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And in these truths, Heboric suspected a mystery. Bidithal had not always been a High Mage. Not in title in any case. In the Dhobri language, he had been known as Rashan’ais. The archpriest of the cult of Rashan, which had existed in Seven Cities long before the Throne of Shadow had been reoccupied. In the twisted minds of humanity, it seemed, there was nothing objectionable about worshipping an empty throne. No stranger than kneeling before the Boar of Summer, before a god of war .
The cult of Rashan had not taken well the ascension of Ammanas-Shadowthrone-and the Rope into positions of penultimate power within the Warren of Shadow. Though Heboric’s knowledge of the details was sketchy at best, it seemed that the cult had torn itself apart. Blood had been spilled within temple walls, and in the aftermath of desecrating murder, only those who acknowledged the mastery of the new gods remained among the devotees. To the wayside, bitter and licking deep wounds, the banished slunk away.
Men like Bidithal.
Defeated but, Heboric suspected, not yet finished. For it is the Meanas temples of Seven Cities that most closely mimic this ruin in architectural style… as if a direct descendant of this land’s earliest cults …
Within the Whirlwind, the cast-out Rashan’ais had found refuge. Further proof of his belief that the Whirlwind was but a fragment of a shattered warren, and that shattered warren was Shadow. And if that is indeed the case, what hidden purpose holds Bidithal to Sha’ik? Is he truly loyal to Dryjhna the Apocalyptic, to this holy conflagration in the name of liberty ? Answers to such questions were long in coming, if at all. The unknown player, the unseen current beneath this rebellion-indeed, beneath the Malazan Empire itself-was the new ruler of Shadow and his deadly companion. Ammanas Shadowthrone, who was Kellanved-emperor of Malaz and conqueror of Seven Cities. Cotillion, who was Dancer-master of the Talon and the empire’s deadliest assassin, deadlier even than Surly. Gods below, something breathes there… I now wonder, whose war is this ?
Distracted by such troubling thoughts as he made his way to Bidithal’s abode, it was a moment before Heboric realized that his name had been called. Eyes straining to focus as he searched for the originator of that call, he was suddenly startled by a hand settling on his shoulder.
‘My apologies, Ghost Hands, if I frightened you.’
‘Ah, L’oric,’ Heboric replied, finally recognizing the tall, white-robed figure standing beside him. ‘These are not your usual haunts, are they?’
A slightly pained smile. ‘I regret that my presence is seen as a haunting-unless of course your use of the word was unmindful.’
‘Careless, you mean. It was. I have been in the company of Leoman, inadvertently breathing fumes of durhang. What I meant was, I rarely see you in these parts, that is all.’
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And in these truths, Heboric suspected a mystery. Bidithal had not always been a High Mage. Not in title in any case. In the Dhobri language, he had been known as Rashan’ais. The archpriest of the cult of Rashan, which had existed in Seven Cities long before the Throne of Shadow had been reoccupied. In the twisted minds of humanity, it seemed, there was nothing objectionable about worshipping an empty throne. No stranger than kneeling before the Boar of Summer, before a god of war .
The cult of Rashan had not taken well the ascension of Ammanas-Shadowthrone-and the Rope into positions of penultimate power within the Warren of Shadow. Though Heboric’s knowledge of the details was sketchy at best, it seemed that the cult had torn itself apart. Blood had been spilled within temple walls, and in the aftermath of desecrating murder, only those who acknowledged the mastery of the new gods remained among the devotees. To the wayside, bitter and licking deep wounds, the banished slunk away.
Men like Bidithal.
Defeated but, Heboric suspected, not yet finished. For it is the Meanas temples of Seven Cities that most closely mimic this ruin in architectural style… as if a direct descendant of this land’s earliest cults …
Within the Whirlwind, the cast-out Rashan’ais had found refuge. Further proof of his belief that the Whirlwind was but a fragment of a shattered warren, and that shattered warren was Shadow. And if that is indeed the case, what hidden purpose holds Bidithal to Sha’ik? Is he truly loyal to Dryjhna the Apocalyptic, to this holy conflagration in the name of liberty ? Answers to such questions were long in coming, if at all. The unknown player, the unseen current beneath this rebellion-indeed, beneath the Malazan Empire itself-was the new ruler of Shadow and his deadly companion. Ammanas Shadowthrone, who was Kellanved-emperor of Malaz and conqueror of Seven Cities. Cotillion, who was Dancer-master of the Talon and the empire’s deadliest assassin, deadlier even than Surly. Gods below, something breathes there… I now wonder, whose war is this ?
Distracted by such troubling thoughts as he made his way to Bidithal’s abode, it was a moment before Heboric realized that his name had been called. Eyes straining to focus as he searched for the originator of that call, he was suddenly startled by a hand settling on his shoulder.
‘My apologies, Ghost Hands, if I frightened you.’
‘Ah, L’oric,’ Heboric replied, finally recognizing the tall, white-robed figure standing beside him. ‘These are not your usual haunts, are they?’
A slightly pained smile. ‘I regret that my presence is seen as a haunting-unless of course your use of the word was unmindful.’
‘Careless, you mean. It was. I have been in the company of Leoman, inadvertently breathing fumes of durhang. What I meant was, I rarely see you in these parts, that is all.’
‘Thus explaining your perturbed expression,’ L’oric murmured.
Meeting you, the durhang or Leoman ? The tall mage-one of Sha’ik’s three-was not by nature approachable, nor given to drama. Heboric had no idea which warren the man employed in his sorceries. Perhaps Sha’ik alone knew.
After a moment, the High Mage resumed, ‘Your route suggests a visit to a certain resident here in the Circle. Further, I sense a storm of emotions stirring around you, which could lead one to surmise the impending encounter will prove tumultuous.’
‘You mean we might argue, Bidithal and I,’ Heboric growled. ‘Well yes, that’s damned likely.’
‘I myself have but recently departed his company,’ L’oric said. ‘Perhaps a warning? He is much agitated over something, and so short of temper.’
‘Perhaps it was something you said, ‘Heboric ventured.
‘Entirely possible,’ the mage conceded. ‘And if so, then I apologize.’
‘Fener’s tusks, L’oric, what are you doing in this damned army of vipers?’
Again the pained smile, then a shrug. ‘Mathok’s tribes have among them women and men who dance with flare-necked vipers-such as are sometimes found where grasses grow deep. It is a complicated and obviously dangerous dance, yet one possessed of a certain charm. There are attractions to such exercise.’
‘You enjoy taking risks, even with your life.’
‘I might in turn ask why are you here, Heboric? Do you seek to return to your profession as historian, thus ensuring that the tale of Sha’ik and the Whirlwind will be told? Or are you indeed ensnared with loyalties to the noble cause of liberty? Surely, you cannot say you are both, can you?’
‘I was a middling historian at best, L’oric,’ Heboric muttered, reluctant to elaborate on his reasons for remaining-none of which had any real relevance, since Sha’ik was not likely to let him leave in any case.
