Fall of Light

THIRTEEN

‘He has freckles,’ Korya said. ‘on his arms.’

Arathan looked up from the vellum. ‘Do you see this? What I’m scribing on, Korya Delath? It’s vellum. I don’t know where he gets it from, but it must be rare. And expensive, and should I be startled into making an error-’

She stepped inside, letting the old goat-skin curtain fall back to fill the doorway. ‘Why aren’t you in the Tower of Hate?’

Sighing, Arathan set down the stylus. ‘I needed somewhere without interruptions. Gothos was getting too many visitors. Everyone’s complaining. Though it has nothing to do with Gothos, they all seem to think he has some influence with Hood. But he doesn’t. Who has freckles?’

She strolled closer, eyeing the decrepit furnishings, the arcane symbols scratched into the plastered walls. ‘Young, sweet Ifayle. A Dog-Runner. He wants to sleep with me.’

Arathan returned to his transcribing. ‘That’s nice. I hear they have lice and ticks and fleas. Maybe those weren’t freckles at all, just welts from all the bites and things.’

‘They were freckles. And he’s clean enough. They use oils on their bodies. Drowns everything, and highlights the red in the hairs on his arms – they glisten like gold.’

‘You really like his arms, don’t you?’

‘They’re strong, too.’

‘So go roll in the grass with him, then!’

‘Maybe I will!’

‘Better do it now, since presumably this Ifayle’s here to march with Hood.’

‘March? Where? When? There’s a reason Hood’s not packed up his tent – he can’t figure out where to go!’

Arathan scowled down at the vellum, resumed his work. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s just waiting.’

‘For what?’

‘More people are still coming in-’

‘A mere trickle, and most of them are undecided. More curious than anything else. People like spectacle, and that’s all this is. Vapid, useless, pointless spectacle! Hood’s joke, and it’s on all of you.’ She walked over to the etched wall. ‘What’s all this about?’

Arathan shrugged. ‘It’s not Jaghut script. Gothos said something about a mad Builder.’

‘Builder?’

‘The ones who make Azath Houses.’

‘No one makes Azath Houses, you fool. That’s the whole point, the whole mystery of them. They just appear.’

‘What’s that in your hand?’

‘This? An acorn. Why? Do you have a problem with it?’

‘Well, there are no oaks here.’

‘So? Anyway, the Azath Houses just grow up out of the ground.’

He leaned back. ‘Have you seen this happen?’ he asked.

‘Haut explained it. And their yards are hungry.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just what I said. Their yards are hungry. Haut’s own words. I have a good memory, you know. Better than most people.’

‘So you don’t know what it means either. Hungry yards. Sounds … ominous.’ Abruptly he began cleaning his stylus, and then he stoppered the bottle of ink.

‘What are you doing? I thought you were busy.’

‘There is an Azath House at the western edge of the ruins. When Omtose Phellack was a thousand years old, it sprang up one night, upsetting the Jaghut no end. But as none could get inside, and it was proof against all magic, they decided to ignore it.’ He collected up his cloak. ‘I think I’ll go take a look.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

‘Ifayle’s freckles won’t like that.’

‘You do know that they won’t let you go, Arathan. The Jaghut. You’re hiding, anyway. From what? Probably a woman. It was a woman, wasn’t it? People have said things.’

‘Who? Never mind. No one here knows anything about it. You’re just making all this up.’

‘Who was she? What did she do to you?’

‘I’m going now,’ he said, stepping past her and yanking the curtain aside.

Korya followed, feeling unaccountably pleased with herself. They emerged from the small hovel that had once been some sort of store. The breeze was cool but not cold, and an unseasonal thaw softened the air. As they set out, she saw how many of the long-abandoned buildings were now occupied once more. Blue-skinned Ilnap had formed enclaves, although there was nothing festive in their efforts to establish some sort of community, and more often than not they found themselves glowering across at bands of Dog-Runners encamped on the other side of the street, who were in the habit of treating abodes as if they were caves, the rubbish piling up in front of the gaping doorways.

Before long, however, she and Arathan left the inhabited reaches of the dead city behind, making their way down barren, silent streets. Here and there a squat tower had tumbled and the broken stone spilled out into passageways, blocking their progress and forcing them to seek out the narrower alleys threading through overgrown gardens.

‘Imagine,’ said Arathan, ‘just abandoning all of this. Imagine, a simple argument from one Jaghut, from Gothos, bringing down an entire civilization. One wouldn’t think such things possible. Could the same happen to us Tiste? Could someone just step forward and argue us out of existence?’

‘Of course not,’ Korya replied. ‘We prefer our arguments messy, ugly, with plenty of spilled blood.’

He glanced sharply across at her. ‘More news of the civil war?’

‘Deniers came into the camp yesterday. Hunters who’d come home to their forest camps to find their mates slaughtered. The children too. Those hunters have lost their black skin. They’re now grey, as grey as the Dog-Runners when they smear themselves in ash.’ She shrugged. ‘Rituals of mourning, only with the Deniers, it’s permanent.’

Arathan fell silent, as if considering her words, as they worked their way through the ruins. They had moved past the squatters now, and the solemnity of a discarded city hung heavy in the still air.

‘I have to go back,’ Korya said.

‘Back? To what? You were made a hostage. You’re not yet of the proper age to be released.’

‘Haut’s going with Hood, whatever that means. He’s been looking to hand me off to some other master, or tutor, or whatever title fits. But I won’t go. I’m not interested in listening to old men or, even worse, old women, and all their tired, worn-out ideas.’

‘You’re quick to reject the wisdom of your elders, Korya.’

‘And you waste your life away scribbling useless confessions from a suicidal Jaghut too weak-kneed to actually go through with it. In case you haven’t been paying attention, sorcery is now among us, wild currents of magic. All you need to do is reach for it.’

‘And have you?’

She frowned. ‘Haut tells me my aspect awaits elsewhere. It’s why he made me a Mahybe.’

‘Oh? And what is your, uh, aspect?’

‘Kurald Galain. Darkness. The sorcery of Mother Dark herself.’

Ahead, seemingly standing alone, oddly distinct from all the hovels surrounding it, was a stone house with a peaked roof and a squat corner tower. A low wall marked the yard and a gaping gateway the entrance on to the path. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said Arathan. ‘She doesn’t grant anyone the gift of sorcery.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll just take what I need. It’s important. Haut explained everything. Blood has been spilled. Hood’s wife slain by an Azathanai, corrupting all the sorcery K’rul unleashed. That needs answering, by a purifying form of sorcery, what Haut calls elemental. And the magic of Dark is elemental.’

‘And Light?’

‘The same.’

‘So Urusander and his legion have a right to the power they seek. A just cause for this civil war.’ When she said nothing, he gestured towards the stone house. ‘There it is. An Azath House.’

‘Doesn’t matter if the cause is just, if the way of achieving it is a crime.’

Arathan grunted. ‘Gothos would agree with you. In fact, something of that sentiment is at the core of his argument against civilization. The crimes of progress, of every self-serving rationale for destroying something in the name of creating something new, presumably better. He says a culture’s value system is in fact a shell game. It changes in the name of convenience. The stone is under one of the shells, meaning all the others are hollow, and therein lies the hypocrisy of a civilization’s pronounced set of values. Even the weight of those values – those stones – changes depending on the whims of the one running the game.’ After a moment of silence following his words, he glanced at Korya, to find her staring back intently. ‘What?’

‘It’s easy to find flaws. It’s much harder to find solutions.’

‘That’s because there aren’t any. Solutions, I mean. We are imperfect creatures, and the society we create cannot help but reflect those imperfections, or even exaggerate them. The spark of tyranny resides in every one of us. From this, we find tyrannical despots terrorizing entire nations. We are prone to jealousy, and from that, armies invade, lands are stolen and the bodies of victims are stacked like cordwood. We lie to hide our crimes and for this to work, historians need to glide over past atrocities. And so it goes, on and on. In the end, honesty is the enemy of us all. We wear civilization like a proud mask. But it’s still a mask.’

‘Gothos deserves a kick between the legs,’ Korya said, even as she faced the Azath House and set off towards the gateway. Something inside her had abruptly closed up, like the slamming shut of some hidden door.

Arathan saw the sudden flatness come to her eyes, but said nothing, even as he felt a faint pang of something that might be regret. As she approached the Azath House, he followed. ‘He’d not disagree with you.’

‘That’s no consolation.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘And this is why I’m done listening to old men. Hope dies to ten thousand small cuts, and these men around us, Arathan, they are most terribly scarred.’ She shook her head, her hair, grown long, shimmering upon her shoulders. ‘Civilization is all about restraint. That’s what laws and rules are for. To check our more venal impulses-’

‘Until those laws and rules are twisted around them, becoming a travesty of justice.’

‘He’s made you old before your time,’ Korya said. ‘He shouldn’t have done that.’

‘Flawed and imperfect, even the Lord of Hate.’

‘I think I’m going to give up on you, Arathan. Go on, join Hood and Haut and Varandas and all the rest. But it seems to me, of all the enemies you might choose, death is the simplest. So, take your easy way out, and good luck to you.’

As she turned away, Arathan said, ‘Wait! What about the Azath House? It’s here, you’re only steps from the path! Did you come all this way just to turn round again? I thought you wanted to explore it?’

Korya hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘Fine, since I’m here.’

She passed through the gateway, on to the flagstoned path. Arathan followed her, remaining a step behind.

The yard to either side of the wending path was a tangled mess of sinkholes and humped mounds. A few small, scraggly trees surmounted the mounds, their branches twisted and bearing only a few of the last season’s leaves, wrinkled and black. The path made a sinuous approach to the two stone steps and narrow landing at the foot of a heavy, wooden door.

‘That looks solid,’ Arathan observed, eyeing the door.

‘When did it … appear?’

‘Gothos said a thousand years ago.’

‘That door isn’t a thousand years old, Arathan. Maybe a hundred, or even less.’

He shrugged. ‘The fittings are iron, blackened but no rust. And that doesn’t make sense, either, does it?’

All of the windows fronting the house were shuttered, again with wood, and no light leaked from between the weathered slats.

‘No one lives here,’ Korya said. ‘It feels … dead.’

Stepping past her, Arathan walked up to the door. He made a fist and thumped on the thick planks of wood. There was no echo, no reverberation. He might as well have been pounding on a solid wall. Glancing back over a shoulder, he saw Korya still on the path, one hand held palm-up, and in that palm sat the acorn. There was speculation in her study of the yard to one side.

Arathan drew a breath, minded to voice a warning, when with an offhand gesture she tossed the acorn into the yard.

‘Oh,’ Arathan managed.

Where the acorn had landed amidst yellowed grasses, the earth suddenly heaved, rising and then slumping over, building a mound of steaming black soil.

Behind Arathan the stones of the Azath House groaned. Spinning round, he saw grit trickling like rain down the pitted façade. An instant later Korya joined him, her expression slightly wild.

From the fresh mound in the yard a tree was now growing, branches twisting out from a stunted trunk that visibly thickened. Roots snaked out to grip the mound.

The house groaned again, and Arathan heard a dull click. Turning, he reached for the latch. The door opened, and at a gentle push swung soundlessly inward, revealing a short corridor flanked by alcoves. The light spilling in reached no further.

‘The tree is trembling,’ Korya said, her voice unsteady and faintly breathless. ‘As if it’s in pain.’

‘What was that acorn?’ Arathan asked, even as he edged closer to the door’s threshold.

‘A Finnest.’

‘What’s that?’

She licked her lips. ‘Lots of things. A place in which to hide your power away, or a piece of your soul. Even a secret you want to keep from yourself.’ She hesitated, and then added, ‘Sometimes it’s a prison.’

‘A prison?’

‘There was a god inside,’ she suddenly said. ‘Ancient, forgotten. Someone shed blood in the camp and summoned it. That was a mistake, but Haut – me and Haut – we trapped it.’

‘You and Haut, was it?’

‘You saw! I had the acorn, not him, right? Yes, the two of us!’

The tree was now as tall as Arathan, but twisted, nightmarish, bleeding sap from swollen fissures in its trunk, its branches shivering incessantly. ‘That’s an angry god,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t matter. It’s not going anywhere.’

‘Are you sure? I’d say it was fighting to get out, and whatever is trying to hold it down is in trouble. What I want to know is, what made you throw it into the yard?’

‘I don’t know. It just felt right.’

One of the larger branches split with a sharp crack. Arathan took Korya by the shoulder and pulled her with him as he crossed the threshold. Once clear he shut the door. The latch settled into place.

The darkness slowly faded.

‘Why did you do that?’ Korya asked. ‘Now we’re stuck in here.’

‘I doubt it,’ he replied. ‘See, the lock is a simple one: just lift it clear and the door opens.’

‘Fine, but who opened it the first time?’

* * *

Haut found Hood at the meagre hearth with its illusionary fire, the cold flames flickering in the gloom. Squatting down opposite, he spoke in a low tone. ‘We have a problem.’

‘I know.’

‘We pretty much killed that Azath House, and what’s left has been dying for centuries. Whatever that elder spirit was, it’s a powerful bastard, too powerful for that old yard.’

‘Nine of our kin fed that yard,’ Hood muttered, his hands hovering above the flames. ‘None made it back out, no matter what we did to that house.’

‘That was long ago, Hood, when it still had some spine.’

‘Your thoughts?’

‘Summon a Builder.’

Hood bared his tusks in a bitter grin. ‘You test my temper, captain.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’

‘The Seregahl.’

Haut squinted across at Hood. ‘Not company you’d willingly keep, then.’

‘Sheer arrogance has gifted them godly status. They grate. They pall. They earn endless derision from the other Toblakai, and fierce enmity from the Thelomen. Worse yet, they have forgotten the art of bathing.’

‘Set them a challenge, will you?’

‘The best outcome is they succeed even as they fail. I imagine our nine lost kin will oblige me in welcoming them to the yard.’

‘And the dying house?’

‘Summon your Builder if necessary, Haut. I doubt it’ll rush here, eager as a pup.’

Haut continued staring at Hood for a few moments longer, and then with a sigh he straightened. ‘She’s a precipitous child, I’ll grant you. Yet-’

‘Her instincts were sound.’

‘Just so,’ Haut said, nodding.

‘Send the Seregahl to me, then,’ Hood said. ‘They deem themselves worthy of my vanguard? Empty words. I will see them tested.’

‘In the Azath yard?’

‘In the Azath yard.’

‘Hood, you will be the death of us all.’

Hood barked a laugh. ‘I will indeed, Haut. Do you now hesitate?’

‘I need to find her a minder.’

‘No you don’t. Arathan will be with her. Together, they will return to Kurald Galain.’

Haut scowled. ‘Prophecy now, too?’

‘No,’ Hood replied, ‘I will send them on their way home by a more prosaic pronouncement. My boot to their backsides.’

* * *

The nameless leader of the Seregahl clawed through his tangled beard, forcing out twigs and old flecks of food that drifted down on to his chest. ‘A voice roars in challenge,’ he said in a caustic rumble. ‘It aches in the skull. In my skull. In the skulls of my companions. We are not like the other Toblakai. We have come into power. Others of our kind worship us, and rightly so. The Thelomen and Thel Akai fear us-’

There was a snort from just beyond the pallid light of Hood’s hearth.

As one, the eleven Seregahl turned at the sound, various visages twisting in various ways. Haut stifled a sigh and then grunted. ‘Don’t mind her,’ he said to the Seregahl leader. ‘A curious Thel Akai. Seems in the habit of following you lot around, in case you haven’t noticed.’

The leader bared his yellow teeth. ‘Oh, we have noticed, captain. Though she’d rather hide like a coward in the gloom.’

The vague, hulking figure in the darkness seemed to shift slightly. ‘I but await one of you to wander off,’ she replied. ‘Then I would challenge that one, and kill him. Instead, you find courage only in your pack. I name you bullies and cowards.’

Haut rubbed at his face and swung round to face the Thel Akai woman. ‘Enough, Siltanys Hes Erekol. Choose another time for such challenges. Hood has need of these Seregahl.’

‘Yet Hood sits there and says nothing.’

‘Nonetheless.’

After a long moment, the Thel Akai named Erekol made a motion that might have been a shrug, and then stepped back into the gloom, and moments later was gone from all sight.

The Seregahl leader was still grinning. ‘Many are our challengers. We dispense with each in our own time.’

‘Ah,’ murmured Hood from where he sat by his fire, ‘then it is true, then, what Siltanys Hes Erekol had to say. Unwilling to disassemble this glowering pack so delighting in its strut and raised hackles.’

The leader scowled. ‘We are an army. An elite company. We fight as one. Let Erekol collect up more of her kind and then choose the field. We will slay her and every fool with her. But you, Hood, what reason this mocking and insult? Have you not proclaimed us your vanguard? Have you not recognized our ferocity?’

‘I have doubts,’ Hood replied. ‘Many formidable warriors have now joined my … legion. Many are worthy of taking the vanguard.’

‘Gather them up,’ the Seregahl leader growled. ‘In sufficient number to stand before me and my kin. This will answer your doubts.’

‘At the loss of too many worthy allies,’ Hood said, shaking his head. ‘Did not Captain Haut speak to you of this ancient enemy? Did you not acknowledge the irritation of its endless roaring in your skulls? I would send you to it, and charge you with silencing the vile creature. Show me your prowess in this manner, Seregahl, and the van is yours.’

The leader grunted, drawing from his back his massive twin-bladed axe. ‘This we can do!’

Haut cleared his throat. ‘Very well then, my friends. If you will follow me?’

‘Lead on, captain!’

When the echoes of the troop’s footfalls finally fell away, the Thel Akai woman reappeared, striding up to face Hood with the hearth between them. Her broad, wide-cheeked face was flat and colourless in the reflected light. ‘The games you indulge in, Hood.’

‘Ah, Erekol, do join me, whilst I explain the lancing of boils.’

‘I could do that as easily as some ancient hoary god trapped under a tree. One at a time, as I said.’

Hood studied her for a long moment. ‘I know something of your tale. Your … reasons. But have you not a surviving son?’

‘Left in the care of others.’

‘Are you here in the name of vengeance alone, or do you seek to join my legion?’

‘Your legion? Your mob of fools, you mean.’

‘I have not yet decided on a title.’

She laughed, and then settled into a squat. ‘Vengeance,’ she said. ‘The Seregahl spring their cowardly ambushes, and Thel Akai husbands weep. I’m fed up with their shit, and all those obnoxious proclamations. Thus, I am here to kill your vaunted vanguard, and yet you defy me again and again. What am I to make of that?’

‘Where is your son?’

‘Aboard a stout ship.’

‘In what sea?’

‘West. They ply the Furrow Strait, hunting dhenrabi.’

‘Near the High King’s lands, then.’

She shrugged. ‘Thel Akai fear no one.’

‘Unwise. The High King has set his protection upon the dhenrabi, and their breeding waters.’

‘My son is safe. What matters it to you, Hood?’

‘I grieve estrangement, Erekol.’

‘I am more than just a mother. I am the chosen huntress of my tribe. And so I am here, hunting.’

‘The pack fears you and will never give you the chance to kill its members one by one.’

‘They will make a mistake. I goad them.’

‘They are more likely to come at you in their pack, and so bring you down that way. And accusations of cowardice rarely sting the victors.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Go to the Azath House. That will be a mess, I’m sure. Some Seregahl will be taken. The yard needs them. The house needs their blood, their power.’

‘Who resides within?’

‘There is no one,’ Hood answered. ‘None for five hundred years.’

‘What fate befell the guardian?’

‘We killed him. Yes, a mistake. Precipitous. Regrettable. Should I meet him beyond the Veil of Death, I will apologize.’

‘By your hand, then?’

‘No. But that is of no matter. The Jaghut may be singular, but we can never deny that we are also one, and responsibility must be shared in all things. As Gothos would tell you, civilization plays its game of convenient evasion. Us. Them. Meaningless borders, arbitrary distinctions. We Jaghut are a people. As a people we must share the full host of our collective crimes. Anything else is a conceit, and a lie.’

Erekol shook her head, even as she straightened. ‘I will accept your offer, and make my own ambush, when they least desire it.’

‘I wish you luck, Erekol.’

She moved away a step, and then paused and glanced back. ‘What vision has found you, and what has it to do with my son?’

‘I see him in the High King’s shadow. That is not a good place to be.’

‘Whence this new gift of prophecy, Hood?’

‘I am not certain,’ Hood confessed. ‘But it may be this. I draw ever closer to death’s veil, and its flavour is, I think, timeless. Past, present, future, all one.’

‘Death,’ she muttered, ‘like a people.’

Hood tilted his head, startled by her words, but said nothing as she walked away.

The fire flickered on, colder now, duller, a thing leached of all life. Regarding it, the Jaghut nodded – mostly to himself. Things were coming along nicely, he concluded. He reached out with his hands once more, to steal more of what remained of the fire’s heat.

* * *

‘Unlocked door or not, Korya, there’s no one here.’

They stood in a sitting room made cosy by thick rugs, a settee and two chairs that flanked a stone fireplace where embers ebbed like dimming eyes. The air was warm but stale, lit too much by the feeble hearth.

‘These rugs,’ said Korya, staring down at what was beneath her feet. ‘Wild myrid wool, twisted raw, the strands knotted. Dog-Runner, not Jaghut.’

Arathan grunted. ‘Didn’t know the Dog-Runners wove anything but grasses and reeds.’

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘you didn’t know. But then, you’ve not been in their camps. You’ve not sat round their fires, cockles cooking in the ashes, watching the women make stone tools, watching the boys learn the knots and using spindles and combs – the skills they’ll need to make the nets and snares they use to trap animals and birds, for when they all begin their year of wandering.’

‘A year of wandering? All alone? I like the sound of that.’

She sniffed, at what he wasn’t sure, and then walked over to the fireplace. ‘Who’s been feeding this, I wonder?’

‘Korya, we’ve explored every room. The outer door unlocked by itself, because the house wanted us inside.’

‘And why would it do that?’ she asked. ‘You said the Jaghut couldn’t get in. You said they spent centuries trying.’

‘To keep us safe, from what you did outside, with that acorn.’

‘It was an old god. Forgotten. The Ilnap mages didn’t know what they were doing. But why should an Azath House care about us?’

They both turned at a strange shuffling sound from the doorway that led to the main inner corridor. A ghostly figure loomed suddenly in the entranceway. A Dog-Runner, his hair so blond as to be almost colourless, his tawny beard tangled and looking like a tuft of dead grass growing from his chinless jaw. The eye sockets beneath the heavy ridge of his brow were empty pits. A hole had been carved into his broad chest, where his heart should have been. What remained was withered and dry, ribs snapped and jutting from the wound.

‘Apparition,’ whispered Korya, ‘forgive us this intrusion.’

‘The dead are unforgiving,’ the ghost replied in a thin voice. ‘Which is, I suppose, why we are known to be such miserable company. Beg no pardon, plead no indulgence, pray no favour and seek no blessing. Take pleasure in my noticing you, if you must, or let loose a blood-curdling scream. I care neither way.’

Arathan sighed, and then straightened. ‘What do you want of us, Dog-Runner?’

‘What all old men want, living or dead. An audience for our life’s story. Sharp interest we can dull, curiosity we can deplete. An opportunity to dismember your very will to live, if possible. Hearken then to this wisdom, if you would hold to the conceit of being worthy of it.’

Arathan glanced at Korya. ‘And you willingly sat around the campfire in company like this?’

She scowled. ‘Well, the ones outside aren’t dead yet. I’d think dying changes how you think.’

‘Or simply exaggerates what was already there.’

‘I am now being ignored,’ observed the Dog-Runner ghost. ‘This, too, is typical. I was once a Bonecaster, a foolish man among chattering women, defenceless against their barbs until respect was earned in the manner they expected. Namely, a man’s legendary stubbornness. Although, between you and me, I was more addled than stubborn. What is perceived is rarely the truth, and what is true is only rarely perceived. Between the two, upon which is one best advised to rely? Some delusions, after all, are comforting. While truths, alas, are mostly unpleasant.’

‘How came you to this Azath House?’ Arathan asked.

‘By the front door.’

‘Who killed you?’

‘Jaghut. In the manner of fatal exploration, as they sought to determine all that was magical within me. Of course, there was nothing magical within me, barring life’s spark, which all mortals possess. Said exploration quenched that spark, an outcome I predicted at the top of my lungs to no avail, even as the knife descended. When next you see Jaghut, tell them this from Guardian Cadig Aval: “I told you so.” If brave, you may add “idiots” to my message.’

‘Oh,’ said Arathan, ‘I’ll do that for you. It would be my pleasure, in fact. Nor do I think Gothos would-’

‘Gothos? I’ve been looking for him, here in the realms of the dead, since he said he was going to kill himself. Yet still he lives? Typical. You can’t depend on anyone.’

‘He’s composing a suicide note.’

‘I got there first, as you would have discovered had you accepted my invitation to hear me confess my life’s story. For are not all such tales nothing more than suicide notes? A list of deeds, crimes and regrets, loves and still more regrets – in fact an endless litany of regrets, come to think on it. Never mind. It has been some time since I last had anyone else with whom to converse. In the interval, I find that I am a poor audience to my own thoughts. Too much catcalling and derision.’

Arathan stepped closer. ‘A moment ago, sir, you spoke of realms of the dead. They’re what we’re looking for, you see, with Hood and his legion-’

‘What now? Is there no refuge left you living won’t despoil? I happen to be quite fond of the realms of the dead. None have reason to argue there, or pose or preen. No one is obsessed with saving face, or stung to stupidity by brainless pride. No grudges to hold. Nothing left worth the gleeful gush of spite. Even vengeance proves laughable. Imagine that, friends. Laughable. Ha ha ha.’

‘Mother save us,’ muttered Korya, turning back to the fire.

‘One lost,’ the ghost observed smugly. ‘And one still to go. Now then, young man, do offer me another mortal conceit I can happily dismantle. There is no end to what I can prove to be pointless in this miserable thing you call your life.’

‘Why bother?’ Arathan asked the ghost.

Cadig Aval tilted his head. ‘Well, you have a point there. Excuse me.’ With that, he vanished.

After a moment, Arathan turned to Korya. ‘It’s said that Azath Houses possess guardians. This Bonecaster was one such guardian, until the Jaghut killed him. But did you hear what he said about realms of the dead? Proof that such places exist! I will speak to Hood about this.’

Korya sneered at him. ‘Don’t expect that ghost to hold open the gate for you and the rest. Seems the dead prefer their realms to be empty of life.’

‘It doesn’t matter if we’re not welcome, or wanted. This is war, after all.’

‘Weren’t you listening? The dead have no need to fight, no reason worth fighting for.’

‘So we’ll give them one.’

‘Some woman jangled your jewels and stole your heart. That happens. It’s not a good enough reason to abandon the living world. Have you not noticed? Hood’s army has raised a standard of grief. But that grief is real, and serious. It’s the kind that crushes everything inside. In a way, they’re all already dead, or most of them, anyway. Especially Hood. But you, Arathan? Get over it. Get over yourself!’

‘And what about Haut, your keeper? Or Varandas? It’s not grief that’s brought them to Hood, is it?’

‘No. Just loyalty. And a sick sense of humour.’

‘But you’re not laughing.’

She crossed her arms. ‘I should have gone with the Jheleck hunters. Learned how to rut like a dog. And roll around on dead things. But I missed my chance. Regrets, like the ghost talked about. Who knows, maybe I’ll run into them on my way back to Kurald Galain. Worse things could-’

‘Did you hear that?’

The echoes of thunder reached them, and a moment later the walls groaned. The embers in the fireplace flared suddenly. Fierce heat gusted from the hearth, forcing both Korya and Arathan back a step, and then another. Sweat beaded the walls, and began trickling down.

The ghostly guardian reappeared in the entranceway. ‘See what you’ve done? More company. And me dead. What’s worse, no matter what the house thinks, you two won’t do as my replacement. Too restless, too eager to see the world. Too hopeful by far to be custodians to a prison.’

Frowning, Arathan approached the Bonecaster ghost. ‘A prison? Is that what these Azath Houses are? Then who built them?’

‘Now the whole yard’s awake. It’s all getting ugly. Stay here.’ The ghost disappeared again.

Arathan turned to Korya. ‘A prison.’

‘The Jaghut know that,’ Korya replied.

He nodded. ‘Yes, I think they do. But … the Azathanai? Why worship a prison?’

Shrugging, she moved past him and into the corridor beyond. ‘Find one and ask.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To the tower, get one of those shuttered windows open, and see what’s going on. You coming?’

He followed.

* * *

Haut watched as the Seregahl leader pulled himself over the low wall of the yard, tattered armour scraping as he rolled clear to thump heavily on the ground. Others were shouting as they clambered in his wake, leaving smears of blood on the stones, while from within the grounds terrible shrieks cut raggedly through the dusty air.

Haut stepped closer to the leader and looked down at the Seregahl’s face. Half of the man’s beard had been torn away, flensing the skin of his cheek. The look in his eyes was wild, his mouth opening and closing without sound. He had lost his double-bladed axe.

Haut cleared his throat and then said, ‘That’s the problem with ancient gods, I suppose. Their reluctance to just … die.’

Another Seregahl, missing the lower part of his left leg, the ruptured knee joint gushing blood, made a wild cavort of hops before falling seven or eight paces from the wall’s gate. Haut watched as the Thel Akai woman walked up to the cursing Toblakai and put the tip of her sword through his neck. The curses ended in a spitting gurgle.

‘Get her away from us!’ rasped the Seregahl leader, rolling on to his hands and knees. One hand scrabbled at his belt and drew out a knife the size of a shortsword. ‘Seregahl! To me!’

The others quickly moved in close around their leader, forming a defensive cordon. Many of them bore wounds from the grasping roots and branches of the frenzied forest of gnarled trees now crowding the house’s yard. And by Haut’s count, five warriors were missing. The Thel Akai woman stood over the corpse of the man she had just slain, eyeing the troop with an air of vague disappointment.

The tumult in the yard was dying down, although the occasional sharp retort of a snapping branch lingered. Someone was still busy in there. Glancing at the house, he saw that the shutters had been opened on the top level of the squat tower that formed one corner of the building. Two figures were leaning on the sill, their attention fixed on the yard below.

Haut frowned up at them.

‘How did they get in?’

He turned to find the Thel Akai woman now at his side, her gaze fixed on Korya and Arathan.

‘I’ve seen the girl,’ she continued. ’Tiste make my skin crawl. I don’t know why. She wanders your camp, stirring up trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

The woman shrugged. ‘She mocks them. Hood’s followers.’

‘The easy disdain of the young,’ Haut said, nodding. He paused, and then added, ‘I don’t know how they got into the Azath House.’

The woman was now regarding the huddle of battered Seregahl. Her lip curled, but she said nothing.

The gate slammed open off to their right and a moment later a figure stumbled into view. Haut drew a sudden breath, and then stepped forward.

A Jaghut, his clothes rotted, his leathers stained with mould. Roots threaded his long, unkempt hair, and soil had mottled the skin of his face and arms. Five hundred years buried beneath the yard had not treated him well. Sighing, Haut drew closer, and then spoke. ‘Gethol, your brother will be pleased to see you.’

The Jaghut slowly shifted his gaze, glancing briefly at Haut and then away again. He brushed feebly at the dirt covering him. ‘Not dead yet then.’

‘He’s working on it.’

Gethol spat mud from his mouth, and then coughed and looked over to the Seregahl. ‘Five went down,’ he said. ‘That should do.’

‘The house has the old god?’

‘Well enough.’ Gethol coughed and spat again.

‘Ah,’ said Haut. ‘That is a relief.’

‘Where is Cadig Aval?’

‘Dead. Apparently.’

‘Yet there are living souls in the house. I could feel them.’

Haut shrugged. ‘There are, but not for much longer. Will that be a problem?’

‘How should I know? No, the house will prevail. This time.’

Returning his attention to the two Tiste in the tower window, Haut waited until he was sure that Korya was looking at him. He waved her down. A moment later both figures pulled back from the window, drawing the shutters closed.

Gethol asked, ‘Where is he then?’

‘In the Tower of Hate.’

Gothos’s brother grunted, and then said, ‘Why, it’s as though I never left.’

* * *

‘This fire is dying,’ Cred said, leaning closer to study the hissing pumice stones in the bronze bowl. ‘Not my magic, not my prowess, but the fire itself.’ He straightened and looked around. ‘See how the firelight dims everywhere? Something is stealing the heat.’

Brella scowled across at him. ‘Then we starve.’

‘Or learn to eat things raw, as the Dog-Runners do,’ said Stark.

‘They cook their food like anyone else,’ Brella retorted. She turned her attention to the younger woman. ‘A simple walk through the camp would have shown you that. Instead, you cling to ignorant beliefs as if they could redefine the world. I see belligerence settle in your face, so downturned, the frown and the skittish diffidence in your eyes – so like your mother, may the Sea Hoarder give peace to her soul.’

Cred grunted. ‘Stark’s mother would have defied the very water filling her lungs. Oh, but I admired her for that. In the days before magic, when helplessness haunted us all.’ He gestured at the ebbing glow in the brazier before him. ‘The ghosts of that time return. And all the driftwood gone from the strand, nothing but grasses in the plain inland. I sit here, facing all that I have lost.’

‘I am nothing like my mother,’ Stark said to Brella. ‘Just as you are nothing like your daughter.’

Grinning, Cred glanced over to see Brella’s scowl deepen. ‘Not my daughter any more,’ she said. ‘She casts off the name I gave her. So that she might command us all, and ever from a distance. Captain of a broken army. Captain of beaten refugees, the wreckage of a conquered people. What am I to her? Not her mother.’

‘The High King’s fleet did for our highborn,’ Cred pointed out. ‘You and your daughter come closest to anyone who might resurrect a claim to the royal line.’

Brella snorted.

Cred shook his head. ‘You held the Living Claim, Brella, and then gave it into my keeping. That is the responsibility of the Ilnap bloodline. By this one ritual, you assert your claim to the Lost Throne. Even your daughter does not deny this.’

‘“Captain.”’

‘She chooses that title because she sees no future awaiting us. This is why we’re here, Brella, vowing to march on death itself. The First Betrayal is the Last Betrayal. So it was prophesied.’

Hissing under her breath, Brella rose. ‘I am done with these pointless words. Defeat has become the nectar that sustains us, as would the vile smoke of d’bayang. She leads us on to the path of no return. So be it. But let there be no illusions. We do not lead, only follow. And where this will end, the Living Claim lives no longer.’

‘Curse the High King-’ began Stark, but Brella turned on her.

‘Curse him? Why? We did nothing but raid his coast, loot his merchants and send their ships to the deep. Year after year, season upon season, we grew indolent in our feeding upon the labour of others. Curse him not, Stark. The retribution was just.’

With that, she walked away.

Cred returned his attention to the dying fire. ‘The sorcery within me is no weaker for this loss. How is such a thing possible?’

Shrugging, Stark unrolled her bedding and prepared for sleep, even though the day was barely half done. ‘Perhaps something feeds on what you offer.’

Cred frowned at the woman, and then nodded. ‘Yes, as I said earlier.’

‘No, not your magic, Cred. Just the fire, nothing else. Each day we lose more heat – where is the season of thaw? I see the sea flocks flying into the north. Crabs march the shallows, awaiting the next full moon. All around us, the world prepares its time of breeding and renewal. But not here, not in this camp.’

She settled down, drawing up the heavy furs until they covered her entirely.

Fixing his attention once more on the dying fire, Cred considered Stark’s words. If indeed the season was turning around them, then they had drifted inward. Stark had the truth of that. Curling down a spoke to settle on the hub, and at the very heart of that hub … Hood. He straightened. It has begun.

* * *

Varandas squatted opposite Hood. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I am ending time.’

‘No wonder it’s taking so long.’ Varandas glanced away, seeing the approach of the lone Azathanai who had elected to join this hoary legion. ‘One comes,’ he said to Hood. ‘She has circled for days. Only now are her perambulations revealed as a spiral. Mayhap she will challenge you.’

‘I am proof against challenges,’ Hood replied.

‘Most dullards are. Let reason bludgeon you about the head and then, like a dazed fly, retreat in wobbling flight. The witless are known to defy, with piggy eyes and pressed lips. Making a knuckled fist of their face, they proclaim the stars no more than studs of quartz upon the night sky’s velvet cloak, or the beasts of the wild as simple fodder serving our appetites. They carve every asinine opinion in the stone of their obstinacy and take pride in their own stupidity. Why is it that there comes a time in every civilization when the idiots rise to dominate all discourse, with beetled brows and reams of spite? Who are such fools, and how long did they lurk mostly unseen, simply awaiting their day in the benighted light?’

‘Are you done, Varandas?’ Hood asked.

‘The witless have no comprehension of the rhetorical. They misapprehend unanswerable questions, since in their puny worlds of comprehension they possess none. Only answers, solid as lumps of shit, and just as foul.’ Varandas looked up then, at the arrival of the Azathanai. He nodded, but her attention was on Hood.

She spoke. ‘The dead are marching, Hood. Clever, I suppose. When all wondered how we would march into that realm, instead you bring that realm to us.’

‘Spingalle, I did not think you fled too far.’

‘I never fled at all,’ the Azathanai replied.

‘Where, then?’

‘The Tower of Hate. Penance.’

Varandas frowned up at her. ‘You know, if you truly sought to hide among us Jaghut, you should not have elected the form of a woman of such beauty as to take our breath away.’

She glanced at him. ‘Unintended, Varandas. But if my appearance still delights you, I can oblige you in kind.’

‘Make me a woman? I think not, and shall remain content with occasional misapprehension. Oh, and if you will indulge me, sidelong admiration of the impostor in our company.’

Jaghut tended towards the lean and bony, but Spingalle had defied that common form, and in the contrast that was her fullness she elicited universal wonder among the Jaghut, men and women both. Varandas studied her for a moment longer, and then with a sigh he returned his attention to Hood. ‘She is right. That was clever.’

‘Even the witless will shed a spark every now and then,’ Hood said. ‘Spingalle, I was under the impression that the Tower of Hate was solid.’

‘No fault of mine if you believe everything Caladan Brood tells you. But then, you were always a credulous lot, prone to the literal, inured to the figurative. But this molestation of time, Hood, it seems … unwise.’

‘Wisdom is overrated,’ Hood said. ‘Now then, Spingalle, will you indeed join us when the day comes?’

‘I will. Death is a curiosity. Even, perhaps, a hobby of mine. I confess to some fascination, admittedly lurid. This notion of flesh that passes, soft shells that decay once the spirit has fled, and how such an affliction haunts you all.’

‘Us mortals, you mean?’ Varandas asked. ‘I’ll have you know, Azathanai, that those Jaghut who by chance escape premature death invariably welcome an end when at last it arrives. The flesh is a weary vessel, and that which crumbles soon becomes a prison to the soul. Death, accordingly, is a relief. Indeed, an escape.’

She frowned. ‘But why confound a soul with the uncertainty of its immortality?’

‘Perhaps,’ ventured Hood, ‘to awaken in us the value of faith.’

‘And what value has faith, Hood?’

‘Belief exists in order to humble the mundane world of proofs. If mortal flesh is a prison, so too is a world too well known. Within and without, we desire – and perhaps need – a means of escape.’

‘An escape you name faith. Thank you, Hood. You have enlightened me.’

‘Not too much, one hopes,’ Varandas said in a growl. ‘Lest all wonder die in your lavender eyes.’

‘Beauty desires admiration, Varandas, until it tires of it.’

‘And does it now pall in your regard, Spingalle?’

‘Probably. Besides, too much flattery and the subject begins to doubt its veracity, or at the very least, its worth. And besides, what worth is it, Varandas, to be the object of aesthetic admiration? I but give shape to your imagination.’

‘A rare gift,’ Varandas replied.

‘Not as rare as you think.’

‘Your Jaghut guise has soured you, Azathanai. Our misery is infectious.’

‘This too is probable. Hood, the Azath House in your abandoned city has won a reprieve. Even the guardian ghost knows invigoration. Still, that was a risky endeavour.’

Hood shrugged where he sat before his cold flames. ‘Do me a favour, Spingalle, and spread the word. It will be very soon now.’

‘Very well. Varandas, I should never have slept with you.’

‘True, as I remain eternally smitten.’

‘Somewhat pathetic of you, and therefore decidedly unattractive.’

‘Such is the curse of one who loses. But seed this ground between us with hope, and see me flower anew, bearing the sweet scent of delight and anticipation.’

‘Varandas, we are about to war with the dead.’

‘Yes, well, bad timing is another curse of mine, one not so easily discarded.’

She nodded to them both, and walked away.

Varandas stared after her, and then sighed again. A moment later he said, ‘More guests are imminent, Hood. Led by none other than Gothos’s brother.’

‘Don’t be ridic- Ah, well, that was a possibility, wasn’t it? What does he want with me, I wonder?’

‘A fist to your nose, I should expect.’

Hood grunted. ‘Beats a long conversation. In any case, it wasn’t really my fault.’

‘Yes,’ nodded Varandas, ‘be sure to tell him that.’

* * *

Arathan found himself glancing sidelong at the Thel Akai woman again and again, as she prowled about the low wall enclosing the yard of the Azath House. Her sword was still wet with the blood of a slain Seregahl, and she moved with a grace belying her martial girth. He could not decide if he admired warriors. They had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. As a child he had at first sought to shy away from them, with their clunking weapons and rustling armour. The world never seemed so dangerous as to demand such accoutrements, but that was, of course, naught but the naivety of a child. He had long since learned otherwise.

Korya was arguing with Haut, but they had pulled away, to keep the exchange more or less private. The surviving Seregahl had marched off, limping and battered and, possibly, humbled. Death had a way of divesting the arrogant of their pretences. Even so, he did not expect the humility to last long.

The air was strangely still, yet it seemed to hold an echo of the chaos and carnage that had ripped through the yard not so long ago. The dust hanging in the air was reluctant to settle, or even drift away. If a breath could be held by inanimate nature, then surely it was being held now, and Arathan wondered why.

Snarling something, Korya wheeled from Haut and approached Arathan. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Go? Where?’

‘Anywhere, just away from here!’

They set out, leaving behind Haut, the Thel Akai and a Jaghut woman who now closed in on the captain, carrying in one hand a jug of wine.

‘And that,’ said Arathan as he fell in beside a swiftly striding Korya, ‘is what never makes sense.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘This dead civilization. This Omtose Phellack, the abandoned city. Look at that Jaghut woman now with your Haut. Sharing that jug. Wine? Where from? Who made it? Have you seen any vineyards?’

‘Sanad,’ said Korya after glancing back over a shoulder. Her scowl deepened. ‘An old lover of his, I think. They’re getting drunk together. Again. I don’t like Jaghut women.’

‘Why?’

‘They know too much and say too little.’

‘Well, I can see how that might irritate you.’

‘Careful, Arathan, I’m not in the mood. Besides, you have no idea what awaits me. You see before you a young woman, a hostage now orphaned, but I am so much more than that.’

‘So you keep telling me.’

‘You’ll see soon enough.’

‘I don’t see how, but never mind. I don’t want that argument again, Korya. There are people I want to find, and they’re probably dead. I have things that I need to say to them. Not only that, but I expect there will be many, many warriors beyond the Veil. I want to ask them: was it worth it?’

‘Was what worth it?’

‘The fighting. The killing.’

‘I doubt they’d tell you. But even more, I doubt they’d have anything worth saying. Being dead, they failed, right? You’re headed for miserable company, Arathan. Not that they’d welcome you, and not that you’ll ever get close anyway. It seems that you are to be my keeper.’

‘What?’

‘Haut needs to hand me over to someone else. You’re of House Dracons, right? Well, you have to deliver me to your father, but in the meantime, I’m now your hostage.’

‘You can’t be. I won’t accept you.’

‘Are you not your father’s son?’

‘Bastard son.’

‘But he acknowledged you. You are now of House Dracons. You have responsibilities. You can’t be a child any longer, Arathan.’

‘So that’s how you all worked it out, is it? I sense Gothos behind this.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m your hostage. You have to return me to Kurald Galain, to your father’s estate.’

‘He doesn’t want to see me. He brought me here to keep me away.’

‘So take me back and then leave again. What you do after you’ve discharged your responsibility is up to you.’

‘This is … underhanded.’

‘And don’t think we’ll be lingering, either. I want to leave. Soon.’

‘If you’re now my hostage, we’ll leave when I decide it, not you.’ He thought for a moment, and then frowned. ‘I’ve not done the translating yet-’

‘You idiot. You’ll never be done with that, because Gothos won’t ever stop. I would have thought you’d worked that out by now.’

‘But I was just getting to the interesting stuff.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s more or less an autobiography, but his story begins now – or, that is, he began it the day he killed civilization and became the Lord of Hate, and from there it goes back in time, day by day, year by year, decade by decade, century by-’

‘Yes, I get it.’ She paused, and then said, ‘But that’s stupid.’

‘The point is,’ said Arathan, ‘it means that there must be an end to it. When at last he finds his earliest memory.’

‘So how far back have you managed to transcribe?’

‘About six years.’

She stopped, stared at him.

His frown deepened. ‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘How far has he gone back? In his writing?’

‘A couple of centuries, I think.’

‘And how old is Gothos?’

Arathan shrugged. I’m not sure. Two or three, I think.’

‘Centuries?’

‘Millennia.’

She made a fist as if to strike him, and then subsided. Sighing, she shook her head. ‘Gothos’s Folly indeed.’

‘There are dead people I need to see.’

‘See the living ones instead, Arathan. At least they might, on occasion, tell you something worth hearing.’ She set off once more, and Arathan followed.

‘It would be irresponsible of me,’ he said, ‘to take you back to a civil war.’

‘Oh, just fuck off, will you?’ She angled away. ‘I’m off to see a man with freckles on his arms.’