Fall of Light

TWENTY-SIX

As the first flashes of sorcery lit the eastern sky, the historian Rise Herat fled the tower’s roof. Boots on the spiralling steps downward, taken at speed, a dizzying descent. Once upon the main level of the Citadel he traversed little-used passages and corridors, encountering no one, and then resumed his descent, until he found himself in the cavernous hall crowded with the failed sculptures of the past, the heaps of rolled-up, rotting tapestries, the forgotten portraits. Ignoring the bronze monstrosity of the snarling hounds – that had so haunted him the last time he had been here – he made his way to the stacked tapestries.

Some mindful cleric had tagged each roll, and in faded script had written the title and what was known of each piece, along with an index number of some sort. If the Citadel’s archives held any master list, Herat knew nothing of it. Kneeling, he worked his way through the leather tags dangling from the ends of the rolls, squinting at the embossed script where the ink had faded to almost nothing. At last he found the one he sought.

It was a struggle pulling the tapestry from the stack, and his efforts sent many rolls sliding and spilling out to unravel upon the floor. The dust stung his eyes, made his nose run. He felt more than saw moths fluttering about, brushing his skin when he dragged the tapestry clear. Finding a stretch of unobstructed floor, Herat unrolled his prize.

Lanterns were no longer necessary. Darkness failed in hiding a thing. More’s the pity. He stood and stared down at the vast scene stitched into the fabric. ‘The Battle of The Storm in the Founding Age’, artist unknown. He had last seen it more than thirty years ago, though he could barely recall the context. Perhaps it had been found in a storage cupboard, during one of the many refurbishings of rooms that had occurred as the Citadel’s population burgeoned with acolytes, priests and priestesses. Or upon a wall in some long-sealed chamber that had been reopened. The details hardly mattered, the title even less.

What battle? What storm? What Age of Founding?

He studied the swarm of figures upon the blasted landscape, the scores of flying dragons shredding the dark clouds hanging low over the battlefield. His eyes narrowed on the flanking hilltops, where stood the rival commanders of the two armies locked together between them. From one such figure, tall and martial, something like a stain, or scorching, marred the weave, blackening the air surrounding the man.

He’d thought it nothing more than damage, the bloom of rotting mould, perhaps, or where a torch had been held too close to the hanging. But now he saw, as he looked more closely, that the very threads were black.

It’s him. Draconus. The helm hides his face, but the manner of his stance betrays him. That, and the darkness, like smoke. I saw it today, as he strode across the Terondai.

Abyss below, what have we done?

A voice spoke behind him. ‘I sought you upon the tower.’

Herat closed his eyes, not yet turning to face her. ‘Yet you tracked me here.’

‘Your journey was reported,’ Emral Lanear replied. ‘This is my temple, after all.’

‘Yes,’ the historian replied, eyes opening again, gaze returning once more to the tapestry laid out on the floor before him. ‘There is honour,’ he said, ‘and then there is stupidity.’

‘What do you mean?’

Still he would not turn to face her. ‘If in the course of our lives, we find ourselves in the same place, again and again … what lesson is not being heeded? What wilful idiocy obtains, proof against any self-examination, any reflection or contemplation? How is it, High Priestess, that a single man or woman’s life can so bitterly match the history of an entire people?’

After a long moment, she moved up to stand beside him. Her attention fixed upon the tapestry.

‘Draconus,’ said Herat, ‘has done this before. See him? That wreath of darkness he wears like a cloak – or wings. See the woman at his side? Who was she, I wonder? What forgotten ancestor embraced his gifts, only to vanish from all memory?’

‘That is no more than a stain,’ she said. ‘Your imagination-’

‘Is beggared by truth,’ he said sharply. ‘Blind yourself if you must. At last, I begin to understand.’

‘What? What is there to understand, historian? We have done what was needed.’

‘No, I think we have failed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We saw Draconus, Kellaras on his heels. They were setting out for the Valley of Tarns.’

‘Yes, so that Draconus can retrieve his Houseblades.’

‘But he won’t,’ Herat said. ‘He can’t. Don’t you see? This is his battle. It’s been his war, from the very start. We just didn’t realize it.’

‘You are speaking nonsense,’ Lanear snapped. ‘Liosan is to blame. And Urusander’s Legion. Hunn Raal-’

‘Failure finds myriad details, High Priestess, each one like a trap. Each one can snare you into believing the moment was unique. And so you are deceived into focusing on the details instead of the failure itself. In this manner,’ he added, ‘failures breed unchecked, unchallenged, and more often than not, unrecognized in what they all share.’

‘Which is?’

He shrugged. ‘The face in the mirror.’ He heard her breath catch, but continued remorselessly. ‘This is a squalid revelation, High Priestess. Nor are we alone in our … errors in judgement. Draconus and the ways of love … it is my thought that, time and again, his ways of love become ways of war. Call him a fool – it’s easily enough done. But even then, Emral, spare the man a moment of pity.’

‘He was to be our only sacrifice, Herat. We set Silchas upon him, and what was done was only what was necessary.’ She gestured dismissively at the tapestry. ‘This signifies nothing, a web for your fears and overwrought imagination.’ Stepping away, she said, ‘I will leave you to struggle in its strands. I must resume my preparations for the arrival of my Liosan counterpart.’

He saw no point in responding, and simply listened to her dwindling footfalls.

Ah, Draconus. You poor, misguided man. All that power, all those years – how many thousands? And still you stumble, your arms laden with gifts, your words forever lifeless in their entreaties.

Perhaps you Azathanai were too few, more an extended family than strangers inviting fascination. Perhaps, in your collective knowing, you all knew one another too well. Or perhaps, Draconus, your failure was and is a personal one, written deep in your bones and blood, in that heart too generous, too bloated with all it would give, and far too intent on the giving to receive anything in return. To make generosity into a weapon … ah, you understand nothing, nothing at all, do you?

Consider your friends, good sir, so few in number, so wary in their regard. Few could match your largesse. Of them all, only Anomander could stand as your equal, and even then, an equal measure quaintly discounting your secrets. Still, I wonder if he suspects …

Herat could almost see them, there upon the ridge overlooking the Valley of Tarns. How, he wondered, would that fateful exchange play out? Terse in the manner of men for whom deeds and gestures mattered more than any words. A meeting of gazes, a recognition of intentions, and then, at the last, the simple nod bespeaking the tragic cost of all to come.

Shall I write of that encounter? Am I not the historian, the caged witness behind the bars, flinching at the mad world beyond?

I see sleet slanting down from a glowering sky, a washed-out winter’s afternoon, with only a hint of the coming storm. I see Lord Anomander turn from his steady contemplation of the distant enemy ranks – or perhaps, in the wake of dread magic, he wheels, his face twisted in grief-

No, let us hook ourselves upon the meat of this battle before the flesh cools. To dangle and spin in wayward regard. See Draconus, dismounting from a blown horse. With Captain Kellaras behind him, colours muted in such a way as to flatten him against the background, our lone witness bound in threads. Few others are present, none with the temerity to draw closer, to hear the two men speak. Only the captain, a face of black threads bleached by the passing centuries. His name will be forgotten, his role beneath mention.

Like the armies about to clash, he and they are but footnotes, reduced to a sentence or two, or some rhythmic oration of set phrases to lay out the battle, the time of fever, stumbling to the knees, vanishing thereafter.

But he watches as the two men greet one another. They are friends, after all, and there is much for each man to recognize when looking upon the other. The future will fail in knowing this. A battle for a woman’s affections, yes, that’s summary simple enough – after all, what value motivations? It is the deed that is important. A lover upon one side, an adopted son upon the other.

And yet, nothing they say speaks of that. Indeed, I know enough to claim that such notions do not occur to them at all. Not at this time, not at any other.

‘Consort.’

‘Lord Anomander,’ Draconus replies, tilting his head in deference. The gesture is minimal, and yet for all that, Anomander’s brows lift. The respect they have known for one another has ever precluded such formal gestures. Anomander is indifferent to his noble blood. Draconus knows that, and knows as well that this is no mere affectation on the part of the First Son of Darkness. Nor is Anomander inclined to disparage privilege. The man simply dismisses the entire charade. For this reason, these two men are friends.

But now, here, something has changed.

‘I see, milord,’ Draconus continues, ‘that my Houseblades are positioned upon your east flank. I see Ivis at the ready, wearing the mask of war.’

But Anomander knows nothing of the Consort’s return to the world, or what bargains, if any, were made between him and Silchas Ruin. ‘Indeed, Draconus. They present a most powerful fist, as Urusander’s Legion is about to discover. And the gap between them and the Hust Legion is held by Silchas Ruin and my Houseblades.’

At that, Draconus turns, his gaze now fixing upon the far western flank, where foment now stirs the highborn command. His face tightens, but only for a moment, as his attention returns to Anomander. ‘Milord, your brother came to me, as this day’s commander.’

Anomander’s gaze grows more acute now. ‘I have drawn my sword,’ he replies. ‘I have taken my rightful place.’

‘Then it follows, milord, that I must take mine.’

There is silence then, between these two men.

Is this how it was? As simple as that? The Consort rides to take command of his Houseblades, hard upon Anomander’s eastern flank. The gathered nobles burst apart in mock fury. Stung by the offence, the western flank dissolves. Companies wheel, withdraw, march away in high dudgeon. And all at once, the outcome of the battle is no longer in doubt.

Rise Herat turned away from the tapestry. He lifted his head, as would a drowning man breaking the surface, and looked round. Bronze and marble statuary surrounded him, the hues a sharp contrast. Great leaders, heroic soldiers, even a few scholars and figures of state. There was no order to the press, and as Herat studied them, he heard in his mind the rising clamour of battle. Amidst the flattened shadows of the chamber, his imagination woke to life every statue, as weapons were drawn, as the killing commenced.

He drew a sharp breath, silencing the tumult, freezing every figure in its tracks.

Unless the sorcery was unleashed. Yet negated, made useless as Light locked jaws with Dark. Any other possibility obviates the necessity of any portentous moment. Anomander, Draconus, Kellaras, all of them shattered by infernal magic. And Hunn Raal strides across a field made into a charnel house. Even the victorious legion is silent, aghast at the carnage.

No. Instead, let us set sorcery aside. Every weapon will be met, by sword or shield. Fear and defiance, failure and triumph, the miserable dance is all played out. But even that is yet to come. Return us to Draconus and Anomander. The priests have answered Hunn Raal. Nothing has changed.

‘I despise sorcery,’ the First Son says in a faint, brittle tone. ‘Is this what awaits us? Will Hunn Raal and his kind make mockery of battle?’

Lord Draconus glances across at Kellaras, his expression unreadable. He walks to Anomander’s side, and Kellaras edges his mount closer to the two men.

The two lords face the valley, where sleet is gathering in ribbons of dull white across the ravaged basin. Here and there, steam or smoke still rises from ruptured earth.

Draconus speaks. ‘Will you deny me, friend? Have we not fought side by side before?’

Anomander seems to tremble a moment, before turning to the Consort. ‘You seek my leave, Draconus? To what end?’

‘If you command me to withdraw, I shall. But understand me, Anomander. I will have Ivis and my Houseblades.’

‘You would break his heart, then.’

Draconus turns, slightly, to squint at Ivis in the distance where he remains at the head of his mounted company – and the captain’s gaze is fixed upon his lord, as if but awaiting the summons. ‘I see it. The fever has taken him. I should not be surprised at that.’

Anomander nods. ‘Urusander’s Legion prepares to advance.’ He studies the enemy ranks, and then asks a most fateful question. ‘How fares Mother Dark?’

Draconus seems to flinch at Anomander’s simple question. ‘She refuses my presence. I fear she knows my mind, and what lies between us is now wounded.’

‘Fatally so?’

‘I cannot say. Would you have it so?’

Anomander shakes his head. ‘No, never that, Draconus.’

A few moments pass, while both armies hesitate, while the sky loses its will and the sleet falls away to nothing, and a strange, exhausted silence takes hold of the dusk. Then Draconus says, ‘I can make it right.’

Something passes over Anomander’s face, as if he has just weathered a slap, but he slowly nods and then says, ‘Draconus, I must name this love, this courage of yours.’

‘I shall make it right,’ Draconus says again.

‘Take command of your flank, then, sir. Ivis and Silchas Ruin await you.’

‘I shall lead my Houseblades,’ Draconus says. ‘Your own I leave to your brother, of course.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Anomander?’

‘Yes?’

‘We shall not yield.’

‘No, Draconus, I expect not.’

‘She will see that, won’t she?’

Anomander makes no reply.

Draconus passes a hand over his face, and then adds, ‘There is the matter of your brother, Silchas Ruin.’

‘Draconus?’

‘I rode here, friend, wondering if you had commandeered my Houseblades. If you had simply taken them from me.’

‘Ah, I see. And if I had?’

‘I will speak to Ivis on the matter. Anomander, I chose to believe otherwise.’

‘Thank you,’ Anomander replies.

‘Your brother-’

‘Later, perhaps,’ Anomander says in a tone of peculiar finality.

Draconus studies his friend for a moment longer, his expression flattening with something like resignation, and then he turns to where his lathered horse still stands. He mounts up, and then rides out to the left flank to take command of Ivis and his Houseblades.

Rise Herat blinked, and then wiped at his eyes. It was the briefest of pauses, and now the sounds of battle resumed, the jarring discord of blackened bronze and bleached marble, the statues trapped in their hopeless war. Mere flesh betrays the armour and raging swords of the Hust. Prisoners, criminals, dying in the name of a civilization that has cast them out. Too ill fitted to thrive, and now they die by the score.

Ivis falls, fighting for his lord. Silchas Ruin rages, weeping as his sword flails at all who would draw near. Lord Anomander stands soaked in blood. He has carved a space around him, and sees at last the inevitable end to this carnage. He strides from the field, climbs the mud-streaked slope. Upon the ridge the standard of the Tiste Andii appears before him. He reaches the youth who stands holding it upright. Gently takes the tall, wavering pole from the boy’s hand-

And Draconus? Nowhere to be seen. His body will never be found.

It is no easy thing to kill an Azathanai.

Herat brought his hands to his eyes, plunging the terrible scene into blessed darkness. And we have done this. Emral and I … Abyss take us.

The standard tilted, and then swept down.

Done. All done.

With a cry, he staggered through the chamber, colliding with statuary, his eyes still covered by his damning hands. He fell more than once, scrambling frantically back to his feet. Disoriented, bruised and bleeding, he set off again, only to find himself lost among the towering figures.

They crowded him. With hands smeared in his own blood, they reached for him. Shrieking, he lunged and staggered about.

The chamber echoed his cries, until a thousand voices wailed in pain and grief.

All in the name of one man.

* * *

‘She will see you now.’

High Priestess Emral Lanear flicked her gaze upward to see the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, standing in the doorway. She lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and drew in another mouthful of smoke. She filled her lungs, feeling the familiar bite, the shock dulled to faint pleasure. Frowning at the huge, bearded man, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Who will see me now?’

Almost shyly, Grizzin Farl edged into the room. ‘Mother Dark. Your goddess.’ After a moment, he shrugged and said, ‘The wounded heart contracts, like the closing of a fist. She will see you now, and you in turn will see her. Out from the darkness, a manifestation of flesh, blood and, perhaps, tears.’

Lanear sent out a stream of smoke, and then snorted. ‘A little late for that.’

‘Such things do not pass swiftly, High Priestess, even for a goddess.’

After a moment, Lanear set the mouthpiece down and then rose from her chair. ‘Has word come from Tarns?’

‘Not yet.’

Seeing him hesitate, she cocked her head. ‘Go on. No doubt, you have ways of … seeing things.’

He sighed. ‘Lord Anomander has struck the standard. The battle is over. Triumphant, the Liosan now approach the city. Many have died. That said,’ he added, ‘it could have been worse.’

She sat back down, all strength leaving her legs, and reached a trembling hand to retrieve the mouthpiece. ‘And … Draconus?’

‘Gone.’

‘Not dead?’

Grizzin Farl glanced away. ‘Gone, I think, is a better word.’

‘Mother Dark knows this?’

‘She has known this for some time, yes.’

Lanear smoked, studying the Azathanai through a veil of curling white. ‘And now, she will see her High Priestess.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I would think,’ he ventured, ‘preparations must be made. A wedding, yes?’

After a moment, she stood again, gathering her robes about her. ‘Lead on, Azathanai.’

The journey did not take long. They exchanged no further words, and a short time later they stood before the door to the Chamber of Night.

* * *

Surgeon Prok leaned against the sill of the window and used the palm of his right hand to melt the ice upon the thin, bubbled glass. ‘The tower’s flag has settled,’ he said after a moment. ‘Defeat. Surrender. Occupation. But then,’ he added as he straightened and turned to Sorca, ‘they are foreigners in habit only, and soon that too shall fade. I see an admixture ahead, and cannot but wonder at what spawn such union will yield.’ He lifted up his flask and drank another mouthful of spirit.

Sorca looked around, moved to a plush chair and sat heavily. ‘Beware the torch, lest your breath catch fire.’

‘If my words are fire, it’s a modest flame.’

She took out an iron pick and began cleaning her pipe.

Prok glanced at the door, through which Lady Sandalath and her daughter had departed but moments ago, on their way to that fateful meeting with her son. He had heard that two hostages dwelt in the Citadel, one a girl made mostly feral by neglect. Orfantal was the other. Sandalath’s bastard child. ‘I am fair drunk,’ he admitted with a nod. ‘Yet, what numb relief is offered proves a mockery to feeling. My heart still breaks, but no sharp crack issues forth. Rather, I faintly hear a dull sob. Such is the dubious gift of drink.’

‘You know the signal of the flags for certain, Prok?’

He nodded. ‘For my crimes. Somewhere to the east, the standard has been tilted. The defenders of Mother Dark have been broken.’ He shrugged. ‘Victory and defeat. Both states are frozen in time. The moment is flushed, and yet the bloom quickly fades.’

‘You have seen too many battles,’ Sorca observed.

‘Yes I have, but I assure you, one is too many.’

She sparked alight her pipe. ‘So, now. A wedding.’

Prok nodded. ‘A celebration too solemn, too false. I see husband and wife standing inside a circle of sword-points. Shall they now smile? Clasp hands? Will the thrones indeed sit side by side? A royal chamber one half painted in light, the other drenched in darkness? Drink fails my powers of imagination, as ever, which I deem a blessing.’

‘Is your curiosity as dull?’

‘Not dull, just cold and lifeless. And you?’

‘It will be awkward,’ she said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘Fitful. Uneasy witnesses will struggle for words, strain to conjure the necessary smiles and congratulations. The ceremony strives but fails in the end. I for one am pleased to avoid invitation.’

He smiled at her with little humour. ‘Us commonfolk will be spared the ordeal, although I imagine some public display will be in the offing. These symbols are necessary, if only to ease our anxiety.’

‘Lady Sandalath’s mind is broken,’ said Sorca, squinting at the bowl of her pipe.

‘There is a steep toll to trauma,’ Prok replied. ‘Her mind must distance itself, find a place of retreat. Possibly,’ he mused, ‘a childhood memory, some refuge.’

‘She speaks like no child, surgeon.’

‘No, I suppose not. Something has twisted in her soul.’

‘Do you fear for the child?’

He shot her a glance. ‘Which one?’

Sorca looked away, said nothing as she smoked. Then, abruptly, she spoke again, though her tone was laconic. ‘How fares the ledger, I wonder?’

‘Excuse me? What ledger?’

She made a face. ‘Who died, I mean. Lord Anomander? Captain Ivis? What of Lord Draconus himself?’ When he made no answer, she continued. ‘I like the gate sergeant, Yalad. So very earnest, don’t you think? And considerate, of the lady, and the girl-child. I hope he still lives.’

‘It falls to that, doesn’t it? Details of administration now, with you clerks and list-makers venturing out from the shadowy alcoves. Who gets what, who pays, who gets paid. Missives sent out to families in the countryside, regretful in tone, yet urging an everlasting pride in the ones who sacrificed their lives defending … whatever.’

She studied him through the smoke. ‘You dislike my kind, don’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘The need for organization demands attention, once the dust settles, or, in this case, once the blood sinks into the mud. Do I dislike the clerks, so crucial to civilization’s vitality?’ He let out a breath. ‘Probably. Scratching styluses instead of familiar faces, columns and lists instead of dreams and desires. Life’s sacred wonder, reduced to notations. What do we give up, Sorca, with this need to organize, categorize, summarize?’

‘Granted,’ she said, ‘mine is a soulless task, a task demanding soullessness, a task ensuring a soul’s surrender. You cannot imagine, Surgeon Prok, the soul’s slow death, in the repetitive twitching of a hand.’

Prok studied her for a long moment, and then he stepped close, reached down, and took her hand. She lifted her gaze to him, and managed a broken smile.

* * *

‘Hello, Mother,’ said Orfantal, rising from the bench. ‘This is her? My sister.’

Sandalath stood near the door, holding the hand of the small girl with the raven-black hair and luminous eyes. Her eyes remained fixed upon her son, wondering what it was about him that frightened her. The steadiness of his solemn gaze seemed to drain all certainty from her, and she felt a burgeoning desire to abase herself before him, seeking forgiveness.

He strode forward then, smiling at Korlat. ‘I’m Orfantal,’ he said to her. ‘Your brother. I’m here to take care of you.’ He glanced up at Sandalath. ‘Isn’t that right, Mother?’

She shook her head. Waking nightmares had begun plaguing her. Something was stirring inside, all cruel edges and stinging rebuke, as if some part of her now hovered overhead, whispering down a host of unpleasant truths. ‘You weren’t good enough for any of them. The children he dragged from you, one failure after another. He pushed them through-’ She shook her head a second time. He was a god, she now replied to her other self. He chose me. Me!

‘Mother?’

Sandalath nodded. ‘No. She will protect you, not the other way round. Even if it takes her life, Orfantal, she will protect my perfect, beautiful child.’ She paused. ‘I may not always be there, you see. I may have to go away again.’ She pulled her hand free of Korlat’s grip, and it proved easier to do than expected. ‘Take her now,’ she said to Orfantal. ‘I am going to my room.’

‘Your room?’

‘I have lived in the Citadel before, you know!’ Her harsh retort made both children flinch, and Korlat hurried to Orfantal, and he took his sister into his arms and lifted her, anchoring her on one hip.

Sandalath saw Korlat’s small, pudgy arms wrap themselves tight about her son’s neck. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s better. I never planned on you, Orfantal. It was all a mistake. But now I see. There was a reason, after all, a reason for you. You count, but she doesn’t.’

‘I love her already,’ said Orfantal.

‘She’ll grow past you-’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘And she will protect you for ever.’

‘Soon,’ he said, ‘I will be as her younger brother. There is the blood of an Azathanai in her.’

‘No. A god.’

He tilted his head.

‘A god, Orfantal! One who expects things from you, just as I do. This god – you must understand this – this god has no patience. He despises weakness. If we’re weak, he’ll hurt us. Tell me you understand!’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Sandalath returned to the door. ‘I have a safe place, a place for hiding. I’m going there, and locking the door.’

‘Yes. Goodbye, Mother.’

She halted, glanced back at him. ‘When everything burns, come and find me. In the tower.’

He nodded again. Satisfied, despite the tremble of panic behind her thoughts, she left the chamber. In the corridor she stood motionless for a moment. The Citadel. I’m home. Smiling, she set off for the tower, and her secret room.

* * *

It was the duty of one who failed in protecting anything to linger, kneeling in the ashes, and give some thought, once so much has been lost, to what little remains. Grizzin Farl was well experienced with this modest compensation. After all, if one could draw breath, then all was not lost. If one could find some remnant of hope, then the pain of grief was but transitory, and what burdens awaited settling would find shoulders capable of sustaining them.

But few of these platitudes did much to lessen the pain of acute loss, and all too often they could be raised up as barriers to feeling anything. At the very least, he reminded himself, Azathanai had not clashed in the Valley of Tarns, although it had been close. Nor had the dragons manifested into a storm of chaos, content merely to witness from the swirling clouds overhead. The magic unleashed on the field of battle had been modest, all things considered, but even this revelation had its price. A man was dead, after all.

‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ Emral Lanear asked him as they hesitated before the door to the Chamber of Night.

‘What do you wish me to say?’

‘You have been in her presence, Azathanai. Is she … is she reconciled to what must be?’

Grizzin Farl frowned. ‘She … acknowledges the necessity. Understands the value of the symbol, that is. Liosan exists now. The Tiste fall upon Light or upon Dark. The manner in which the two manage to co-exist, here in one place, remains to be seen.’

‘This was a civil war,’ Lanear snapped. ‘No one invited a new religion to the mess! But there, perhaps I am wrong. Your sister brought this Liosan – tell me, Grizzin Farl, how far you Azathanai intend on taking this?’

‘Taking what?’

‘Your manipulation of the Tiste. Or shall you now step back, denying the blood on your hands?’

‘Denial is a waste of time, High Priestess. And, alas, there is no stepping back. Indeed, it is the very opposite. We are drawn.’

She blinked. ‘And who is responsible for that?’

He looked away, found himself studying the blackwood door before them, this beaded barrier still to be breached. ‘Not “who” as such, High Priestess. More like … what.’

‘Very well, then what is responsible for your sudden interest in us?’

‘We are poor at the finer emotions. An unveiling of all that is vulnerable in a mortal heart draws us in the manner of moths to a flame. Perhaps we seek some incidental warming of the soul. Or our curiosity is rather more clinical. Perhaps you but awaken forgotten appetites. Our natures are not unified, High Priestess. Each Azathanai is unique.’ He shrugged. ‘We have come to witness the breaking of a heart.’

He weathered the growing horror in her eyes, offering no defence.

A moment later, with a sudden gesture, she opened the door and strode into the Chamber of Night.

The Throne of Darkness awaited them, and the woman seated on it was expressionless, her eyes clear and cold as they fixed upon Emral Lanear.

The High Priestess knelt, head bowing. ‘Mother,’ she whispered.

‘Stand. Face me.’ Her voice was flat.

Emral Lanear straightened.

Mother Dark continued, ‘Grizzin Farl, leave us now.’

‘As you wish. High Priestess, I will await you in the corridor.’ He turned and departed, closing the door behind him.

‘Mother, Lord Anomander-’

‘Is not of your concern,’ the goddess interrupted. ‘You shall place two high-backed chairs in the old throne room. I believe the raised dais is broad enough to accommodate them. One shall be of blackwood, the other bonewood. On the outside of the white chair you will set an embrasure. On the outside of my chair, an empty brazier, blackened inside and out. Also upon the outside of each chair, affix a scabbard for a sceptre. Coordinate these details with High Priestess Syntara. Lord Urusander and I will take upon ourselves the authority of this union, in the name of the realm. You and Syntara will attend as witnesses. For the ceremony itself, none other shall be present. A formal announcement afterwards will constitute the only public acknowledgement of the marriage. Three days of feasting will follow. Each and every Greater or Lesser House will give freely of its largesse.’

Emral Lanear listened to these instructions, delivered with an utter absence of warmth, and looked upon a face devoid of emotion. It was better than she had expected. ‘Lord Urusander leads his legion to the city, Mother. How soon do you wish this private ceremony?’

‘As soon as possible. Inform Lord Anomander that the highborn must convene. It is expected that Lord Urusander will wish to advance reparations on behalf of his soldiers, although it is likely that he will delegate in that regard. The Greater Houses must yield land, wealth and labour, but these are matters of administration and, one presumes, bargaining. Bring no details to my attention – I have little interest in how the carcass is apportioned.’

‘And in matters of faith, Mother?’

The goddess seemed to flinch at the question. ‘I offered you all an empty vessel, or so you imagined it. I was witness, then, to your varied ways of filling it. Yet what was hidden within, which none of you chose to see, is now displaced, and now, perhaps, must be considered dead.’ She raised a thin hand. ‘Are you eager for a list of prohibitions? For prescribed positions and holy ordinances? Am I to tell you the way to live your life? Am I to lock doors, draw close shutters? Am I to guide you like children, with all the maternal needs of a mother upon whose tit you will all feed, until your dying day? What words do you wish from me, Emral Lanear? A list of all the deeds that will earn the slap of my hand, or my eternal condemnation? What crimes are acceptable in the eyes of your goddess? Whose murder is justified by your faith in me? Whose suffering shall be considered righteously earned, by virtue of what you judge a failing of faith, or indeed sacrilege? Describe to me the apostate, the infidel, the blasphemer – for surely such accusations come not from me, but from you, High Priestess, you and all who will follow you, in your appointed role of speaking for me, deciding for me, acting in my name, and justifying all that you would do in your worship of your goddess.’

‘From faith,’ replied Emral Lanear, ‘do we not seek guidance?’

‘Guidance, or the organized assembly and reification of all the prejudices you collectively hold dear?’

‘You would not speak to us!’

‘I grew to fear the power of words – their power, and their powerlessness. No matter how profound or perceptive, no matter how deafening their truth, they are helpless to defend themselves. I could have given you a list. I could have stated, in the simplest terms, that this is how I want you to behave, and this must be the nature of your belief, and your service, and your sacrifice. But how long, I wonder, before that list twisted in interpretation? How long before deviation yielded condemnation, torture, death?’ She slowly leaned forward. ‘How long, before my simple rules to a proper life become a call to war? To the slaughter of unbelievers? How long, Emral Lanear, before you begin killing in my name?’

‘Then what do you want of us?’ Lanear demanded.

‘You could have stopped thinking like children who need to be told what’s right and what’s wrong. You damned well know what’s right and what’s wrong. It’s pretty simple, really. It’s all about harm. It’s about hurting, and not just physical, either. You want a statement for your faith in me? You wish me to offer you the words you claim to need, the rules by which you are to live your lives? Very well, but I should warn you, every deity worthy of worship will offer you the same prescription. Here it is, then. Don’t hurt other people. In fact, don’t hurt anything capable of suffering. Don’t hurt the world you live in, either, or its myriad creatures. If gods and goddesses are to have any purpose at all, let us be the ones you must face for the crimes of your life. Let us be the answer to every unfeeling, callous, cruel act you committed, every hateful word you uttered, and every spiteful wound you delivered.’

‘At last!’ cried Emral Lanear.

‘You didn’t need me for that rule.’

‘No, Mother, we didn’t. We don’t. But now, at least, we have you to tell us that doing the right thing is actually worth something. Abyss knows, this mortal world rarely rewards such generosity of spirit!’

‘Doesn’t it? Well, if you believe that wealth and power are rewards, then yes, you would be right. Alas, they’re not.’

‘But those who have neither will suffer, often at the hands of those who do.’

‘Alas, the wealthiest among us are also the most childish of us, in their acquisitiveness, their selfishness, their stubborn denial of the obvious truth that it is better to share than to hoard, for hoarding breeds resentment, and resentment will, in the end, get you killed. The face of the one sitting atop a hoard is a child’s face, obstinate and stubborn. Is it any wonder such people would twist and distort any and every faith that preaches love?’

‘Love?’

Mother Dark was silent for a long moment, and then she leaned back. ‘Oh, Emral Lanear. Even when I but showed it, when I refused to give it a word, see how quickly it was poisoned by all who looked upon it. None of you could abide it, could you? It is yet to occur to any of you, I think, that in naming you all children, I was not being complimentary.’

‘Then I deem you presumptuous.’

‘As you will. As you will.’

‘So, Mother, is that all? Our realm is now divided in its faith. You can expect Syntara to have taken her religion into that place of prescription and prohibition. She will have made her list, her rules.’

‘Father Light shall prove more than just a title,’ Mother Dark replied. ‘As Syntara shall soon discover. I know Vatha Urusander. I admire him, and respect him. Syntara’s present freedom shall not last. If I can give Urusander very little, I will at least awaken him to his newfound power. Beyond that, let there be justice.’

The promise chilled the heart of Emral Lanear.

* * *

Heavy with mud and spattered gore, Captain Kellaras turned his head, blinking blood from his eyes as he scanned the heaps of dead and dying men and women. He could see where Ivis had gone down, ringed in the corpses of those who’d fought at his side, and those Legion soldiers who had surrounded them. Perhaps Draconus was among them, yet one more cold body leaking into the mud. But he doubted it. There had been strange blooms of impenetrable darkness, stains in the air. There had been a hoarse cry, filled with grief and rage, dwindling as if the one voicing that cry had retreated, fleeing, or had been somehow devoured by the darkness itself.

His dulled gaze now caught the scene he had been searching for. Lord Anomander, alone, stood watching the slow approach of Lord Urusander flanked by a dozen guards. The standard had been toppled, with nothing left but bitter formalities. Alone at the last. Not even Caladan Brood remaining. Or did you send him away, milord? Yes, I think you would have.

Kellaras sheathed his sword, its notched edge catching as he slid it into the scabbard, a thick welling of congealed blood rising up to gather below the hilt. Among Anomander’s Houseblades, but a handful remained. Of the Houseblades of House Dracons, he saw none standing.

Ah, Ivis. I did not see you fall, forced to turn away at the last moment. The wonder of your charge finds glory in its failure – we can look to little else, we of the Andii, when seeking solace from this day. Draconus and Ivis had led their forces deep into the enemy facing them. Their company had killed easily twice its number, and even the frantic flanking attacks from Urusander’s mounted cavalry had done little to slow its advance.

In the end, alas, they were too few, even when joined by Anomander’s own Houseblades.

Ivis, did your lord abandon you at the end? I fear he did.

Kellaras wiped the grime from his stinging eyes, no longer interested in seeing the official surrender, no longer wanting to witness his lord’s humiliation. The First Son deserves better than this. I shall look into the eyes of the highborn and await their flinch. But this is scant satisfaction.

What seemed a lifetime ago, he and the Consort had ridden hard upon the road, with a terrible storm breaking over the Valley of Tarns. At the first pounding of thunder, Draconus had cursed, low and heartfelt.

Neither lightning nor thunder. Magic. Unleashed. Kellaras had expected to come upon a scene of unnatural slaughter. Instead, they had arrived in time to see the last desperate defence of two priests. Light and Dark entwined like serpents, jaws locked upon the other above the valley’s floor. The final detonation that tore them apart sent both priests and even Hunn Raal to the ground.

But it was Hunn Raal who first regained himself.

Kellaras was not entirely certain who the surviving priest was. The man was covered in mud and streaming blood; his clothes were scorched and shredded. The path he made in his belly-crawl to his companion left a smear like the track of a slug. And the other priest … Cedorpul. None other. And now, that cheerful young man is dead. He must be. No one could survive that assault.

Where he and Draconus had drawn up their horses, Lord Anomander stood ringed in a rough circle of aides, messengers and standard-bearers. Yet these Andii maintained a distance, as if Anomander stood alone upon an island.

Draconus and Kellaras halted. The ground was muddy, their mounts uncertain of their footing. Overhead the sky still convulsed in a miasma of sickly clouds through which shadows flitted.

Eyes fixed upon the valley below, Anomander shook his head. ‘I must go down to that priest-’

‘Leave him for the moment, friend,’ Draconus said, dismounting. ‘Your guards are correct. If Hunn Raal sees you draw within range, he will strike at you with what he has left. On another day, I could have swatted him down. Instead, I am weakened here. Incomplete, if you will.’

Turning, Anomander studied the Consort, and then tilted his head. ‘Incomplete? No matter. Here you are.’

‘You have taken command. What would you have me do, friend?’

‘Do you censure me in her name, Consort?’

‘No. It is said you have named your sword Vengeance. How sure is your rectitude, Anomander? I would think, thus named, the blade will demand from you a purity of purpose. Of course,’ he added with a faint shrug, ‘you will need to surrender everything else.’

‘Will I? Draconus, have our vows gained veracity in this new, sorcerous age?’

‘I should think so, yes.’

‘Vengeance,’ Anomander said in a musing tone, his eyes narrowing upon the enemy forces opposite.

‘I have pondered,’ resumed Draconus, ‘the notion of a righteous blade. Not as would Lord Henarald and his Hust iron. I would value no opinion from my chosen weapon, merely a certain efficacy. Justice, should such a notion exist, must lie in the hand wielding the blade.’

‘And how would you name your new sword?’ Anomander asked.

‘There is something inherently chaotic in any weapon. Do you see this?’

‘If it lacks moral spine, then, yes, I see this well enough.’

Kellaras listened to these two men, their nonsensical, seemingly irrelevant discussion so at odds with the moment, with the ever-growing pressure of two armies about to clash. He wondered, for the first time, if both men were utterly mad.

‘Then,’ Draconus asked, ‘will you this day draw your sword in its name? More to the point, can you? I spoke of what must be surrendered, lest your weapon fail you.’

‘Friend,’ said Anomander, ‘your presence here is divisive.’

‘I know.’

‘We will lose the highborn. We will, in turn, lose this battle.’

‘Will you send me away then, Anomander?’

‘I mean to fight for you, Draconus.’

‘Yes, I see that.’

‘But, if you will leave here … take your Houseblades.’

‘How can I?’ Draconus demanded. ‘And how can you, who would stand in my place here, invite such a thing of me?’

Anomander replied, ‘I state what is possible, with no blame in attendance.’

‘Your brother, I think, has little understanding of you,’ observed Draconus. ‘Nor, it seems, of me.’

‘My brother?’

‘It does not matter. We are here, and neither intends to yield. You would fight in my name. I, therefore, shall fight in yours.’

They stood in silence then. Until, after a time, Draconus stirred. ‘I will join Ivis now.’

‘Fare you well, Draconus.’

Climbing astride his horse, Draconus hesitated, and then said, ‘And you, Anomander.’ He rode off to join his Houseblades.

The First Son fixed his attention once more on Urusander’s Legion. Soldiers had descended to help a staggering Hunn Raal make his way up the slope. ‘Kellaras.’

Startled, Kellaras dismounted and joined Anomander. ‘Milord.’

‘What did my brother do?’

‘He spoke to Draconus.’

‘And?’

‘He convinced him to flee.’

‘Flee?’

‘Draconus agreed. He understood the necessity, milord. But he would take his Houseblades into exile with him.’

‘Only to discover that they rode with me.’

‘Yes, milord.’

‘So, he would flee.’

‘In the name of love, milord, yes.’

‘To force upon him that choice, Kellaras, was unconscionable.’

‘Sir, we were desperate.’

Anomander turned sharply to Kellaras. ‘You were party to this? You added your weight to my brother’s entreaty?’

‘Milord, I was witness. That, and nothing more. Your brother has little interest in my counsel.’

‘Yet … ah, I see. Silchas led me here, after all.’ He studied Kellaras for a moment longer, and then faced the valley once more. ‘Very well.’

Very well? That and nothing more? ‘Milord? Shall I return to Lord Silchas Ruin? What message shall I convey to him?’

Anomander now faced the left flank, watching as Draconus reined in close to Silchas. Once there, an argument began, but they were too distant, their voices too low, for anything to be heard. Despite that, Kellaras could see Ruin’s shock and then dismay. An instant later, Anomander’s brother was on his horse and riding fast – not towards Anomander, but angling behind the assembled ranks. He was, Kellaras realized, riding for the highborn.

He’ll not get there in time. They have seen Draconus. They have seen what has happened.

‘No message,’ Anomander replied. ‘Join my Houseblades, captain. You will be needed to act in my brother’s stead.’

‘Yes, milord.’

‘Oh, and Kellaras.’

‘Milord?’

‘Place yourself and my Houseblades under the command of Lord Draconus.’

‘Sir?’

‘My friend is here in the name of love, captain. In the absence of anything else, is that not a worthy cause? No, let us take his side.’

Kellaras glanced to the far right flank. ‘Milord, the highborn will not be so sentimental-’

‘Sentimental, am I? Is love so paltry a thing, to be plucked and dropped to the ground at the first breath of contempt? Man or woman, disparaging love is a crime of the soul, for which the future will turn away its face.’

‘I doubt they fear such a fate, milord.’

‘They will learn to, captain. This I swear.’

Sensing a new presence, Kellaras twisted round and saw, a few paces behind them, the Azathanai, Caladan Brood. The huge figure was motionless, his expression revealing nothing. Following his gaze, Anomander grunted and said, ‘I have begun to wonder where you were, Caladan.’

The Azathanai made to speak, but then lifted his face to the sky. A moment later he scowled. ‘Lord Anomander,’ he said, as if exasperated, ‘there will be no more magic from the enemy on this day.’

‘Indeed?’ Anomander snapped. ‘Then should I walk down now, to that brave priest below-’

‘Send soldiers down to collect him.’

‘Their lives are of less worth?’

‘No. But you will be needed here, for the battle is about to begin.’

‘Do you vouch for their safety?’

‘In collecting the poor priest? Yes. In the battle to come, alas, no such thing is possible.’

‘No,’ Anomander replied. ‘I imagine not. Unless, of course, you choose to awaken what is within you, as you did at Dracons Keep.’

‘Milord, shall I slaughter your enemy then?’

‘Can you?’

Caladan Brood nodded.

‘And kill thousands. You would take that burden?’

Baring his teeth, Caladan Brood said, ‘It would not be mine, would it?’

Kellaras sat frozen in place, unable to pull away from the conversation. On the far right flank, the mass of Houseblade companies had begun tearing apart, and among the highborn nobles there was chaos – into which Silchas Ruin now rode.

In answer to Caladan Brood’s question, Anomander said, ‘No, I suppose not.’

The Azathanai glanced again at the heavy clouds overhead. ‘But I would advise you decide on the instant, First Son.’

‘A single word from me can win this battle, and with it, the entire war.’

‘It can,’ Caladan replied.

‘Returning Draconus to his love’s side. Ending this incursion of Liosan into our realm. Saving even the precious possessions of the highborn.’

‘Just so.’

A half-dozen soldiers set out, hurrying down to where the priests were now lying side by side, one dead and the other perhaps only moments from joining him.

‘Am I a coward,’ Anomander asked, ‘to abjure from giving you leave to slaughter my enemy? If I refuse you, Azathanai …’

‘You will lose this battle, milord, and many of your Tiste Andii will die. In place of that, sir, I offer you naught but Liosan dead. But as I said, time is short. Wait too long, and I will be matched.’

‘By Hunn Raal?’

‘No. He is still too clumsy with the power of Elemental Light. Another comes, and she is not far.’

Anomander seemed nonplussed.

Suddenly stiffening, Kellaras said, ‘Forgive me, sirs. Azathanai, do you speak of one of your own?’

Caladan Brood sighed, and then nodded. ‘She whom you have named T’riss. Content only with balance, I’m afraid. A sentiment plaguing many of my kin.’

‘But not you,’ said Anomander.

The Azathanai shrugged. ‘You wanted peace, First Son.’

‘My answer to all that I fear. My response to all that threatens me. Caladan Brood, you would see me become a tyrant in the name of purity, in the name of a peace that is maintained at any cost.’

‘Yes, milord.’

‘Azathanai, I must refuse you.’

‘I understand-’

‘Do you? I name that presumption, sir. This war belongs to the Tiste. Absolve none of us. Nor, indeed, is such absolution yours to give.’ He cast Kellaras a glare. ‘Ride on, captain, this instant!’

‘Milord.’ Kellaras gathered up his reins. Moments later he was riding for the left flank, and his mind was a storm of chaos. You decry sentiment, Anomander? You damned fool, by what other name have you just surrendered certain victory?

Ahead, he saw Lord Draconus, and at his side, Ivis. Both men were now positioned in front of their Houseblades, and it was clear that they would lead the charge.

Not a coward’s thought, not there, with those two fools. Abyss below. Sentiment!

Win her back, will you, Draconus? With this dusk and its suffocating madness? I fear not, sir, oh, Mother save us, I fear not.

* * *

And now, an eternity later, the battle was done, and still the night held back, a drawn breath suspended in the firmament. Kellaras remained standing in the midst of the battlefield. Figures moved here and there, lending what aid they could to those fallen who still lived. Here, at last, it mattered not the uniform worn, as every piteous cry proclaimed no colours, and even the skin, cloven white or black, was made one in the mud.

Someone approached from his left, and Kellaras slowly turned, to see Silchas Ruin. He felt his own spine stiffening as he straightened, concealing the fury he felt behind his soldier’s mask, his survivor’s insensate mien. ‘Milord,’ he said.

‘He struck the standard?’

Kellaras nodded. ‘And now makes formal surrender.’

Silchas Ruin was wounded, blood thick upon his left shoulder. ‘It was the highborn, Kellaras. Our betrayers. Mother Dark’s own children of the blood. Did you see the Hust, captain? Did you see how they held? I’d not thought it possible. Convicts. Murderers. Truly that iron is its own sorcery.’ He stood, now watching his brother in the distance. ‘He struck the standard,’ he said again.

‘Milord, you are wounded-’

‘This? Infayen Menand. She attacked while I was engaged with two others, sought to come upon me from behind, but I caught the motion.’

‘Her fate?’

Silchas shrugged. ‘She was a Menand.’ He was silent for a moment, and then he asked, ‘Captain, the Hust Legion – was their retreat by Redone’s command?’

‘I do not know, milord. Only that nearly a thousand of them lie dead, having not retreated a single step.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘If indeed it was Commander Toras Redone who ordered the flag, she did the right thing.’

Silchas Ruin’s stained face twitched in a cold half-grin as he studied Kellaras. ‘Ah, captain, the world’s torment knows ease with your opinion voiced.’

‘I would think not, sir. Indeed,’ he added, his voice hardening, ‘on this day, we are the makers of this world’s torment. The only ease granted now is named death.’

‘And surrender,’ Silchas Ruin said, his moment of contempt past. His eyes narrowed on the distant scene. ‘Ah, now Hunn Raal comes to the fore. Spent, and yet even at this distance I see the smear of his smile.’

‘Yes,’ said Kellaras – though not bothering to follow Ruin’s hard gaze. ‘It seems there is to be a marriage.’

Silchas Ruin nodded, and then spat red into the mud at his feet. ‘Sound the bells, Wise Kharkanas. Retrieve your refugees to line the streets. Roll out the crimson bandages to make suitable bunting and streamers. Lay out the weapons to make the aisle for our king and queen. Something notched and stained underfoot – was not iron our first glory, captain? The very birth of the Tiste, if the legends are to be believed.’ He waved a hand more red than white. ‘As suits the moment.’

‘Milord, I saw a dragon. Overhead. In the storm-clouds.’

‘I did not.’

Kellaras frowned, only to realize that he had nothing more to say.

‘Captain.’

‘Milord?’

‘My brother still stands alone. Are you not of his Houseblades? Take your surviving company and join him.’

And what of you, his brother? ‘Yes sir.’ Kellaras turned to gather his Houseblades. As they drew up around him, he saw Silchas Ruin wander off, westward, as if he would now walk to Kharkanas. Kellaras then glanced to the southeast, in time to see the last of the Hust Legion reach the crest. The sound of its iron, faint yet clear, rode the icy tears of the wind.

* * *

They reached the road, the valley behind them. Prazek drew off his gore-spattered gauntlets and dropped them to the ground. ‘Well,’ he said around a cut lip already scabbed black, ‘that was a sorry day.’

Dathenar slowly hunched over, still struggling to regain his breath from a mace-blow that had driven him from his feet. ‘“Sorry”, is it? No, friend, set sorrow aside. Disband this beleaguered company of regrets. I see no blessing in their sordid attendance.’

‘They line the road like refugees,’ Prazek said, spitting.

‘And would seek the shelter of rationalization, as befits their desperate need. But these are modest roofs, and the crowds jostle beneath each one, as would a family of fools breeding out of their house, too many bodies and not enough rooms. Shall we build additions? Extend this paltry roof? Bah, let’s just breed some more.’

‘And to this you say?’

Dathenar shrugged. ‘Why, I say, fuck you in your fuckery. But we are right, friend. Regrets breed regrets, a spawn unceasing in humping zeal. At the last, we are less than animals. For all our claim to nature’s graces, we are absent dignity.’

Prazek considered his friend’s words for a moment. Then he glanced around, at the figures shuffling past. ‘See this current,’ he said in a low mutter, ‘and here I am, snagged, tugged and frayed.’ Abruptly he sat down on the cold, wet ground.

After a moment, Dathenar did the same.

‘I have often wondered,’ mused Prazek, ‘at the mind of certain of our fellows, those for whom the hunt incites a flush of zeal, the eyes bright as a child’s. I have seen the arrow strike true. Some noble creature in a glade, head lifted in alarm, only to crumple to the iron bite. By your confession, friend, I see now what is slain. Dignity is the natural stance of beasts. Their innate essence, which, perhaps, the hunters in their moral paucity envy, and so grow vicious. To slay out of spite, ah, Dathenar, the years are stripped away.’

Dathenar sighed. ‘Behold the child revealed, flushed and bright, posing beside the kill. If we war against nature, why, we war against dignity itself. Our sordid dominion makes ascension a lie. The truth is, we descend, with all the dignity of a disease.’

Prazek wiped at his face, wincing at his torn lip. ‘Salvage me some hope, I beg you.’

Dathenar reached across to settle a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is this.’

* * *

Wareth remained at Rebble’s side, holding the man’s weight as best he could as they clambered up the last few paces to reach the crest. The moment they arrived, Rebble reached up and gripped Wareth’s arm, just above the elbow, and tugged hard.

‘In the name of our Mother, Wareth, set me down.’

Together, they settled to the ground, Wareth being as gentle as he could with his friend. Rebble settled on to his back, eyes filled with pain as he stared skyward. ‘I make it thirty-seven,’ he said.

Wareth looked down, saw the blood still streaming from the sword-wound in Rebble’s chest. But the man wasn’t coughing blood – there was that mercy, at least. ‘Thirty-seven?’

Rebble lifted a trembling hand. ‘Doubt I can make it,’ he said, ‘but I’ll give it a try.’

Wareth wiped at his face. ‘You’re not making any sense,’ he said.

‘Tell me, Wareth, did I see true? Toras Redone kneeling beside a body? Was it Faror Hend who fell?’

To earn such grief? Such wails and tearing at hair? ‘No, Rebble. Galar Baras.’

‘Ah. Then. I see.’

‘She drew a knife and would have cut her own throat. Faror Hend prevented her, twisted the weapon free. In her face there was vengeance and satisfaction, as she glared down at the broken woman. Rebble, such things shake me.’

Others of the broken legion were settling here and there. Wareth saw drawn faces, expressions taut with the pain of wounds. But even then, something seemed to be missing.

‘Crack the knuckles,’ Rebble said.

‘What?’

‘One for every life I took, every fucked up stupidity I went and did. I make it four, for today. Not sure they all died, though. I’m thinking they didn’t. I’m hoping they didn’t. Anyway,’ he smiled up at the heavy clouds, ‘thirty-seven. Rebble’s idiot toll.’ He paused then, and shifted his gaze slightly, enough to meet Wareth’s eyes. ‘Them Bonecasters … quite the gift they gave us …’

Baffled, Wareth said, ‘I still don’t know what it was.’

‘Truly?’

Wareth nodded.

Rebble laughed, and then winced.

‘What gift, Rebble? What did that ritual do?’

‘No more lies. That’s all. No lying to anyone else. But mostly, no lying to yourself.’

Frowning, Wareth shook his head. ‘I’ve never lied to myself.’

Rebble studied him for a moment, and then said, ‘So, you never even noticed.’

‘No. I suppose not.’

Rebble brought his hands together over his belly. He began cracking his knuckles.

‘I need to know,’ Wareth said. ‘Why did you protect me? Back in the pit? Why did you bother?’

‘Why did I bother?’

‘Being my friend.’

Knuckles cracked. ‘I don’t know,’ Rebble replied, and then he smiled. ‘I guess you had an honest face.’

Wareth settled back on to his haunches. He saw now that everyone among the Hust had halted their march, gathering in silent clumps. No lies, is that what is missing here? In these faces? These raw stares into the distance?

Listar still lived, but he didn’t know about Rance. So many of the other officers drawn up from the prisoner ranks were dead. They’d come to the fore in the Legion’s desperate withdrawal, holding back the enemy and giving up their lives to do so.

Wareth’s throat was still raw from his frantic shouting. And yet, impossibly, the Hust had responded to his desperate commands, and when Prazek and then Dathenar curled their companies around, folding them into the retreat, the Hust Legion’s day of battle was done. Through it all, Toras Redone was nowhere to be seen, until the very end.

He listened to his friend cracking his knuckles until the sound of bones popping stopped.

Rebble never managed all thirty-seven, and, as simply as that, his only friend was gone.

He edged closer, to lift Rebble’s head and rest it on his thighs. He groomed the man’s beard with his fingers, pulling at the knots, and studied the peaceful repose of the face, knowing that he would never again see it animate, that hard grin, the sly flick of the gaze, and the raging temper that hung like a storm-cloud behind everything.

Rebble, my friend. You weren’t any more than what you were. I treasured you. How I treasured you.

Someone moved to halt at his side and Wareth looked up into Listar’s face. ‘He’s gone, Listar.’

‘Just the two of us, then,’ Listar replied.

‘Two?’

‘Who stood between them and the Cats.’ Listar paused and then said, ‘The coward and the man who wanted to die. The honourable one – why, as you say, now he’s dead.’

Wareth considered the man’s words, and their harsh, blunt tone. ‘No lies,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t do it, Wareth. I couldn’t kill anyone. All I did was defend.’

‘So it was with most of them, Listar. I saw it, on all sides. That’s how I knew that we would never win. Wouldn’t yield either. Just stand there, dying. I saw it, Listar, though I didn’t understand it. Not until Rebble explained. The ritual-’

‘Yes, my beloved gift to you all.’

‘You were sent.’

‘I was sent. But what did I ask for? From them? Has anyone even asked me that? They said we needed something to absolve us, to cleanse us, to sweep away the curse of our crimes.’

Wareth stroked Rebble’s cooling brow. ‘Is that not what you asked, Listar?’

‘No. Not quite.’

‘Then … what?’

‘I wanted us – all of us – to accept who we were. To face our crimes, our cruel pasts, our vicious thoughts. If we’re to feel, Wareth – I told the Bonecasters – if we’re to feel, then do not let us hide, or run from those feelings. Do not let us pretend.’

Wareth lifted his gaze, squinted up at Listar.

‘You still don’t get it,’ Listar said. ‘You’re not the only coward. Not even close. This Hust Legion, all these convicts. Wareth, most of them are cowards. Those men we faced down in the pit, the ones eager to get at the women. Was it just lust? No. Rapists are many things, but mostly they’re cowards, the kind that has to feed on victims. It’s a different kind of cowardice from yours, Wareth, but it’s still cowardice. Why did they all hate you? Because you were the sole coward not in hiding.’ The man paused then, looking away. ‘Look at them, Wareth. Blessed by my gift. Seeing them, I think that Rebble’s the lucky one.’

With that, Listar stumbled away.

Wareth stared after him. No lies. Well, that’s no proof against being stupid.

Shit, I forgot to ask him about Rance.

* * *

‘Priest.’

Endest Silann looked up, saw a woman in the livery of a Houseblade. His attention proved brief, as inevitably he resumed staring at his hands where they rested on his thighs.

‘Are you fit to stand?’ the woman asked.

‘What do you want?’

‘We need a burial place consecrated.’

He thought to laugh at that, glancing briefly at the valley floor below, with its hundreds of corpses, its dead and dying horses.

‘Not there, priest. But it’s not far. We’re building a cairn for just one man.’

Endest held up his hands. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘what do you see?’

‘Old blood.’

‘Anything else?’

‘What else would there be to see?’

He nodded. ‘Just so. Her eyes are gone. Not even a scar remains. She’s left me.’

A few moments passed. ‘Ah, you were that one, then. From the market. The one who spoke with a dragon. More to the point, you were one of the priests who stood against Hunn Raal. Now I wonder, why is no one attending you?’

‘I sent them away.’

She stepped forward and hooked a hand under his left arm, lifting him to his feet. ‘You did damned well, priest. Gave us a chance. We just didn’t take it.’

He couldn’t make much sense of this woman, or what she truly wanted from him, but he let her guide him up the track. They passed through the exhausted soldiers of the Hust, but the sight of so many broken men and women was too much, and Endest dropped his gaze, studied the snow and sleet-crusted mud and stone at his feet.

After ascending a short slope they left the track, and the woman drew him over to where a huge old man was busy piling the last of the stones to a cairn. This man’s breaths were harsh, and when he glanced over at them, Endest saw why. He had lost most of his nose. But the injury was old. He wore the same livery as the woman.

All around them, on this faint summit, horse hoofs had stamped deep into the mud, and nearby waited three horses, one bearing a filigreed saddle.

The woman spoke to the other man. ‘They gave up, then?’

‘They didn’t like it, Pelk. Didn’t like it at all. But it seemed they didn’t want to cross me.’

‘No one wants to cross you, Rancept.’

She finally halted Endest close to the cairn. ‘In there,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Lord Venes Turayd.’

‘The lord is dead?’

The woman glanced at her companion, who wiped at his weeping nose and then shrugged. She then turned back to Endest Silann and said, ‘I should think so, by now.’

* * *

Faror Hend found Prazek and Dathenar sitting on the muddy road. Both men still wore their chain hauberks, but their helms and gauntlets were on the ground beside them, and from the scabbarded swords sounded a low, incessant mutter.

Her own blade was silent. Drawing off her helm, she felt the blessed cold wind on her brow, and the low moan of the iron that had filled her head was suddenly gone. ‘I made them take her away,’ she said. ‘Under guard. Galar Baras died from a broken neck, when his wounded horse threw him. She wanted to fight, you know. She wanted to throw herself into the fray, so that someone could kill her. I would have welcomed that, and indeed, I would have joined her. Instead, she was too drunk to stand.’

Dathenar nodded. ‘We are vulnerable, one and all, Faror Hend, to the madness of our desires. So much of the longing in our lives is revealed as a longing for death. These guises are myriad, but none are available to us now, nor for our lives to come.’

‘Absent the sweet and lustful lies,’ added Prazek, ‘the future appears bleak.’

‘Too eager with the wagging finger, the iteration of old warnings renewed one more time. All our secrets lead us to grief.’ Dathenar grunted and then slowly climbed to his feet. ‘I am soaked through.’ His eyes shifted and he half turned to the west. ‘They must be drawing near the city by now.’

Faror Hend felt like weeping, for what she knew not. There was no lack of reasons; rather, there was a vicious crowd of them, so many before her she was unable to choose among them. Betrothed. Kagamandra Tulas, hear my confession. I cannot love a hero, cannot love an honourable man, cannot give myself to him as one should. I have nothing to match your worth, and should I try, I will die. It may take centuries before my flesh catches up, but it will, eventually. The soul is weak. It can wilt to a chilled breath. But the husk abides, with few hints to the hollowness it hides.

‘We should gather the Legion,’ said Prazek, rising to join Dathenar. ‘Midnight draws near, I should think. We must march to our train, to the wagons.’

‘Prazek,’ said Dathenar, turning to face his friend. ‘We abandoned the bridge. A step taken, one to either side, and into the benighted waters we did plunge.’

‘It’s said none ever rise again from the Dorssan Ryl.’

‘I feel the same, friend.’

Faror Hend looked to the south, and saw there a small group of riders. They were still distant, but the man in the lead looked tall, sitting straight in the saddle, with a mane of grey hair.

Of course. ‘I will leave you to it, then,’ she said to Prazek and Dathenar.

‘Faror Hend?’

‘You spoke of a bleak future. I go to meet mine.’

* * *

Unaccompanied, Lord Anomander, First Son of Darkness, sat on his horse, gaze fixed on the valley below. He merely tilted his head for an instant in Kellaras’s direction as the captain rode up to halt beside him.

‘Milord, your brother has set out for Kharkanas. He is walking. We should be able to catch him.’

Anomander seemed momentarily confused. ‘Kharkanas?’

‘Milord, there will be a wedding. The details of peace.’

‘The details of peace,’ Anomander repeated. ‘But Kellaras, there is no peace within me.’

Kellaras said nothing.

Then his lord continued, ‘No, leave them to it. I will ride to my brother, to Andarist. I will yield vengeance.’ He turned then, giving Kellaras his full attention. ‘Her name is Pelk, yes? Perhaps, will she be returning there as well?’

‘I do not know, milord. It is possible. Do you wish me to accompany you?’

Anomander smiled. ‘I would welcome your company, Kellaras.’

Nodding, the captain collected the reins. ‘Now, milord?’

‘Yes. Now.’

Side by side, they set out, into the north.

* * *

Wreneck took little notice of the two riders who came down into the valley from the northeast. Instead, he continued walking among the corpses of the fallen Legion soldiers. The ground under them was torn and savaged, as if it had been chewed. He used his spear as if it was a staff in order to keep his balance as he stepped over bodies, crouching down every now and then to study lifeless faces.

Pain and death made them hard to recognize, and even the memories to which he clung were now blurred in his mind’s eye.

He was cold, and the night was strangely grey, as if trapped inside a cloud of ash that refused to settle. The dying horses had finally gone quiet. Crows came down like night’s tattered flags, and they too had nothing to complain about, yielding a silence to the field that seemed almost suffocating.

One frozen visage drew his attention and he made his way over to stand above it, looking down. Is this one of them? He might be. I have seen him before. Yes, this is one of them. Someone got to him first. But it doesn’t matter who got here first. It only matters who comes last.

I said I would avenge Jinia, and now here I am.

He brought the spear around and tilted the iron point down, edging it forward until it rested on the breast of the dead man.

I will stab deep. That’s all I need to do. His ghost is here. Close. I can’t see them any more, but I know they’re here. They have nowhere else to go.

Stab deep. Push the blade in, slicing through the leather, the wool, the skin. This is what vengeance means. What I’m doing right here.

Hearing a sound he glanced up. Two women sat astride horses made of knotted grasses and twigs. They sat in silence, watching him from a dozen paces away.

He didn’t know either of them. They didn’t match the faces he was looking for. Wreneck returned his attention to the dead man. He leaned on the spear, but the leather armour would not give. It needs a thrust. He drew the weapon back, and then poked it against the body.

‘He’s not bothered,’ said one of the women. ‘Go ahead, if you must. But abusing a corpse is unseemly, don’t you think?’

Unseemly? Wreneck looked around at all the dead bodies. Shaking his head, he poked a second time. The leather armour was tough. He leaned closer then, to find what had killed the man. He saw a nick in the corpse’s throat, where blood had sprayed and then poured out on to the ground. It didn’t seem like much, but no other wounds were visible.

He prodded a third time, hard against the chest, and then stepped back. He turned to the two women. ‘It’s all right now,’ he said. ‘I’m done avenging what they did to her. I’m going home now.’

The woman who had spoken earlier now leaned forward on her saddle. ‘And I, sir, am your witness. She is avenged.’

‘What’s your name?’ Wreneck asked. ‘I need to know, since you’ve witnessed and everything.’

‘Threadbare.’

The golden-haired woman beside Threadbare said, ‘And I am T’riss.’ She smiled. ‘Your witnesses.’

Satisfied, Wreneck nodded. Home was a long way away and he had a lot of walking to do. He would salvage a cloak from one of these bodies, with maybe a second one for a blanket.

Jinia, it’s done. I feel better. I hope you will, too.

Sometimes it takes being a child to do what’s right.

* * *

‘What was all that about?’ T’riss asked. ‘You send children into war now, Tiste?’

‘His blade was clean,’ Threadbare replied. She raised her gaze skyward. ‘They’re gone, right? Not still winging around up there in the gloom and clouds?’

‘Gone, for now.’

Threadbare sighed, gathering up the braided reins. ‘I think I prefer it this way,’ she said.

‘Prefer what?’

‘Coming too late to fight. Missing the whole fucking mess. I’ve seen enough of it, T’riss. Look around here. All these sad corpses. It’s a stupid argument that ends up with someone dead and the others looking guilty behind all that satisfaction.’ She looked over at T’riss. ‘I am riding to Kharkanas, to find my people. What about you?’

‘There is a forest,’ T’riss replied, ‘where waits another Azathanai. I think I need to see him.’

‘What for?’

‘He will know of me. Who I once was.’

‘That makes a difference?’

‘What do you mean?’

Threadbare shrugged. ‘Whoever you were isn’t who you are now. Sounds to me you’re heading for confusion and probably misery. Maybe some secrets should stay secrets. That ever occurred to you?’

T’riss smiled. ‘All the time. The thing is, we almost clashed. Here, in the Valley of Tarns. Had I come in time. Had he awakened his power. The dragons would have … enjoyed that.’ She paused, and then shrugged. ‘But something happened. Someone, I think, held him back. Someone pretty much saved the world. I’m curious, aren’t you? About this Tiste who refused my Azathanai brother?’

Threadbare studied T’riss for a time, and then sighed. ‘Where is this forest, then?’

‘Just outside the city.’

‘So, it seems we ride together for a little while longer.’

‘Yes. Is that not delightful?’

Threadbare saw the boy nearing the northern ridge of the valley. ‘That vengeance of his,’ she said. ‘He did it right, I think.’

‘The dead weep for him.’

‘They do? In pity?’

‘No,’ T’riss replied. ‘In envy.’

Threadbare kicked her mount forward. ‘Fucking ghosts,’ she muttered. I’m of a mind to join them.

* * *

Renarr followed Lord Vatha Urusander into the old throne room. Within the spacious chamber, lightness and darkness waged a belaboured contest, too sombre to be a battle, too desultory to be a war. This was a sullen acceptance, as of two powers recognizing the other’s necessity. Definition, Urusander might say, by opposition.

Candles and a brazier illuminated one of the two thrones that had been set up side by side on the dais. Its wood was white, polished pearlescent, and over the arms gold-threaded silks had been draped. The other throne seemed to emanate negation, making it difficult to discern, as if some lifeless mote stained the eye.

Mother Dark had been seated on that throne, though upon Urusander’s entrance into the chamber she now stood. At the foot of the dais and flanking the approach waited the two High Priestesses, both turning to face Father Light. Syntara was resplendent in her sunburst vestments, her brocade glittering and her braided hair looking like ropes of gold wire. Heavy white makeup disguised the fresh cuts on her face.

High Priestess Emral Lanear – whom Renarr had never seen before – wore a black robe, untouched by ornamentation. Her onyx face looked distraught, with deep lines bracketing her mouth. She was older than Syntara, her features almost too plain in the absence of paint and colour. A woman, concluded Renarr with a mental smile, inviting darkness.

This moment, Renarr understood, belonged to the surface. Nothing here announced depth or solidity. The ceremony would be in the manner of all ceremonies: momentary and ephemeral. A sudden focus, filled with intent, which would ring hollow for ever afterwards.

She thought it fitting.

As Urusander paused a few paces in front of her, Renarr moved off to the right, towards the flanking row of braziers suspended from three-legged iron stands. The warmth was welcome but would soon become oppressive. She found herself drawing closer to where Hunn Raal stood.

The man’s faint smirk was just as welcoming as the heat from the glowing embers: a thing of familiarity, a wry reminder of the occasion’s falsity. Mockery attended the moment, and in this respect Hunn Raal belonged to this scene. He had recovered from the sorcerous battle, if one chose to ignore the ruptured pads of the palms of his hands, the gaping, bloodless fissures streaking his fingers. That, and the incessant low tremble that the destriant fought with sips from his flask. Still, he stood in the manner of a man wholly satisfied.

She considered this scene, caught as it was on the cusp of dawn, when night and day fell into their eternal, exhausted battle, against the backdrop of a bleeding sky, and wondered how it would be seen in posterity. Necessity’s bared teeth, transformed into smiles of joy in the centuries to come. That vast span of wilful forgetfulness we call history. Looking round the chamber, she saw but one other witness who might be asking the same questions. Rise Herat. The historian. I once attended one of his lectures. A night of self-hatred, I recall, uttered in the lifeless tones of an anatomist lecturing surgeons. Only, the body on the slab was his own. He was past even enjoying the pain he inflicted on himself.

When the historian’s love of history dies … alas, there is nowhere to go, no place to which one might flee and then hide.

Unless one chooses to live a life insensate. She glanced again at Hunn Raal, and saw how the man and the historian more or less faced one another, and as she noted this Vatha Urusander stepped forward, moving in between the two men as he approached the dais, and the woman who would become his wife.

He halted at the halfway point when Mother Dark suddenly spoke. ‘A moment, if you will, Lord Urusander.’

The man tilted his head, and then shrugged. ‘As much time as you need,’ he replied.

She seemed to consider that invitation for a breath or two, and then resumed. ‘This will be suitably written, as befits such an occasion. Two wounded halves … conjoined. The High Priestesses will speak, each on behalf of her … her aspect. And what is conjoined will be, one expects, healed.’ She paused, studying each person present, and then continued with an air of impatience. ‘The elaboration can await its writing. What we are witness to here is a bargain sealed in blood. Many have died to see our hands joined, Vatha Urusander, and I am in no mood to celebrate.’

Renarr saw Syntara’s flash of anger, but then Urusander was speaking.

‘Mother Dark. On behalf of my soldiers, I once petitioned the highborn – and you – in the name of justice.’ He waved dismissively. ‘This was not a challenge to my faith in you.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘that challenge came from elsewhere. Tell me then, will you now deny the title of Father Light?’

‘It seems that I cannot.’

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘It seems that you cannot.’

‘But this was not what I asked for.’

‘Nor is this my answer to your request for justice.’

‘Then, Mother Dark, we are understood?’

‘We are, Vatha, as best we can be.’

He nodded then, and Renarr saw how the tension left his body.

‘Rise Herat,’ said Mother Dark.

The historian took a single step forward. ‘Mother Dark?’

‘Our priestesses here will reconvene with you. Take a side chamber. Together, the three of you should be able to invent an appropriate retelling of this fated and fateful union. Concoct, if you will, a marriage to celebrate.’

‘Then, Mother, there is to be no ceremony here?’

Ignoring the question, Mother Dark’s attention shifted then, fixed upon Renarr. ‘I do not know you,’ she said. ‘Only that you appeared a step behind Vatha Urusander. But this detail alone suffices. Will you voice a vow to never speak of what has taken place here?’

‘I eagerly await the official version, Mother Dark,’ Renarr replied. ‘And shall speak of no other. Why, already I see the gilt bright upon my memories of this glorious ceremony.’

Mother Dark’s lips creased slightly in what might have been a suppressed smile. ‘Do you so vow?’

‘I do,’ Renarr said, nodding.

Vatha Urusander said, ‘Mother Dark, Renarr is my adopted daughter.’

‘In title? What of your son?’

‘My son shall inherit as much of what I possess as he may desire. Renarr has refused all symbols of recognition, beyond my old man’s harmless affectation in naming her my daughter.’

‘She indulges you.’

‘Just so,’ Urusander answered.

Mother Dark’s gaze shifted now to Hunn Raal. ‘You name yourself the Mortal Sword of Light, and I see in your belt a sceptre fashioned of Elemental Light. When were you planning on placing that sceptre into the hands of its rightful possessor?’

Hunn Raal’s smirk tightened slightly, and then, with an easy shrug, he drew the sceptre from his belt and approached Urusander. ‘Milord,’ he said. ‘Father Light. This sceptre was forged in your name, for this day, and for all the days of your rule to follow.’

When he held it out, Vatha Urusander took it and immediately returned his attention to Mother Dark.

His smirk returning, Hunn Raal bowed and stepped back.

‘Husband,’ said Mother Dark. ‘Will you now join me here, and take your throne?’

Urusander hesitated, and then said, ‘Wife, I am unused to the ways of rule, much less faith.’

‘Rule is but a flavour, a scent in the air, Urusander. Little different from your habits of command in your legion. I have found that it is best maintained by selective silence.’

‘I have found it so, as well,’ Urusander replied. ‘Although, on occasion, those under my command begin to presume too much. I have, thus far, been reluctant to effect … discipline. Such acts must be unequivocal and perfectly timed.’

‘Then you understand the nature of rule as well as I do. It is, as you say, a shame when the ones being ruled lose sight of the example we would set. Now, as to faith, well, seek no guidance from me, Urusander, for I have surely failed in that test. I expect, however, our priestesses will find the days and nights ahead to be busy ones, as they fulfil, with zeal, the fullest transcription of their responsibilities, and all the observances they deem sacred in our names.’

‘I share your confidence,’ Urusander replied. ‘And in the end, I am certain that we will be told the manner of worship to be expected and, presumably, demanded from our believers.’

‘Probably,’ Mother Dark agreed. ‘We can but eagerly await such delineations, and the time when you and I need not worry over our missteps born of ignorance.’

After a moment, Urusander resumed his approach to the dais. Mounting it, he paused in front of his throne and then, seeing the slotted scabbard awaiting the sceptre, settled the object into its place. Turning, he faced Mother Dark.

When she held out her right hand, he raised his, bringing it up beneath hers. Their hands clasped briefly before parting once more.

Facing the chamber, Mother Dark and Father Light stood for a moment, as if posing for posterity, before both sat down on their thrones.

‘That’s it,’ muttered Hunn Raal beside Renarr. ‘Done.’

She turned to him. ‘Recall his assertion,’ she observed.

‘His what?’

‘He names Osserc his heir, Hunn Raal. We have witnessed, and so it is, as you say, done.’

Something dark flitted across his expression, then was gone, his smile returning. ‘Ah, the boy. Yes indeed. Well, he was the pup in my shadow, and should he ever return …’ Shrugging, Hunn Raal turned away.

Closer to the thrones, both High Priestesses were speaking with their deities, quietly, for the moment at least.

Swinging round to follow Hunn Raal, Renarr found herself facing the historian.

‘I would know more about you,’ he said to her. ‘For the official version.’

‘Invent what you need,’ Renarr replied.

‘I would rather not misrepresent you.’

‘You would have me the detritus to cling to, amidst the flood of lies?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Perhaps later, historian,’ she said as she reached the door ‘I will give you all that you need, and more.’

* * *

Renarr did her best, then, to walk away from all of it. Vatha Urusander had been given a series of opulent rooms, as if anticipating a delay in the consummation of his marriage to Mother Dark, and it was in these rooms that she found her momentary refuge.

Witnessing the battle had left her drained. The sorcery had been shocking, appalling. It had been unfortunate that Hunn Raal had not only survived but prevailed, inasmuch as he had been the last one left standing.

In the company of the men and women who sold their bodies, and the near-feral pack of children swarming the ridge, Renarr had watched the sordid consequences of the failed magicks as soldiers clashed in the valley below. She had tried to imagine her mother down there, in the press, commanding her company in the slaying of fellow Tiste. But that proved difficult. Something about it did not – could not – fit, and it was some time before she realized that her mother would never have participated in such a travesty.

Military honour was bound to service. The virtue of honour could not stand alone, could not stand for itself. Service sustained honour, when nothing else could. Tearing it away from all that gave it meaning reduced the soldier to a thug, a bully. She had, with that realization, stepped back, her attention shifting to all the children gathered now along the crest to watch the killing below.

They were a neglected, contrary lot. Weak and brutal, small but hardened, broken but sharp-edged. And like any broken thing, they existed in the realm of the discarded. When they looked up, they saw women eager to lift their skirts and men exposing ornate painted codpieces. They saw other men and women walking the camps, swords belted at their hips, coarse in humour and coldly practical in their needs.

Lessons on a pragmatic life. Whatever we do as adults, we make in our children more of what we are. Is there no end to this? Scholars speak of progress, but I fear now that they are mistaken. This is not progress that we see, it is elaboration. Nothing of the old ways ever goes away, it just hides beneath modernity’s confusion.

No, her mother would have refused the charade. She would, indeed, have forced Urusander to act. In the name of honour. In the name of the soldier.

Renarr found herself the sole occupant of Urusander’s intended quarters, with not even a servant present. She wandered through the rooms, stirring the ashes of her regret. A single ember remains, and surely it shall burn me, and my name, for ever more. But some things we do not choose. Some things are chosen for us.

She heard the outer door open and then shut. Returning to the main room she saw Vatha Urusander. He seemed startled to see her, but only momentarily. He smiled. ‘I am glad to find you here, Renarr.’

‘Is she done with your company already?’

‘It has been a long time since we last slept. There are storms in our heads, and storms between us. Of the latter, I see a calm ahead. Of the former …’ He shrugged, and walked towards the window overlooking the broad sward behind the Citadel.

‘Will you deal with Hunn Raal?’ she asked, drawing closer to him.

His back was broad, but it now belonged to an ageing man. There was sadness in this detail.

‘Deal with him? I had ambitions there, didn’t I? He names himself my Mortal Sword. This should make plain who serves whom.’

‘And does it?’ She hesitated a few steps behind him, watching as he leaned forward close to the windowpane and looked down.

‘A keep’s refuse,’ he muttered. ‘How it backs the wall, below the chutes. I wonder, do we build houses simply to keep the garbage out? It should be buried.’

‘It buries itself,’ Renarr replied. ‘Eventually.’

‘Hunn Raal deems himself immune. Perhaps he is right in that. Leave him to Syntara. He’s her problem, not mine. Mother Dark has the right of it. We step back, saying little. The condition of our people is for them to decide. I considered setting forth my laws, my foundations upon which a just society could rise. But how soon before my words are twisted? My premises twisted and suborned? How soon before we, in our mortal natures, corrupt such laws, each time in answer to a wholly self-serving need?’

‘Have we seen the last of honourable men and women, Vatha Urusander?’

He straightened once more, but did not turn to face her. ‘The brutes are in ascension, Renarr. Against that, reason has no chance. You think the blood has ended? I fear it is only beginning.’

‘Then, sir, nothing has been solved.’

‘I am not the man to solve this,’ Urusander said. ‘But,’ he added after a moment, ‘you knew as much, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘What of my son?’

‘His judgement was in error.’

‘Error?’

‘A young man bereft of responsibility will yearn for it,’ she replied. ‘A young man will see the virtues of duty and honour as shining things, harsh and not subject to compromise. From such a position, he may well make mistakes, but they remain well meant.’

Still he would not face her. ‘Something in you is broken.’

‘Something in me is broken.’

‘My son killed the man you loved. He … misapprehended the situation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet, it seems, you have forgiven him.’

‘I wish,’ she said, ‘you had killed Hunn Raal. I wish you would stand behind your sense of justice.’

He grunted. ‘No exceptions, no compromises. Had I done what was right, each and every time …’

‘Instead, you did nothing, and now here you stand, Vatha Urusander. Father Light.’

‘Yes, my blinding gift.’ He was silent for a time, and then he said, ‘Have you seen it yet?’

‘What?’

‘My portrait. In the corridor on the approach to these chambers. Kadaspala did well, I think.’

‘I am afraid I did not notice it,’ Renarr said. ‘I give little regard to art, especially the compromised kind.’

‘Ah, then, are all portraits a compromise? In his sour moments, I think Kadaspala would agree with you.’ He leaned both hands on the windowsill. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems that I am not to be forgiven.’

‘Only your son.’

She saw him nod, and then he sighed and said, ‘Tell them, will you, of the likeness. So deftly, so honestly captured by that blind man’s hand.’

‘He was not blind when he painted you, I think.’

‘Wasn’t he? No, demonstrably not, as far as that goes.’

‘Vatha Urusander,’ said Renarr, ‘there will be justice.’

She saw him nod again, in the instant before her knife sank deep beneath his left shoulder blade, stilling the beat of his heart. Unblinking, she stepped back, leaving the dagger in his back. He tilted forward, forehead striking the leaded window, before his legs gave out and he fell to the floor at her feet.

Looking down, she saw the smile on his face. Peaceful, content, lifeless.

* * *

Nothing ends. There is matter and there is energy, and some believe these two the only things in existence. But a third exists. It infuses both matter and energy, and yet also stands alone. Let us call it potential. Only in the realm of potential can we act, to effect changes upon all existence. Indeed, it is the realm in which we live, we living things, in our stubborn battle with success and failure.

Yet the truth remains. Of the two, success and failure, only one ends the game.

Now, poet, I see the shock writ deep upon your lined face, and yet it must be clear to you, even in this moment of despair, that love was at the heart of this tale, and now we must once more settle back and take breath, steadying ourselves for what is still to come.

The warriors wallow in what they will, in all that they make of the world, which is little more than destruction and suffering. Recall the child with the stone, on her knees in the grass, a boy’s crushed face beneath her? Such is the glory of the belligerent.

Revel in it, if you’re of the mind to.

What comes next, my friend, is entirely another kind of glory.

What is the secret of sorcery? It is potential. Now then, on the dawn of magic’s burgeoning, let us see what they make of it.