it? Unsullied, eternal-’

Stop, Phaed. You know nothing. You were too young, too self-obsessed, to see anything of anyone else, unless it threatened you.

And she was not a threat!’

You never wanted me that way-don’t be absurd, ghost. Don’t invent-

‘I invent nothing! You were just too blinded to see what was right in front of you! And did she die at the spear of a Tiste Edur? Did she truly? Where was I at that moment, Nimander? Do you recall seeing me at all?’

No, this was too much.

But she would not relent. ‘Why do you think the idea of killing Sandalath was so easy for me? My hands were already stained-

Stop!

Laughter, ringing through his head.

He willed himself to say nothing, waited for those chilling peals of mirth to dwindle, grow ever fainter.

When she spoke again in his mind there was no humour at all in her tone. ‘Nenanda wants to replace you. He wants the command you possess, the respect-the others hold for you. He will take it, when he sees his chance. Do not trust him, Nimander. Strike first. A knife in the back-just as you acted to stop me, so you must do again, and this time you cannot fail. There will be no Withal there to finish the task. You will have to do it yourself.’

Nimander lifted his gaze, looked upon Nenanda, the straight back, the hand resting on pommel. No, you are lying.

‘Delude yourself if you must-but not for much longer. The luxury must be short-lived. You will need to show your… decisiveness, and soon.’

And how many more kin do you want lo sec dead. Phaed?

‘My games are done with. You ended them once and for all. You and the swordsmith. Hate me if you will, but I have talents, and I gift them to yon. Nimander-you were the only one to ever listen to me, the only one to whom I opened my heart-’

Heart! That vile pool of spite you so loved to swim in-that was your heart I

‘You need me. I give strength where you are weakest. Oh, make the bitch murmur of love, fill her mouth with all the right words. If it helps. But she cannot help you with the hard choices a leader must make. Nenanda believes he can do better-see it in his eyes, so quick to challenge.’