Fall of Light

SIXTEEN

‘It is our curse, once we are past childhood, to look upon innocence through a veil of sorrow.’

Standing beside Lord Anomander as they gazed out across the landscape, Ivis grunted. ‘Milord, it’s only what we’ve lost that makes innocence sting so.’

Their breaths plumed, quickly whipped away in the building north wind. The day’s eerie gloom was deepening.

After a moment, Anomander shook his head. ‘I would hold, my friend, that what you describe is but one side of the matter, and indeed one that looks only inward, as if the borders of your life enclose everything to be valued, while what lies beyond is of no worth whatsoever.’

‘Perhaps I misunderstood, milord.’

‘Consider this, Ivis. The sorrow belongs also to our sense of what awaits that child. The harsh lessons, the wounds taken and felt but not yet understood, the losses and the failures – those the child is destined to make, and those made by others. The battering of belief, and the loss of faith, which begins with oneself and then comes, in a relentless storm, from loved ones – parents, tutors or guardians. By such wounding is innocence lost.’

Thinking on his own childhood, Ivis grunted.

Anomander sighed, and then said, ‘Sympathy is not a weakness, Ivis. To grieve for the loss of innocence is to remind yourself that yours is not the only life in this world.’

Before them, from this height of the tower, the forest to the north was a matt, greyish dun, its canopy of twigs and branches like a rumpled carpet of thorns. Bruised clouds were smeared across the sky above the trees, the hue of iron. The icy spit in the wind stung the face. Snow was coming.

‘There is no other path possible,’ Ivis said after a time. ‘We are hardened to the ways of living, and of life itself. These things cannot be avoided, milord. In any case, from what we’ve heard, young Wreneck has already had more than his share of suffering.’

‘And yet, has he once uttered a question about any of it, Ivis? Has he ever voiced in wonder why things are as they are?’

‘Not that I have heard,’ Ivis confessed, scratching at his beard and feeling icy crystals tangled in the whiskers. ‘In that way, milord, perhaps he is older than his years.’

‘Must it fall to the child to ask questions no adult dare ask?’

‘Possibly. If so, then the lad has missed his chance, and now thinks nothing of all that. He’s decided what he must do, and the vengeance he has avowed is anything but childlike. Some fated aspect of his nature has set him upon the path. He does not question it.’ Ivis paused, considering, and then he shrugged. ‘Perhaps he is something of a simpleton.’

‘It is truly a cynical world, Ivis, when we see stupidity and innocence as the same thing.’

‘Civil war makes cynics of us all, milord.’

‘Does it now?’ Anomander shifted slightly from where he leaned on the merlon, eyeing Ivis for a moment. ‘This hunger for change,’ he said. ‘It sets for itself a future in which every desire is appeased, each one won by sword, or blood, or an enemy brought to its knees. And at that instant, Ivis, so brightly painted in triumph, does the world freeze? Does time itself cease, nothing crawling on; not a single moment following in its usual tumble? But what world offers this impossibility? Only the one begat in a mind, and then raised in chains, never to be set free. The fashioning of nostalgia, my friend, imprisons us.’

‘Milord, did we not fight for our homeland? You, me, Draconus and all the others? Did we not fight to throw back invaders? Did we not win our freedom?’

‘We did. All those things we did, Ivis. Yet, has time stood still? From that moment of victory? Do you still see us all standing triumphant and flushed, as if trapped in one of Kadaspala’s paintings? Victory belongs on canvas, not in the real world. No, here, we move on. Urusander and his soldiers stumble from the field, to find tavern corners and bleak mornings. The nobles? Back to their estates, to frown at children grown into strangers, and wives or husbands with love gone cold.’ He shook his head again, turning back to the vista beyond the estate walls. ‘Still the echo chases us, and so we dream of making the moment eternal.’

‘I have heard, milord, that you refused Kadaspala’s request. For a portrait. And now, alas, it is too late.’

‘Too late? Why is that?’

‘Why, milord, because he is now blind.’

‘I would trust his hand more now than when he had eyes to see, Ivis. Yes, I believe I would accept his request. He is at last free to paint what he will, with no argument from the world beyond.’

‘I doubt he will approach you, milord.’

‘Agreed, but for reasons of which you may not be aware.’

‘Milord?’

‘He blames me, Ivis. For the rape and murder of his sister. For the death of his father.’

‘He is mad with grief.’

‘We tarried,’ Anomander said. ‘In no hurry to reach the place of the wedding.’

Ivis watched as Anomander reached down with one hand to rest it upon the pommel of the sword at his hip. ‘Had I named it Grief, perhaps … but in this, why, I stand with young Wreneck. Vengeance, I said, avowed with a child’s bright eyes, so sure, so unerring with fiery conviction. Since that day, Ivis, I cannot but wonder, have I made a mistake?’

‘You seek Andarist, milord. You seek your brother, to make it right.’

‘We will speak, yes. But what words will be exchanged? I do not know. By all rights, I should turn back now, to Kharkanas. If my brother will hold to his sense of betrayal, let him continue. Are there not greater matters at hand than one man’s grief?’

‘Or another’s vengeance?’ Even as he spoke, Ivis cursed himself for a fool.

But, surprisingly, Anomander replied with a bitter laugh and then said, ‘Well spoken, Ivis. I admitted to fear, did I not? But it is the fear that drives me in pursuit of Andarist. The fear of unknown words, not yet spoken, which I now race to answer … as if every moment of silence between us pulls another stone from the bridge one of us must cross.’

‘So, in your courage, milord, you are the one taking the steps.’

‘Is that courage now, Ivis?’

‘It is, sir. All too often cowardice wears the habit of wounded pride.’

Anomander was silent for some time, and then said, ‘There was a priest. I met him upon the road. As it turned out, we were both upon the same pilgrimage.’ He paused. ‘The estate house my brother built is now a shrine. As if horror and blood had the power to sanctify.’

‘I believe it to be so, milord,’ said Ivis, his gaze dropping to study the barrows edging the killing field.

‘I saw something,’ Anomander resumed. ‘When the priest appeared upon the threshold of the house, blood started from his hands, from wounds that opened fresh, though he took no blade to them. Blood is answered with blood. It seems that faith will be written in what we lose, my friend.’

Uneasy, Ivis shivered. ‘I grieve for that priest, milord. Surely, he would rather bless with something other than his own blood.’

‘I am beset by dreams – nightmares – of that meeting. I confess, Ivis, that in my visions I come to the certitude that the wounds upon that man’s hands, with their tears of blood, are the eyes of a god. Or goddess. The priest raises them between us, his hands, the wounds, and my stare – which I cannot break – fixes upon those crimson eyes. What they leak arrives like a promise. In these dreams, I flee as would a soul broken.’

‘A place not holy then, milord, but cursed.’

Anomander shrugged. ‘We come upon circles of stones, the ancient holy sites of the Dog-Runners, and proclaim them cursed. What future beings, I wonder, will find the ruins of our own sacred sites, and name them the same?’ The breath hissed from him. ‘I am cold to these notions of faith, Ivis. I cannot but distrust the ease of our proclamations, so ephemeral their arrival, so facile their dismissal. Look at the war now upon us. Look to the fate of the Deniers. Look now to the birth of the Liosan. Faith stalks our land like a reaper of souls.’

At last, Anomander’s thoughts had brought Ivis to the place he desired. ‘Milord, I have heard nothing from Lord Draconus. He responds to not a single missive. In such absence, I must be bold. Upon the day of battle, milord, I will lead the Houseblades of Draconus to you, and submit to your command.’

Anomander said nothing. His gaze held upon the lowering clouds in the north, even as the first flakes of snow spun down to join the sleet.

‘Milord-’

‘Lord Draconus will return, Ivis. I am done with this pointless hunt. If Andarist and I are to become estranged, then I will bear the wound. I intend to leave for Kharkanas in the next day or so. Grief may well dress itself in the hair shirt of wounded pride, but vengeance matches its indulgence.’

‘Milord,’ said Ivis, ‘it would be better if you did not. Return to Kharkanas, I mean. Leave Draconus to … to the place he has chosen for himself. I cannot explain this seduction of darkness, except that it is, somehow, the essence of his gift to the woman he loves. His decision seems beyond sanction, does it not? As well, there are the nobles to consider – your allies upon the field of battle.’

‘They will fight for me, Ivis.’

‘If Lord Draconus-’

‘They will fight for me,’ Anomander insisted.

‘And if they do not?’

‘Then they will learn to rue their failing.’

The threat chilled Ivis. He studied the heavy clouds weaving their wind-tangled skeins of snow and sleet. In the kitchen below, dinner was being prepared, a feast to honour their unexpected guests. In the main hall, the Azathanai, Caladan Brood, sat like a half-tamed bear in the only chair that could take his bulk – Lord Draconus’s own. The surgeon, Prok, had taken to sitting with the High Mason.

In her private chambers, Lady Sandalath lavished attention upon Wreneck, as if he could stand in place of her own son – the son no one was permitted to acknowledge. The boy was mostly recovered from his ordeals, but he wore solemnity with the natural grace of a veteran of too many wars, and already he had begun to chafe under her obsessive ministrations. It was well enough that Wreneck had been a friend of Sandalath’s son, but years spanned the two children, with Wreneck the elder, and nothing in his life thus far belonged to a pampered nobleborn child. Ivis saw his strained patience when in the lady’s company.

Elsewhere in the keep, house-guards patrolled the corridors, walked the rooms and hallways, stamped up and down tower stairs.

‘Milord,’ ventured Ivis. ‘You said you would speak with your Azathanai companion, regarding the daughters of Draconus.’

Grunting, Anomander nodded. ‘I shall, this evening, Ivis. He is not entirely unaware of something amiss in this keep. For myself, even the mention of sorcery makes me uneasy. That said, they are the children of Draconus, and as to his relationship with them, you know better than do I. How would he respond to such horrors?’

‘As of yet, milord, he has made no response at all.’

‘You cannot be sure of his seeming indifference,’ Anomander replied. ‘It is quite possible that no messages or reports have reached him.’

‘Milord? But I dispatched urgent-’

‘All such missives are set just beyond the door to the Chamber of Night, upon a low table the servants can barely see. Has it yet occurred to Draconus that messages await his attention? Possibly not. So again, I ask: how would he respond to the news of one of his daughters dying at the hands of the remaining two? Or the slaughter of his servants in the keep?’

Ivis hesitated. ‘Milord, I have pondered such questions unto exhaustion, and am no closer to any sure reply. He took away his bastard son, Arathan, into the west lands. A natural boy of seventeen at the time. Eighteen now. But his daughters … they remained children. Their younger half-brother had grown past them all. It is uncanny, sir.’

‘Did he hold them close?’

‘The daughters?’ Ivis thought about the notion, and then eventually shook his head. ‘He tolerated them. The names he gave the three tells its own tale, I wager. Envy, Spite and Malice. Malice was the one murdered and then burned in a bread oven.’

Anomander blinked. ‘Such details still shock me, my friend.’

‘Not a night easily forgotten,’ Ivis said. ‘We could have smoked them out long ago, milord, if not for our fear of the sorcery they possess.’

‘Perhaps, with Caladan Brood in our company, now might be the time, Ivis.’

‘But you are both soon to leave us, milord. Can mere shackles hold them?’

‘No matter what,’ Anomander said, ‘we will not leave you helpless. That said, I have no notion of the extent of Brood’s own power. He proved adept enough in lifting and moving heavy stones, and has spoken of the earth’s own magic, as would a man familiar with it. Does he possess anything beyond such things? As to that, I am as curious as anyone might be. We will discuss the matter this evening.’

‘I thank you, milord.’

‘In this, Ivis, I am but the bridge. It will be Caladan Brood upon the other side. My modest charge is to invite you across it.’

‘Even so, milord, I am grateful.’

‘The evening draws upon us, friend,’ said Anomander. ‘Shall we quit this tower top?’

‘My chilled bones would indeed welcome some heat, milord.’

* * *

Too much of Lady Sandalath reminded Wreneck of his own mother. Whilst she was being dressed for the dinner, he had slipped out of her chambers and now wandered the corridors of the keep. At intervals he came upon pairs of guards bearing lanterns and gripping shortswords. They eyed him warily, and more than one had admonished him for being unattended.

They saw him as still a child. He might have told them otherwise. He might even have reminded them that it was children they now guarded against, children who so frightened them that they walked through rooms and down passageways with drawn weapons, starting at shadows. The old ways of thinking, the ones that pushed children into childlike things, were now gone. The truth of that was obvious to Wreneck. Whatever was coming in this new world, it would divide people into the ones being hurt and the ones doing the hurting, and he was done with being hurt. Age made no difference. Age had nothing to do with it.

The voices in his head, which spoke most clearly in the moments before sleep, still came to him in his waking moments, but muted, murmuring words he often could not make out. He could not be sure, but they all seemed afraid, and at times he was startled by some internal cry, a warning no one else heard, as if they saw dangers unseen by anyone else.

He found it difficult to believe that they were as they said they were. Dying gods. Such beings, dying or not, had no interest in Wreneck, the stable boy, who had done nothing worth much in his whole life, and who thought of the future as a single moment, a spear’s point jabbing down, punching through skin, sliding into meat and whatever else the skin protected. A spear taking a life away, and in his mind his list of names, each one fading before his eyes with each thrust of the spear, each in turn, one by one, until the list was gone, and all that was left to him was empty.

This was his only future, and when it ended, when his task was done, there would be nothing but a vague, blurry world of his life spent with Jinia. But even there, something whispered of oblivion, inviting him into a world of imagination, like an island surrounded by the Abyss.

Abyss. That was a word he’d heard spoken as a curse and as a prayer, as if two faces hid in the darkness, and who knew which one groping hands might find?

He could have told the guards about his thoughts, to show that they weren’t thoughts anyone would expect from a child. But something held him back. He was beginning to suspect that being seen as a child was in itself a kind of disguise, one that he might be able to use, come the night when he did murder.

Perhaps the dying gods had warned him against revealing too much, but he was not convinced of that – in any case, he’d told Lady Sandalath nothing of his plans, and he was certain that the First Son and the Azathanai would both remain silent on the matter. He had no choice but to show himself to her as only a child, a friend of Orfantal who, with her and with Wreneck himself, was all that remained of House Drukorlat. Jinia was another, of course, but she too had become Wreneck’s secret, his way of protecting her from anyone and everyone.

It was complicated, and troubling, and the lady’s need to hold him close, so tight that sometimes he could barely draw a breath, just made him uncomfortable. He had no desire to stay in this keep.

He reached a portal that opened on to the landing of a spiral staircase. The light spilling in from the oil lamps set in the niches in the corridor behind him did not reach far, and by the first turn of the stone steps Wreneck found himself in darkness. He continued upward.

Towers interested him. He had never been higher than a single level above the ground, and that had been in Lady Nerys’s estate, and the house had been burning down around him and Jinia. Climbing trees had shown him how everything changed when seen from any height, but often the thick canopies of other trees blocked most of his view downward. From atop a tower, he believed, there would be nothing to impede his view.

Everything below, when he reached that height, would be familiar, and yet each thing would be transformed in his eyes, becoming something new. This notion seemed to displease the dying gods in his head.

At the level just below the top floor of the tower, he came to a landing and found himself facing a blackwood door. Beads of water ran down its furrowed face. The pool at its base had spread out over the flagstone landing, cold enough to form slush here and there, and thin, crackling layers of ice. Standing before the door, he could feel waves of cold coming from it.

Eyes on the heavy latch, Wreneck stepped forward.

‘Don’t!’

He spun round.

A small girl was crouched on the stairs above the landing, wearing little more than rags. Her thin, smudged face was pale but not white. This told Wreneck that she belonged to neither Mother Dark nor Lord Urusander. She was, in that respect, the same as him. ‘You’re one of the daughters,’ he said. ‘The ones who killed people.’

‘Send them away.’

‘Who?’

‘The spirits. The ghosts. The ones swarming around you. Send them away and then we can talk.’

‘They’re all hunting you,’ Wreneck said. ‘Everyone here in the keep. They say you killed your sister, the youngest one.’

‘No. Yes.’

‘You burned her in an oven.’

‘She was already dead. Dead but not knowing it. The oven. That was us being merciful. We’re not the same as the rest of you. We’re not even Tiste. What’s your name?’

‘Wreneck.’

‘Send the spirits away, Wreneck.’

‘I can’t. I don’t know how. They can’t do anything. They’re dying.’

‘Dying, but not dead yet.’

‘They’re scared right now.’

The girl smiled. ‘Because of me?’

‘No.’ He gestured. ‘The door, and what’s behind it, I think.’

The smile vanished. ‘Father’s secret room. You can’t open it. It’s locked. Sealed. Warded by magic. If you touch that latch, you’ll die.’

‘What’s a Finnest?’

‘A what?’

‘Finnest. The dying gods keep screaming about a Finnest.’

‘Don’t know. Never heard of it. Do you have anything to eat?’

‘No. Which sister are you?’

‘Envy.’

‘Where’s the other one?’

Envy shrugged. ‘She tried strangling me with my hair. I fought her off. I beat her good. That was this morning. She crawled away and I’ve not seen her since.’

‘You two don’t like each other.’

Envy held out her hand, palm-up. A lurid red glow appeared, floating above it. ‘We’re coming into our power. If I wanted to, I could become a woman. Right here. I could grow up right in front of your eyes.’ The glow now sent out a tendril, curling like a serpent as it entwined her hand and then snaked up her wrist. ‘Or I could make myself look just like … what’s her name again? Oh, like Jinia.’

Wreneck said nothing.

Envy stretched out her other hand, and another serpent of fire appeared to match the first one. ‘I can reach into your mind, Wreneck. I can, if I want, pull things out and crush them. Your love for her. I could kill it.’ Her arms lifted, and the tendrils of flame acquired snakeheads, jaws opening to reveal fangs that glittered like diamonds. ‘My bite is venomous. With it, I can make you my slave. Or make you love me more than you ever loved Jinia.’

‘Why would you do that? I’m just a boy.’

‘A boy blessed by old gods – you might think they’re dying. They might even tell you that. But maybe they’re not dying at all, Wreneck. Maybe you’re keeping them well fed, with your dreams of blood and vengeance. The older things are, the hungrier and thirstier they get.’

‘The only thing hungry and thirsty here is you, Envy.’

‘I told you. I’m older than I look.’ The serpents sank back beneath the skin of her arms and she beckoned. ‘Forget Jinia. I’m much better, Wreneck. With my help, we can banish those old spirits. Back into the black earth. Give yourself to me and I’ll keep you for ever, and as for those soldiers who hurt you and raped Jinia, well, with me at your side, Wreneck, we’ll show them such agony as to shatter their souls.’

‘I’d rather use my spear.’

‘You won’t get close to them.’

‘Lord Anomander will help me.’

‘That pompous fool? He’s frightened of sorcery. I once thought he might be worthy of me, but he isn’t. Sorcery, Wreneck. A new world is coming, and there will be beings in it with such power as to topple mountains-’

‘Why?’

She frowned. ‘Why what?’

‘Why topple mountains?’

‘Because we can! To show our power!’

‘Why do you have to do something just because you can? Why do you have to show your power if you already have it anyway? Aren’t you even more powerful when you don’t bother toppling mountains, when you don’t bother showing off?’

Envy scowled at him. ‘Those old gods are feeding on you,’ she said. ‘Give yourself to me, Wreneck, and together we’ll turn on them. We’ll feed on them instead. We’ll devour them and take their power. With sorcery you can get to those soldiers, no matter where they’re hiding. More to the point, Wreneck, they won’t be able to hide at all.’ She rose and moved down a step. ‘We could go straight to them. We could leave tonight with none to stop us.’

‘I need my spear-’

‘I’ll make you a new one.’

‘I don’t want a new one.’

Her small hands curled into fists. ‘Are you going to mess up everything I’m promising you on account of a damned spear?’

‘Anyway,’ said Wreneck, ‘Ivis said Lord Anomander was going to talk to the Azathanai about catching you and your sister.’

Envy’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve told you too much.’

The serpents of flame reappeared. Writhing, they shot out from her hands, the snake-jaws stretching wide.

Something roiled up in front of Wreneck, luminous and billowing. The twin snakes sank their fangs into it, and Wreneck was rocked back as a scream arced through his skull. He felt the death of the old god like a fist to his chest. All breath knocked from his lungs, he fell against the blackwood door.

Something upon the other side of that door hammered into it, rattling the frame and spilling wet grit from the ceiling. The impact jolted Wreneck and he sagged, stunned and helpless.

Envy struck again, the snakes lashing out.

Another god intervened, took the wounds, and died in agony.

Laughing, Envy stepped down on to the landing. ‘I’ll kill them all, Wreneck! Unless you surrender to me!’

Dimly, Wreneck saw a flash of motion on the stairs behind Envy, and then that form launched itself through the air, landing upon Envy’s back. Arms wrapped tight about her neck, dirty fingers raking red furrows across the girl’s chest, neck and face.

Shrieking, Envy twisted round, as the weight of the other girl, wrapped about her by the neck, dragged them both to the floor.

The other girl howled manic laughter as she clawed at Envy. ‘You can’t have him! You’ll never have him!’

Oh, this must be Spite.

He pulled himself towards the edge of the landing, ignoring the hammering fists upon the door behind him, ignoring the two sisters tearing at each other with snarls and lashing nails. Bruising his elbows and knees, he slid awkwardly down the steps.

Keening, the remaining gods closed in around him.

‘Warn the Azathanai, child! Warn the High Mason! These two, these two … these two …’

The words faded, as if the entire chorus of voices uttering them had been pushed off a cliff’s ledge. Wreneck felt very tired. He was lying upon another landing, half in and half out of the dull light from the corridor beyond. The sounds of fighting and thumping fists echoed down the stone steps still, and he found it hard to believe that no one else in the keep could hear.

He shivered in the icy draught that flowed above the tiled floor of the corridor. From somewhere outside, he could hear the wind, gusting and punching at shutters, beating against stone walls.

A winter storm was upon them.

And the dinner bell was sounding, low, like distant thunder.

Wreneck closed his eyes, and let darkness take him.

* * *

‘The lad’s taken to wandering,’ said Yalad. ‘Hunger will draw him to the table before too long.’

They sat at the dining table with the others from the household staff, along with the Azathanai, awaiting Lord Anomander, Ivis and Wreneck.

Sandalath frowned at the gate sergeant. ‘You describe him as if he was a dog.’

Yalad’s soft smile faltered. ‘My apologies, milady. I meant no disrespect. But Lord Anomander found him half starved, and the boy is not yet fully recovered.’

‘He has known too little comfort in his life,’ she replied. ‘I must accept some responsibility for that. I should have stood against my mother, in whom grief fed cruelty. She struck at Wreneck because he was the most helpless among us.’ She shook her head. ‘There is much to mend here.’

Seated opposite Yalad, Surgeon Prok collected up his goblet. ‘Flesh heals quickly when compared to the spirit. Milady, for the child you will need patience. Perhaps indeed your mother was too free with her whip, but that may prove less damaging, in the long run, than simple neglect. The lad has no reason to trust, and no precedent in which to place any faith in the notion itself.’

‘He need not fear me,’ Sandalath said, her tone hardening. ‘I feel castigated by you, Surgeon Prok, for the boldness of my love.’

Prok blinked at her. ‘You can love a stone, but do not expect it to love you back. Milady, that child has guarded eyes. His wounds now bear scars, and those scars dull all feeling. You may see that as a flaw, but I assure you, just as the body will protect what was damaged, so too will the soul.’ He swallowed down a mouthful of wine, meeting her glare with a calm expression. ‘All too often, in seeking to heal, we reopen wounds. Never a good idea, in my experience.’

‘The fact remains,’ Sandalath said, ‘I don’t know where he has gone, and the dinner bell has sounded.’

At that moment, Lord Anomander and Ivis arrived in the dining hall.

Relieved, Sandalath said to Ivis, ‘Young Wreneck is nowhere to be found, good sir. Both your gate sergeant and the surgeon here believe that I worry without reason, whilst the High Mason and the others say nothing at all. I am made to feel foolish.’

Caladan Brood spoke. ‘Thus far, I have made no effort to quest through the stones of this keep.’

Anomander grunted, and asked, ‘Why the reluctance?’

The Azathanai made no reply.

Ivis swung to Yalad. ‘Gather a squad and inform the patrols – find the lad.’

‘Yes sir,’ Yalad replied, rising from his chair. ‘Milady, again, my apologies.’

‘We shall assist,’ Prok said. ‘Madame Sorca? Bidishan?’

In moments the others, along with Setyl and Venth Direll, had departed the chamber, leaving Sandalath alone with Ivis and their two guests.

‘He shall be found, milady,’ Lord Anomander said, drawing out a chair and settling into it. ‘High Mason, you would not explain your reluctance earlier. Will you do so now?’

Caladan Brood hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘These daughters – the blood of their mother runs fierce within them. Since our arrival, I have felt them explore their power. This is a crowded keep, Anomander, and by that I do not mean those of flesh and blood as we find around us. Something else dwells here, and it knows I have come, and likes it not. Regarding Wreneck, however …’ He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘He has acquired formidable protectors.’

‘All this mysticism tires me,’ Anomander said in a growl, reaching for a goblet. ‘This sorcery proves to be an insidious art, inviting the worst in us.’

Though Ivis said nothing, Sandalath – who had been watching him – saw in his expression something sickly. ‘Master Ivis, are you unwell?’

The man seemed to flinch at the question. He combed thick fingers through his greying beard, and then spoke. ‘This sorcery seems in step with our natural unravelling of decorum and decency,’ he said, eyeing Caladan Brood. ‘The forest is restless with earth spirits. I have seen with my own eyes the spilling of sacrificial blood, only it was no mortal doing the bleeding. High Mason, I am told your powers belong to the earth. What can you tell me of a goddess suspended above the ground on a bed of wooden spikes? Impaled through her body, even her skull, yet she lives, and speaks …’

With the others, Sandalath stared at Ivis. The scene the man described horrified her, and upon his visage, now laid bare, was something both haunted and suffering.

After a long moment of silence, Lord Anomander spoke. ‘Ivis, where did you find this … goddess?’

Ivis started. ‘Milord? In the forest, a glade.’

‘Does she remain there?’

‘I do not know. I confess, I have not the courage to return.’

‘And she spoke to you? What did she say?’

Frowning, Ivis glanced away. ‘That we shall fail in all that we do. The world changes and there will be no peace in what comes. What will be born anew will be as a babe atop a heap of corpses. A living crown,’ he concluded in a hoarse rasp, ‘upon dead glory.’

With a muffled oath, Anomander rose to his feet. ‘Enough of this nonsense. You did not imagine this, Ivis? She is out there? I will speak with this goddess – I will defy these prophecies of failure and death.’ He drew his cloak about him. ‘Failing that,’ he added with a half-snarl, ‘I will end her torment.’

‘I sought the same, milord,’ Ivis said. ‘She mocked me for it. Remove the spikes and she will indeed die. To live, she must suffer, a goddess of the earth.’ He looked again to Caladan Brood. ‘As the earth suffers in turn.’ Facing Anomander once more, he said, ‘Milord, the Tiste are as talons carving through the flesh of the world. Every ragged furrow is a victory won. Every savaged span of flesh maps our progress – but it’s all for naught. When we kill what we stand on, it all ends, and whatever destiny we believed in for our kind is revealed as worthless.’

By the time he was done, Ivis was trembling. He took hold of the wine jug and drank from its curled lip, spilling on to his shirt.

Lord Anomander stood as if frozen in place. Then he swung to face the Azathanai. ‘What advice, High Mason, or has your tongue died in your mouth?’

The Azathanai’s attention seemed to be fixed on the tabletop before him. ‘One in pain longs to share the suffering,’ he said. ‘Even a goddess. She has made artistry of despair and delights in an audience. Anomander, she will have nothing worthwhile to say to you. Indeed, she will deceive where she can. In any case, she is not real.’

Ivis scowled. ‘I saw her-’

‘You walked into a dream, Master Ivis, but not one of your own making. There are places, in the wilderness, when the visions of the Sleeping Goddess become manifest. Most often, they are caught from the corner of the eye, a flash, something blurred or hinted at. If violence attends her dreaming, however, they can sustain themselves, even unto an exchange of words.’ He rolled his shoulders in an odd shrug. ‘But most often, they appear as beasts. Hounds, or demonic cats with red eyes-’

‘An impaled goddess?’

‘Hers is an uneasy sleep, Master Ivis. In any case, none here can deny the wounding done to the earth in these Tiste lands. The assault has been savage and sustained, and the wilderness dies. Here, in this place, the Sleeping God does indeed bleed from wounds. Every wooden spike marks a triumph of progress.’ He lifted his gaze to Anomander. ‘Would you now undo all that has been achieved in the name of civilization?’

Anomander’s eyes flattened as he studied the Azathanai. ‘Should I walk out from this keep on this night, I have that power? Should I find this goddess? Speak the truth now, Brood, if you would earn my respect.’

The High Mason’s broad face seemed to stretch as the Azathanai bared his teeth, revealing long canines. ‘Arrogance does not intimidate me, Rake, as you well know by now. Presumption, even less so. Upon my answer hangs all respect? But what if the answer displeases you? What manner of friendship do you seek?’

‘Then quest through the stones of this keep, and tell us what dwells here,’ Anomander said. ‘Between us,’ he added in a bitter tone, ‘only one of us has been free with admissions of weakness and flaw. Or shall I assume you perfect?’

Caladan Brood slowly closed his eyes. ‘Then I shall say it plain. Unleash me upon this keep, and few shall survive the night. If I awaken my power, I will be a lodestone to the daughters of Draconus, and to the host of forgotten gods protecting young Wreneck, and to whatever other entity hides here. Sorcery will feed upon sorcery. Come the dawn, this estate and most of the lands of Lord Draconus could well be a scorched ruin.’

‘Now who mocks with bravado?’

At that, Caladan Brood rose. ‘You’ll sting me awake, Anomander? So be it then.’

* * *

‘He’s mine!’

Sleepily, Wreneck opened his eyes. The back of his head ached and something made the hair sticky in that place, where it rested upon cold flagstones. Blinking, he stared up at a low ceiling of black stone slick with mould. Both shoulders were pressed against gritty walls, as if he’d been thrown into a sarcophagus. He struggled to sit up, only to be roughly pushed back by a naked heel slamming into his chest.

‘Stay there, fool!’

Envy moved into a crouch above him, her knees on his chest. ‘Say nothing,’ she continued in a harsh whisper. ‘We’re between the walls. People might hear us. If they do, we’ll have to kill you.’

‘They’re nowhere close,’ hissed another voice, from somewhere behind Wreneck. ‘That was the muster bell we heard. Everybody’s rushed down to the main hall. Listen – not a sound now. But I heard the main doors slam.’

‘That was the demon pounding on the door,’ Envy replied.

‘No it wasn’t.’

‘You’re bleeding from your ears, Spite, on account of me bashing your skull. It’s no wonder you’re hearing things.’

‘It was the main doors. I don’t think anyone’s left in the house.’

‘They wouldn’t do that. Why would they do that? We’ve got a hostage!’

‘He’s nothing. Worthless.’

‘If he was yours, Spite, you wouldn’t be saying that. But he’s mine. My slave. My first one, and you can’t have him. I’m ahead of you now and that’s what you hate the most, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll kill him before I let you take him as your slave!’

‘Too late!’

Envy scrambled upright to stand on Wreneck’s chest. She weighed almost nothing. Suddenly angry, Wreneck reached up and grasped Envy’s ankles. He lifted and then pushed her up and over his head. Her shriek was cut short as she collided with her sister. The two fell to fighting again.

Rolling on to his side and then on to his stomach, Wreneck drew his hands and knees under him and pushed himself upright, twisting round to watch the sisters beating at each other with fists and knees.

The girls suddenly ceased their thrashing. Both glared up at him.

‘Kill him now,’ said Spite. ‘If you don’t, I will.’

‘No you won’t. He’s mine.’

‘Just kill him, Envy!’

‘Fine, I will, then.’

At that instant, it seemed that the entire house lurched to one side. Groaning, the stones of the walls spat out grit and dust. Howling filled Wreneck’s skull and he clutched the sides of his head.

Spite’s eyes were suddenly wide. ‘What was that?’

Wreneck forced words past his clenched jaw. ‘The Azathanai,’ he said, finally making out the inchoate screaming of the dying gods. ‘The High Mason, who built this house. And made the Sealed Chamber, though he didn’t know what Draconus wanted it for. Someone’s been feeding what’s been trapped inside that room. Feeding it with bad thoughts, making it stronger. But now the wards are collapsing, and it’s trying to get out.’

Spite loosed a terrified squeal, pulling away from Envy. ‘We have to get out of here!’

She fled up the narrow passage. A moment later, with a final glare back at Wreneck, Envy followed her.

The roar of voices dropped off, leaving only moaning echoes draining like water through Wreneck’s thoughts. Nauseous, one shoulder rubbing against the stone wall, he set off in the direction opposite that taken by the sisters.

The Azathanai was the only person in the house barring Wreneck, Envy and Spite. Everyone else was gone. The dying gods began muttering again, urging him onward. He reached a junction in the passageway and saw thin lines of light on the wall opposite. A moment’s fumbling in the gloom found the latch. With a click the door opened, grating on stone ball-joints, revealing a room beyond that Wreneck was unfamiliar with. He stumbled in, letting the door swing back.

Still dazed, he looked round. A low, long table dominated the centre of the chamber, hewn from a single block of wood, with gutters carved down the length of its long sides. Small buckets hung from hooks at the corners. Along one wall were a half-dozen rows of pegs, from which depended small iron tools – small-bladed knives, gouges, wood-handled saws, clamps and awls.

The air smelled of something bitter.

A faint shriek sounded, but it seemed far away, so he decided to ignore it. He crossed the room until he stood before the tools. He selected one of the small knives. The blade was surprisingly sharp, and Wreneck wondered what this room was for, with the strange table and its buckets.

A proper door opened out on to a corridor. It told him little – he was not even sure what floor he was on. Choosing a direction at random, he set off, the dying gods gibbering in his head.

* * *

They were gathered in the barracks. The alarms had roused the Houseblades and Ivis was pleased to find them mostly dressed and properly kitted when he led his group into the main dining hall, and now the hearth blazed with fresh wood and the bitter cold was being driven back.

Lord Anomander remained near the door, as if still of a mind to set out into the fangs of the storm, seeking his audience with the impaled goddess. Sandalath, accompanied by Yalad and Surgeon Prok, had taken a chair closer to the hearth. Ivis eyed the trio as he was joined by his lieutenant.

‘Orders, sir?’

‘What? No. Yes. Have your soldiers preparing kits – enough to support us should we need to evacuate the grounds.’

‘Sir? Are we under attack?’

‘Unknown,’ Ivis replied. ‘Possibly. I know, it’s a beastly storm out there, but we can find shelter in the wood if need be. Go on, Marak. Food, water, winter clothes, blankets, tents and cookware.’ Without awaiting a reply, he walked over to the hearth.

‘Milady, Caladan Brood will find Wreneck. You can be sure of that.’

‘What makes you so certain?’ Sandalath asked. ‘He forced us out into the cold, Ivis. He warned us against destruction – my child is in there! I do not trust these Azathanai. Their hearts are cold, their eyes like stone. Oh, where is Lord Draconus? This is all his fault!’

Yalad stood. ‘Master Ivis, I would like to volunteer to return to the main house. It may be that the High Mason has his hands full with those two witches. Wreneck could well find himself trapped between warring magicks – who will consider the worth of such a small life?’

Ivis twisted round, saw that Anomander was now watching them.

After a moment, the lord strode over. ‘Sand,’ he said, moving to crouch opposite and taking one of her hands in both of his. ‘There is indeed something cruel in this new age of sorcery. But I have travelled with Brood for some time now. When we first found Wreneck, the lad was near death. It was Caladan who prepared a reviving broth for the child. Not the act of a heartless man.’

Sandalath leaned forward. ‘Milord, you know my trust in you is absolute. If you assure me, then I must be satisfied.’

Yalad said, ‘Master Ivis-’

‘Attend to Lady Sandalath, gate sergeant.’

‘Yes sir.’

Thunder shook the building, eliciting shouts of surprise. Anomander moved quickly back to the door that faced on to the parade ground. A sudden flash of actinic light lanced through the shutters, followed by a second eruption that sent shards of stone hailing down on the barracks roof. Soldiers cursed, reaching for their weapons.

‘Lieutenant Marak! Take four squads to the stables and start saddling the horses – Horse Master Venth, prepare to take the mounts out to the summer drill-ground. If we have to, we’ll see them sheltered in amongst the trees.’

Ivis watched as the Houseblades steadied themselves, with Marak moving among them, and then he joined Anomander at the door. ‘Milord, your friend did not exaggerate, did he?’

The First Son had pushed open the door, enough to look out. Snow spun in around him with something like anger, as if the wind itself was outraged. ‘An outer wall has buckled,’ he said quietly. ‘The roof above it simply exploded. But now … nothing.’

‘Milord-’

Anomander punched a fist against the wooden frame of the door. ‘Abyss take this sorcery, Ivis! I feel helpless against such powers. What city can stand against such a thing? What throne is safe, when the air itself can be made to burn? Is this what Urusander will deliver to the battlefield?’

‘If he does, milord, then we must answer in kind.’

‘And who among us can?’

Ivis had no answer. He could see, in the courtyard beyond, a scatter of broken stone and shattered roof tiles on the snow. To the right of the main entrance, the wall was no longer vertical. Massive stones now bulged outward. The guest antechamber. Where the low peaked roof had been was now a gaping space, jutting roof beams lifting splintered fists into the spinning snow.

‘That tower, there, Ivis, to the left-’

Ivis shifted his gaze, and then blinked. Steam or smoke was pouring from its sides, through countless fissures between the stones, but there was no hint of flames or any other source of light. He shook his head. ‘That tower, milord … there is a chamber there, a locked door. All are forbidden to enter.’

Anomander half drew his sword, and then let it slide home again. ‘Does my courage falter here, Ivis?’

‘Milord, wisdom alone keeps you here. When you can do nothing against such forces, what point in sacrificing your life?’

Anomander barked a bitter laugh. ‘Ah, yes, this wise lesson here. If you would hold your enemy at bay, trapped into helplessness, chained to what cannot be known, only feared … why, I begin to comprehend a tactical value to sorcery, beyond its actual manifestation. The question remains, alas: how does one answer it? How does one defeat it? Pray, Ivis, offer me a soldier’s answer.’

‘How have we ever answered such impossible risks, milord? We march forward, under whatever hail awaits us. We bare teeth at the enemy, even as they damn us for our temerity. A true soldier, milord, will never bow to sorcery – this I now believe.’

Anomander grunted. ‘I can almost hear Scara Bandaris, in his manner of laughing when nothing works. I remember, the day we faced the last Jhelarkan horde … “War?” he cried. “Why, another name for shit, my friends. So now, keep your heads above the flood and swim for your fucking lives!”’

‘Then, milord,’ said Ivis, ‘if you’ll step to one side and give me leave, I have a boy to find.’

The gaze of the First Son was suddenly bright, even as he moved aside. ‘Do not tarry overlong, my friend, lest you force me to come and get you.’

‘My charges, you and them, milord. My responsibility.’

Another detonation shook the grounds, another sudden flash, this time from the east tower. The squat structure wavered, tottered like a drunk on a bridge. Shutters fell away from the narrow windows.

‘Milord, I beg you, do not come after me. If I do not return, take command of the Houseblades.’

‘Best hurry, Ivis. This night seems fraught with grand gestures. I will watch. I will abide, as only a humbled man can.’

Nodding, and without a glance back at Sandalath, Ivis set out across the snow-sculpted, shard-studded compound.

* * *

Envy limped up the dust-filled corridor. She’d hurt the bastard, but there were lessons still to be learned. Standing there, admiring the effects of her ambush, had been a mistake. His retaliation had the feel of a backhanded swing – though he stood across the dining chamber, ten or more paces distant. The power that had struck her had been shocking in its breadth, its vicious might. Perhaps more surprising, however, was that she had survived being flung through a solid stone wall to land amidst rubble in the antechamber. Stunned, staring upward, she had only vaguely comprehended the imminent collapse of the roof – which would surely have buried her. A savage pulse of power had sent the roof up and out. Sudden cold flooded in. Shivering, she had crawled out from the wreckage, one knee throbbing and barely able to take her weight.

The Azathanai had set off after Spite.

You think you finished me? You didn’t. I’m not one to be ignored, fool, as you shall discover!

She edged along the corridor, with fires dancing along her limbs to keep her warm.

Father’s poor house, all ruined. See what neglect gets you?

An eruption of sorcery shook the house again, like a god’s fist, and Envy gasped at her sister’s sudden, terrible shriek.

A moment later, Spite skidded into the corridor ahead. One arm had been shattered, with splinters of bone jutting from torn flesh halfway between elbow and shoulder. The wrist and hand were both twisted round too far, the thumb now on the outside and the palm facing forward. In icy fascination, Envy stared at the mangled limb as Spite staggered towards her.

‘Help me!’

Behind Spite, the Azathanai stepped into view.

Envy lashed out with raging fire, snaking round Spite to engulf the Azathanai.

He was knocked into the wall behind him, but only momentarily. Rolling his shoulders, he leaned forward and pushed through the coruscating magic that now roiled to fill the corridor.

Spite reached Envy, slipped past, and kept running.

Something tore Envy’s serpents of fire into shreds. Squealing, the girl backed away as the Azathanai advanced.

* * *

Sword in hand, Ivis stepped through the doorway. Beyond the cloakroom alcove, the main hall beckoned him forward. At first he saw no movement in the large chamber, although the flames from the hearth threw writhing shadows everywhere, as if a fever had taken the fire.

A moment later, he saw the boy. Wreneck was kneeling before the hearth, feeding wood into it with a strange, mechanical rhythm. Burning wood was piled high, spilling out over the stone surround.

‘Wreneck!’

The boy did not turn, nor give any other indication that he heard his name being called.

Ivis approached, uncanny chills riding his spine.

In the fire’s frantic flames, he saw something like a face. A woman’s, round and soft, with eyes promising everlasting warmth. Ivis felt his legs moving, bringing him closer to the hearth. He barely heard the sword fall from his hand.

She … she is beautiful …

He was beside the boy now, feeling the fierce heat against his face, seductive as a lingering kiss. He saw her hands, reaching out to beckon him still closer.

‘Ivis. I know you. From Raskan’s blessed memories, I know you. Feel the terrible sorcery surrounding us? Seething through this cursed house? It invites, yes? Sweet as a caress. Look to the boy. He wants to join me, but he has protectors – they resist, though we are kin. I tell them, my womb can hold them all. Them, the child, you. I can keep you safe from the little creatures – oh, Draconus, look what we made here! Surely, lover, we can take some ragged pride, but mind the edges!

‘I can keep you all safe. Come now, Ivis. Did you not dream of fire? For this keep? For the girls, prison bars of flame. Cages of cracked stone, rubble, blackened beams, and upon it all – when at last the fury cools – a blessed shroud of snow. Let them dig their way out – it will take months, if not years.

‘Come now, feed the fire, and for that gift I will repay you in turn. My sweetest kiss, my swallowing lips, my red all.’

Burning logs had toppled out from the hearth, rolling across the thick rugs. One came to rest against the legs of a chair, with small tongues of flame licking upward.

Ivis knelt beside the boy. Together, side by side, they pushed more wood on to the raging mound.

Warm. Ivis smiled. Winter dies here. Here and now.

Winter dies.

Surrounding them, the flames laughed.

* * *

Sandalath rocked, her arms drawn in, wrapped about her body. My boy. I’ve lost my boy. She had seen Ivis leave the barracks, had seen something like a parting between the master-at-arms and Lord Anomander. She had watched the Houseblades preparing, gathering gear as if they were all about to flee. The First Son’s promises seemed to be crumbling in her mind. My son is in there. Yalad mocked my concern – and now look at us.

‘Milady …’

Frowning, Sandalath fought to focus on the face opposite her. ‘Surgeon Prok. What is it? What has happened?’

‘The keep has caught fire,’ he said. ‘I feel I should prepare you. It is not the flames we must worry over – not too much, that is. The smoke is what kills more often than not.’

‘Fire?’

‘In the main hall, milady. The front entrance is blocked – none will come through it. That said, there are other exits. The annexe behind the kitchen, for example. Wreneck knows it, I’m sure.’

‘The house is burning?’

‘Ivis is a brave man.’

She looked to Lord Anomander again, but the First Son had not moved. He stood framed in the doorway, snow swirling in around him. ‘He will do something,’ she said. ‘He always protected me.’

Yalad had been drawn away by one of the Houseblades. The horses were in a frenzy outside the stables. Then there came shouts and Surgeon Prok rose. ‘Forgive me, milady. The horse master has been injured.’

She watched him hurry away, and found herself alone. Gathering up her cloak, she rose and walked through the press of Houseblades with their kits crowding the dining tables, their quick and sure movements as they buckled straps and checked bindings, their closed-in faces as they concentrated on keeping fear at bay. It was all understandable and all very professional.

She was at the barracks kitchen door when Lord Anomander turned and raised his voice. ‘We are leaving the compound now – every outbuilding is at risk from those flames, including this one. Finish up what you’re doing – we are now out of time for anything more. Assemble at the gate, and be quick about it!’

It was well that the First Son had taken command, with Ivis now gone.

There are other ways out. And in.

Sandalath walked into the kitchen, moved down its length to the side door that opened out on to the refuse pit. As she stepped into the night, the howling wind swept in to embrace her, shocking in its intensity. Skirting the pit, she moved along the outer wall towards the main house. Into the shadows between a storehouse and the wall, and then out again, with the servants’ door now directly opposite.

It was unlocked, though she had to pull hard as snow had drifted up against it. Heat and smoke gusted into her face, biting at her eyes.

I used the servants’ door to sneak away from Mother, to find Galdan in the fields beyond. He liked his wine, did Galdan, so I’d bring him a stoppered jar, from the cellar. For afterwards.

Along this corridor, then. Mother hears nothing.

I’ve come for my son, finally. This time, no one will take him away.

She moved beneath the smoke, which roiled along the arched ceiling of the corridor and then began tumbling down as she went deeper into the building. But things were strangely unfamiliar. A doorway she had expected wasn’t where it should have been, and here, when the passage should have swung right, it now swung left.

Ivis. You must have undressed me. In the carriage. I was so hot. Faint. Your hands were upon my body, but I don’t remember that. I wish I did.

She stumbled against stone steps, bruising a shin and then a knee as she fell against the hard edges. Smoke was pouring past her, rushing upward. She heard a scream, and then a piercing howl from somewhere above. Orfantal?

Sandalath climbed upward.

* * *

Caladan Brood stepped into the main chamber. Before him, filling most of the room, was a figure wrought in flames, its belly massive, swollen and stretched as it rested heavily upon the flagstones. In its burgeoning, it had pushed the dining table against one wall, while simply crushing most of the chairs. Above this belly, still huge and yet disproportionately small compared to what lay below, was a woman’s upper torso, heavy breasts, rounded shoulders, a fat-layered neck beneath a round face. The eyes were black coals amidst the fire, fixing now upon the High Mason.

‘I felt you, brother.’

‘Olar Ethil, do you have them?’

She nodded, her expression satiated. ‘I do. Safe.’

‘Will you yield them, when this night is done?’

‘Do you ask it of me?’

‘I do.’

‘For you then, Brood, yes, I will yield them. But what of you? Are you proof to these mundane fires?’

‘For a time,’ he replied. ‘Enough. Your daughters hide.’

‘You hurt them badly.’

‘And if I finish it?’

Olar Ethil laughed. ‘Draconus cannot hate you more than he already does.’

‘And you?’

She shrugged. ‘I am here, am I not? Protecting these two mortals.’

‘From your daughters? Or from the fire you so eagerly unleashed?’

‘Both.’ She waved a languid hand, the motion making a roar. ‘You built well. Too good a home for the likes of me.’

‘Your vengeance, then, for his having rejected you. That, Olar Ethil, is petty.’

‘Beware the scorned woman.’

‘Then why save Ivis and the boy?’

The woman was silent for a time, eyes narrowed to slits as she studied Caladan Brood. ‘Not the path I chose.’

‘The Finnest in the tower?’

Slowly, she nodded. ‘Do you wish to know more?’

‘Is it my business?’

‘No, I think not, brother. I’ve done little thus far. Made use of a weak mind, too fragile for this or any world. No. This is between Draconus and me.’

‘I did not know you parted with such vehemence.’

‘We didn’t. Until his servants betrayed me. I gave of myself. I made a gift. I took into myself a tortured soul, and brought it peace. For this blessing, that soul’s companions delivered terrible pain.’ She paused, and then waved the hand a second time. ‘Look about you, Caladan. See how even your gift to Draconus has been twisted. Those who would stand near him – each and all will end up suffering.’

Caladan Brood tilted his head as he regarded her. ‘You have cursed him.’

‘He curses himself!’ The scream was an eruption of flames, transforming the chamber into an inferno. She then laughed. ‘Best leave now, brother!’

‘And your daughters?’

‘I will drive them out – is that not enough? Leave their fate to their father – he deserves no less!’

Nodding, Caladan Brood strode into the flames, making for the front doors. The fire sought to devour him, only to flinch back on all sides. This demanded some effort on the High Mason’s part. With each step he took, the flagstones cracked beneath him.

* * *

The flames curled strangely as they edged round the corner ahead. Envy slowed her painful steps. Those are not mine. But not real either. This is another kind of sorcery. I feel it, like a well-fount – reeking of my essence, but far worse. She stared as the fire twisted upon itself, formed a face in ceaseless motion, as if every expression was nothing more than a mask beneath which raged some undeniable heat. Truths. What the skin hides.

A woman’s face, now smiling, now speaking. ‘Oh, look at you. Naughty girls – you gave me Malice, but not the living child, whom I would have protected. No, the undecided child. Held between life and death by your father’s protective spells. Of course, he sought only to keep you free of the risk of death, knowing well the wildness of your spirits.’ Her smile broadened. ‘As ever, he meant well. What parent does not dread outliving their children? But then you broke her neck.’

‘Not me! It was Spite!’

‘There are two chambers to the heart, child, and so you were named in answer to your twin sister. Meaning, you two are in truth one, bitterly divided in the hopes of weakening your power. But poor Malice, who came after, what was left to her? Denied a place, denied a home … what other name could attend such a child?’

‘It was an accident, Mother! An accident!’

The flames spun closer, the face swelling to crowd the corridor. ‘I have your sister, Envy. Caladan broke her badly. He might well have killed her, had I not sent him away. He might well have killed you both, and by that laid waste to your father’s lands. How many would have died? Too many, child. You two are not worth their lives.’

Envy sank down on to her knees. ‘Help me, Mother. I’ve been bad.’

‘You are of my blood,’ Olar Ethil said. ‘And for that reason alone, I will spare you the wrath of the Finnest. But my, how you and Spite have poisoned it! She will see Draconus. How unfortunate, because the thing inside that husk bears little resemblance to your father. Still, what comes of this fated meeting will shatter the world.’

‘Save us! We’ll be good – you’ll see!’

The massive face tilted slightly. ‘Good? Well, let’s say you’ll have plenty of time to ponder such promises. For now, daughter, let’s make for you and your sister a most displeasing tomb.’

Envy shrieked as the floor gave way beneath her, and then from above descended a mass of shattered rubble and splintered wood, as the house began its tortured collapse.

She’s burying us! Mother, you bitch!

* * *

Sandalath was thrown against a wall as the tower rocked around her. Steam swirled hot through pockets of bitter cold, and water streamed down the stone steps. Wreneck was waiting for her – just a little further. He sat huddled, curled up. She could see him in her mind. Moaning under her breath, she righted herself and continued upward.

I remember this tower. I remember a door. I didn’t like it, that door.

We went up to the top, to watch the battle. Such a terrible day. So many lives lost, their souls torn loose, spilling out, riding cries of pain into the air – how it swirled around us!

Orfantal – no, Wreneck – no – I don’t know. I can’t think!

She hesitated, and then stumbled upward, as if a fist was pushing her, driving into her back. She heard the echo of cackling laughter.

I was never strong. Mother told me so. She had to take care of everything. All the mistakes I made. Galdan, our games. The child that came of that – I didn’t know it worked that way. If they’d told me, I wouldn’t have done any of that. But then it was too late, and Mother had to fix things, again, to make it right.

All the lies, the stories. She told me I couldn’t be a mother, not to Orfantal. You can’t be allowed to love a mistake. You can’t be the one to nurture it, watch it grow into something you can’t control. Every child is a hostage. Every child is to be sent away, until the face fades from the mind. This, Mother said, is the only freedom left to me.

She reached the landing, where the water was gushing out from the rents in the massive blackwood door. The stones were glowing as if trapped in a furnace, revealing that the water was black as ink. Dorssan Ryl. It was the lord’s gift to Mother Dark, the way it changed. Draconus turned it into liquid night, into the blackness between the stars.

See how it pours!

Orfantal. I am coming. Nothing to fear, not any more.

I didn’t mean to burn the stables down, but I was angry. At Mother. I was so angry! But oh, how those horses screamed.

She could hear them again, as if the flames carried their voices in triumph, lifting them into the night amidst all the sparks and smoke. She saw poor Wreneck, so young, all covered in soot and scorch marks, his hair crisp and crumbling, his eyes filling with tears as he fought against Jinia’s grip, as he tried to run back into the stables to save the horses.

And how Orfantal stood off to one side, still in his nightclothes, staring at Wreneck with one small fist pressed up against his mouth.

Shush, Wreneck. It’s too late for them. Too late for everyone.

And Mother spinning round to glare at the stable boy. ‘This was your fault, wretch! Listen to those screams, child! You killed them all!’ And then she marched forward, raising her cane. And the blows rained down, upon Wreneck’s head, and Jinia’s forearms and shoulders, and all Sandalath could do was stand, frozen, helpless, hearing the cane striking flesh and bone, staring at Orfantal who watched it all but understood nothing.

Hush, my son. The screams are only in your head. It’s done with, now. Just the flames and their eager roar.

She reached the door. The latch was loose and almost fell away from the wood panel, and the door swung easily.

‘Lord Draconus! I knew you would return! It was the Azathanai, setting fire to the stables – can’t you hear the horses screaming? Oh, please, stop it now – stop all of this-’

He reached for her, lifted her from her feet – she’d not known him to be so tall, big as a giant. But hostages were always young. It was being young that made them precious, so Lord Anomander told her, laughing as he wheeled her through the air, and how she squealed her delight, safe for ever in his strong hands.

But now she hung suspended in the air, in a chamber with its stone walls gouged deep on all sides, as if clawed by a trapped beast. With more rents crisscrossing the wooden floorboards, with the ceiling beams looking chewed, shredded.

She felt something like a fist curl in her belly, low down, and it grew. Back arching, Sandalath gasped as her clothes stretched, as she swelled, skin tightening. Galdan! Look what we did! I didn’t know! Mother is furious with me! She says it’s a snake – a snake inside me, and it’s growing!

Fluids spilled from between her legs. She saw Draconus, looming before her, his face twisted in something like helpless frustration. She felt one of his hands reaching down, reaching in, and dragging the baby out.

She watched as he lifted the thing between them, and saw immediately that it was lifeless, a slick, red doll with flopping limbs. Snarling, he flung it away.

Another fist made a knot in her belly, began growing.

Another dead child. A bellow of fury from Draconus as he threw it to one side.

She lost count. Stillborn after stillborn. Mind glazed with shock, eyes unable to close or even blink, with not a single breath drawn, she watched as the scene played out again and again. There was no pain, no sense of anything beyond the swelling, the terrible release, and then his howling anger.

Until everything changed.

A child’s cry, small fists waving about, feet kicking.

Mother, I didn’t mean it. I swear. I didn’t know.

Draconus pulled her close, pushed the wailing creature into her arms.

She looked up into the man’s eyes, but those eyes, she saw now, did not belong to a man. They were as black and depthless as the waters of Dorssan Ryl. When he opened his mouth, as if attempting to speak, the inky waters poured from it. Anguish twisted the face. Releasing her to drop to the ravaged wooden floor, where she almost lost her balance, the figure staggered back, as if in horror.

Sudden vehemence flooded Sandalath, and the voice that came from her was not her own. ‘This child, Draconus, has taken the best of you. This child is made pure. All the love you harboured, that you so callously hoarded, and meted out with such reluctance – it now resides in this babe, given to a mother too broken to love her back.

‘Oh, Draconus, how do you like me now?

‘Tell this to Mother Dark, when next you see her. She is neither the first nor the last, but nothing you covet and nothing you need will be found in her arms. I have wounded you, Draconus. Will she be content with what’s left of you? I doubt it.

‘My fire lives on, but it is a lonely flame. May you kiss the same cold lips. May you yearn for what you can never have, and find no warmth in this or any other world.

‘Your soldiers burned me! In hate, they hurt me! All of your careless games, Draconus, now return to you! Come back to this Finnest, see what I have done!’

Sandalath felt the presence flee her. The tiny girl in her arms, dripping with birth fluids, was plucking at her sodden blouse, hungry for what the cloth hid.

Revulsion rippled through her, but some instinct made her yield to the babe’s need. She fumbled at the clasps, pulled her blouse apart, and let the girl suckle.

Draconus was gone – she didn’t recall seeing him leave – and now, impossibly, the morning sun was pushing through the warped slats of the shutters. She could smell bitter, acrid smoke.

As the child drank eagerly, she staggered, body aching, over to the window, reaching out to tug back the shutters.

The smouldering ruin of the house surrounded the tower, the fire-cracked stones heaped up around the base. Flames had caught the barracks, but there the fire had but scorched one corner, where the stones had sunk down into a pit now filled with frozen meltwater. From beyond the outer wall, in the direction of the training field, a dozen or more columns of white smoke rose straight up, the only motion in this frozen daybreak.

She listened to the child’s deep breaths even as the mouth drew on the nipple. Already the babe felt heavier, bulkier. Its skin was onyx, its black hair fine and long. The eyes were large and strangely elongated, luminous as they stared upward, past Sandalath’s face, seemingly focused on the empty morning sky. Something in that small, round face reminded Sandalath of her mother.

You’ll get what you need, but nothing more.

Turning about, she set out for the stairs.

* * *

Ivis sat huddled in blankets as close to the stone-ringed cookfire as he could manage, yet still shivers trembled through him.

He recalled little. Standing upon the threshold to the main chamber, and then … awakening out beyond the wall, his hands shredded and torn and full of slivers.

Yalad told him that he had walked out from the raging flames, with Wreneck in his arms. But not even his clothes were singed, and the boy was also miraculously untouched. Still, there had been horror and grief in the camp when it was discovered that Lady Sandalath was missing. Yalad had clawed at his face, as the weight of a dead hostage crashed down upon him – the man given the responsibility for her safety.

The storm had moved on in the night, and now there was no wind to stir the icy air. The household of Lord Draconus, and all the Houseblades, were now homeless.

Ivis frowned at the small flickering flames of the cookfire, as if some part of him was waiting to see something in those bright, dancing tongues. Lord Anomander, how am I to take this? You challenged the Azathanai, upon a matter of respect. See the cost of that, milord. A house in ruin, a hostage lost to the flames. Two daughters? Well … there is that, I suppose.

Pride will undo us all, I fear.

If he cared to, he could lift his gaze from the flames, look across the camp to where stood Lord Anomander, with Caladan Brood at his side. Their guests, bearers of unbearable gifts. It was said of the High Mason, in the night just past, that he stood to witness the collapse of the edifice built by his own hands, and how he had then spoken of the lintelstone above the gate, with its secret words carved into it, and how he had muttered, as if to himself, of a bitter truth in such a hopeful sentiment.

What this meant, Ivis could not guess.

If he looked the other way, to the figure crouching at the next campfire, he would see young Wreneck, whose eyes were now closed but only on the inside, revealing a regard like blank glass. Upon emerging from the burning estate, the boy had been quiescent in Ivis’s arms, at least until he heard the terrified horses, upon which he had thrashed as if fevered, kicking and pushing until Ivis had no choice but to release him.

It had been Yalad who then grasped Wreneck, even as the boy lunged back towards the flames of the house, screaming his need to save the horses – even though the beasts were already being driven through the gate behind them.

Well. This winter’s seen its share of madness. We can agree on that, can we not?

He was slow to react to the cries of alarm, and then amazement, and then the sudden descent of shocked silence, but at last, as each detail registered in his mind, assembling into a progression, he looked up.

A crowd, led by Yalad, had rushed across the field, only to halt halfway. Upon the far side, climbing weakly from the ditch, was Lady Sandalath. At first, Ivis thought her wearing a crimson skirt – one that he did not know she possessed – but then he saw how it was a stain, spilled out from between her legs. And he saw that she carried a small shape, pressed against her bared chest.

He thought it a doll, until he saw a tiny hand curling tight into a fist.

As Yalad and the others backed away, as Lord Anomander and the High Mason moved towards her only to stop again after but a few strides, as Ivis himself rose to watch as Sandalath drew closer – the crowd parting before her – and approached him, only one man stepped into her path.

‘Milady,’ said Surgeon Prok, tilting his head. ‘I must attend to you, I’m afraid. To you both, in fact.’

She halted before the surgeon, and said, ‘If you insist.’

He stepped closer. ‘May I see the child, milady?’

‘A girl,’ she said.

‘I’d wager … four, perhaps five weeks old, but that-’

‘She is mine,’ cut in Sandalath, her tone oddly without inflection. ‘The one that lived. Her name,’ she added, ‘is Korlat.’

‘Milady-’

‘She is filled with love,’ Sandalath continued, ‘but not mine.’ She then pulled the babe away from her breast and held it out to Prok.

Only then did the surgeon falter, and the look upon his face, as he turned to meet Ivis’s gaze, was a crumpled ruin of grief.

As no one moved, as no one spoke, as all stared at Sandalath who offered the babe with outstretched arms, a small figure moved past Ivis and edged around Surgeon Prok.

‘Can I hold her, milady?’ Wreneck asked, and without awaiting a reply he accepted the babe, drawing his own blanket up around the naked child. ‘Orfantal has a sister,’ he said, ‘and she’s big!’ He reached down with one finger, which the babe suddenly grasped.

Smiling, Wreneck turned to Ivis. ‘Master, she’s a strong one.’

Wretched, anguished beyond words, Ivis found himself staring at them both, through a veil of sorrow.