Fall of Light

SEVEN

A man without daughters, Sharenas Ankhadu reflected as she studied her commander, knew little of subtlety. Vatha Urusander faced south, his back to the keep’s outer wall, the detritus from the chute leading from the kitchen heaped behind him, at the base of a wedge-shaped stain on the stone wall. He stood with his boots in scraps of rubbish. Knucklebones blushed pink, tubers black with rot, broken pottery, peels and lumps of fat too rancid to burn. Despite the late afternoon’s bitter cold, steam rose from that mound like the smoke from some hidden peat fire. There was, she decided, fecundity in what rotted, but hardly the appetizing kind.

In her absence, the list of the slain had grown. Curious, for a war as yet undeclared. She eyed her commander, wondering if she knew him at all. Aching from the long ride, she waited at a distance, her clothes spattered with mud, her hands quickly growing numb with cold beneath the soaked-through leather riding gloves.

Winter was the season of isolation. Worlds closed in, crowded up one against another. Trapped in such confines, surrounded by forbidding cold and frozen land, one could obsess on what was still to come, speaking heated words, making the season of spring into a promise of fire. She had ridden far in her exploration of the realm, through bleak wastelands, scorched forests, winding through hills silvered by snow and frost. And like anything coming in from the cold, she was rarely made a welcome guest. It did not take an ice-locked keep to forge solitude. Winter’s isolation belonged as much to the mind as to the world outside it.

A painter of portraits would grin at the image before her now, in that cruel, superior way of artists who saw all that they needed to see. Complexity was confusion more often than not, while clarity could gift one with simplicity. In any case, the backside of a fortress was sordid enough in its mundane truths. Gatehouses, formal lanes and a bold façade all served what was required of them, elevating the titled few and their claims of privilege and wealth, and of course such edifices fronted the building, like a tapestry hiding a crumbling wall.

No different from men and women, then: buildings shit out a hole in their backside.

The notion made her think of Hunn Raal and his smile, the one he saved for the people he despised. Knowledge assembled secret hoards, and the man now leading the Legion in all but name was greed’s own tyrant these days. Worse, there was now something else about him, an emanation of sorts, beyond the usual rank wine staining his breath and souring his sweat. Sharenas wondered if she was alone in sensing that change – perhaps, simply, she had been gone too long.

Too long, and ill timed this departure. We went our separate ways, Kagamandra Tulas. You and I, so long ago now, it seems. Have you found your betrothed yet? Did you flinch, or did you stand in the manner of the man you would be? Kagamandra, I have come back to Neret Sorr, and I miss you.

When at last Urusander shifted his gaze and saw her, she noted his surprise. ‘Captain! I did not know you had returned to us.’

‘I have but just arrived, sir,’ she said.

She studied him as he approached. Like an apparition, he wore winter’s skin, white and vaguely translucent, as if clad in ice. The lines of his face were etched deep in the fading light. This transformation still startled her. The High Priestess Syntara names it purity. But I see a season of thought, the details of belief and conviction, all frozen in place. We are invited into sleep, drawn ever deeper into a world of extremes, where our hearts are locked.

Light yields no empathy. This is not the man I once knew.

Urusander said, ‘Tell me, I beg you, that Toras Redone has seen reason. I will not see a repeat of Lord Rend’s mad attack upon us, when we remain here, at peace.’

He hesitated then, and she could guess at the reason. He had ever been a reluctant commander, too severe for court politics, uncomfortable in the presence of the nobles of the Great Houses and their subtle, ambivalent ways. Nor was he a man known for being loquacious. But now, and here, there was little choice.

‘This is not how it was meant to be,’ he said. ‘If I did not move, it was with reason. If I chose to suspend judgement, I had good cause. Sharenas, we are not as we once were.’ He gestured, indicating his face, and then studied his hand, as it hovered before him. ‘Not this. The High Priestess sees far too much in such mundane attire. No, what has come to us – to us all – is a kind of ambiguity, as if our spirit has stumbled, suddenly lost.’ His gaze narrowed as he studied his bleached hand. ‘And yet, does this not invite the very opposite? The marks of faith?’ He glanced at her. ‘I am unchanged in that. She would call me Father Light, but that title is like a blow to the chest.’ Shaking his head, he looked away, letting his hand drop.

Father Light. High Priestess, have you no sense of irony? This father here has done poorly with his charges, true-born and adopted. Worse still, his soldiers run wild, like a family torn loose. He is father to thousands.

Commander, what will you do about your children?

‘Sir, Syntara would set you opposite, but equal, to Mother Dark. It is, I know, somewhat … simplistic. But perhaps that offers its own appeal.’

‘You cannot hold it in,’ he muttered, as if suddenly distracted. ‘Not for ever. No mortal has that capacity.’

‘Sir?’

His voice hardened. ‘Anger, Sharenas, is an unruly beast. We chain it daily, seeking the civil mien. Witness to injustices on all sides, appalled at the brazen abuse of that most basic notion of fairness, so arrogantly abrogated. And then, there is the effrontery. Indeed, humiliation. I would have walked away from it. You know that, Sharenas, don’t you?’

She nodded.

He went on. ‘But the beast broke free and now runs hard – but to where? Seeking what? Reparation or vengeance?’ He shifted to face south, as if he could somehow look upon the Citadel itself. ‘He painted what he saw, and now … now, Abyss take me, he sees nothing. By this terrible act of self-mutilation’ – he turned his head to meet her gaze – ‘did he make vow to the triumph of Dark? This is what I ask myself, again and again.’

Before me stands a man with too many thoughts and too few feelings. ‘Sir, Kadaspala was driven mad, by what he found, by what had been done to his sister and his father. There was no intent in what he did to himself, unless it was to claw out the anguish filling his head.’

After a moment, Urusander grunted, and his tone turned wry. ‘I lost grip on the chain and that beast is well beyond my reach now. I understand how it must seem, to Anomander, and to all the other highborn. Vatha Urusander waits in Neret Sorr, eager to begin the season of war.’

To that, she said nothing.

‘Sharenas, what word do you bring?’

What word? Well, an expected question, under the circumstances. Still … blessed Abyss, what island have I stumbled upon? What forbidding seas surround it? Was I alone in riding into the face of winter, looking upon freshly made barrows? Here you stand, seeking word of the outside world. Your island, sir, is lost on every map. Kadaspala? Forget that fool! We now gather with all swords drawn! Urusander, how do I venture close? ‘Sir, Commander Toras Redone is presently indisposed. Broken, I am told, by grief.’

The bleached visage before her revealed no hint of subterfuge as he frowned. ‘I do not understand. Has she lost a dear one, then?’

Sharenas hesitated. This was not a challenge to her courage – she would speak the truth here, as befitted Urusander’s most loyal captain. But this man’s innocence frightened her – an innocence, it seems, won in the slipping free of a chain. I see less a father and more a child. Reborn, Syntara? Indeed, and it’s a cold, cold cradle. ‘Sir, it seems that Hunn Raal has told you little of his various missions across Kurald Galain. I but rode into his wake, sir, and made of it all I could glean, although, it must be said, I was rarely welcome.’

At the mention of Hunn Raal’s name, Urusander’s expression twisted. ‘He is censured, I assure you, captain. This war against the Deniers is an absurd dissembling of our cause. It has done more harm than good. The man does not comprehend justice, nor even propriety, it seems.’ He half turned, to gaze southward again, and set a hand to his face, but cautiously, as if uncertain what his touch would find. ‘What is it, Sharenas, which you must speak? And why this hesitation?’

‘In a moment, sir, if you will forgive me. Since I last departed here, there have been changes.’

He shot her a look. ‘You doubt your footing?’

You fool. I doubt yours. ‘The High Priestess holds to a lofty station now. Is it Hunn Raal who sits cupped in her hand? What of Captain Serap? Sir, I must know – who advises you on affairs of the state?’

Urusander scowled. ‘I have accepted the responsibility for my legion,’ he said, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion – if not anger, then, perhaps, it was shame. ‘I will reassert the justice of our cause.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Captain, I am offered no advice, nor do I ask it. It may be that this may change, since now you have returned. But the others, they come to me inside clouds of confusion, and leave me bemused, and then made to feel foolish for being so blind.’

‘They tell you nothing?’

‘The pending wedding is all they will speak of. As if that was for them to decide upon!’

Ah, you see their contempt, then. Is this how it is, now? Righteous fury lost on the horizon, amidst white winds. And here before me, Vatha Urusander, the greying wolf with its fangs pulled. ‘Sir, what you might call marriage, they name machination. In a joining of hands, as you might see it, they grasp for leverage. Not a union of love, then. Nor one of respectful regard, you with her, her with you. Rather, they set you both upon the same anvil, and from two blades they would hammer and twist the pair of you into one single weapon.’

‘For them to wield?’

She almost stepped back at the sudden fire in his eyes, a flame of light unnatural in its fierceness. The fangs remain, but still I sense his … helplessness. Was this the mark of Syntara’s blessing? Skin of white and the blinding fires of Liosan … all pointless? Did she curse as well as bless? What reach this newfound power of hers, and was that what Sharenas saw in Hunn Raal? ‘It is my thought, sir, that they would take hold of such a weapon, even knowing the threat of uncertain edges, a sliding grip, an unexpected unbalancing, and swing hard, unmindful of innocent victims.’

‘As you say,’ he said sharply, ‘an uncertain weapon, no matter what they might desire, or expect. To think that we are seen this way, a Legion commander and a goddess. As mere tools for their ambitions. I will speak to her!’

He meant Mother Dark, she presumed. ‘They must line the steps of that path first, and so they urge you to remain here. Sir, was it truly your desire to … do nothing?’

‘And yield trust to any messenger? Were you, captain, not enough?’

‘Day by day, sir, my reiteration of your avowed loyalty, in the name of peace, rang more and ever more hollow.’ Pray that stings you, Urusander. Words scud like clouds over the blood-soaked landscape. High and noble they might be, but their shadows prove weak.

He squinted southward for a time, and then seemed to deflate. ‘I am filled with promises,’ he said. ‘None worth the weight of the breath that utters them.’

The wealth of light, it seemed, invited extremity. There would indeed be little balance left to this newly forged weapon. In sudden clarity, she saw the marriage, this union that would bring peace upon the realm. A bloody peace. Light and Dark will war, one against the other. I see the spitting out of children, a family brood both venal and vicious. A marriage of two bedrooms, two keeps, two worlds. ‘Commander Toras Redone’s grief, sir, is for the soldiers of the Hust Legion, almost all of whom are now dead.’

The face he swung to her was such a cascade of expressions that she could make no sense of it. ‘That cannot be. Have the Forulkan returned? Does the war begin again? I’ll not yield this time! I will pursue them down to the very sea, and see the crest ride red for years upon that cursed shore!’

She blinked. ‘No. The Forulkan have not come. They renew no war. Did their own queen not acknowledge the justice of their defeat? Lord Urusander, you broke them, and they shall not return.’

‘Then what has befallen the Hust?’

‘Treachery,’ she replied, once more searching his face, and once more baffled by what she saw. A warlord in search of an enemy. But surely, this is the season for it, as the chambers you pace grow smaller and smaller still. ‘They were poisoned,’ she said. ‘In a single night, following a gift of wine and ale. A gift, sir, from Captain Hunn Raal.’

When he said nothing, when he but stared at her, his face like cracked ice, Sharenas looked away – almost desperately. ‘This is why,’ she said, ‘they speak only of the wedding.’

Urusander finally spoke, his tone viciously cold. ‘How does the First Son give answer? Does he now march upon us?’

‘With what?’ Sharenas snapped. ‘The Houseblades of the nobles? None are summoned to Kharkanas. Lord Anomander is not even there. Instead, he searches for Andarist. Lord Silchas commands in his place, and seeks to restore the Hust Legion.’

‘But – how?’

‘He raids the mining pits, sir.’

Urusander raised a hand between them, as if to push her away. She fell silent. With her words she had battered at him, wielding them as would a madwoman. No shield thrown up against them survived their relentless frenzy. She thought she saw in him, now, at last, signs of shock. But balance is not a game. Have I pushed too far, even when I spoke nothing but the truth? Is this, perhaps, the reason for keeping Urusander ignorant?

‘They think me a puppet,’ Urusander said. ‘I was told that Ilgast Rend defied every effort at conciliation. He threw away the lives of the Wardens, and killed many of my own soldiers. Was it courage or cowardice that he chose to die in battle?’ He waved a hand. ‘When Calat Hustain learns of this, of what Rend did with his people … ah, even I do not know how I would survive that. Such betrayal, and by a nobleborn …’ His voice trailed away. He stared south again. ‘It is curious, is it not, how the horrors climb the walls of our righteous indignation? Up and out, spilling over the battlements with howls, in a night of lit torches and wind-whipped flames. I see their grim forms, spreading out, and out, over Kurald Galain. Hunn Raal? May the spirits forgive me, but it was my hands that shaped him. My blessed, poisoned portrait.’

‘Sir, it is not enough to harden yourself to such atrocities.’

‘You misjudge me, Sharenas,’ Urusander replied. ‘It seems that you have forgotten the campaigns against the Forulkan and the Jhelarkan. No battle shall be unveiled until it is already won. I must think like a commander. Again, after all this time. Gift me with your patience, and consider my words a promise.’

Sharenas shook her head. ‘The time for patience has passed, sir. Your camp is in need of cleansing.’

Urusander glanced at her again. ‘Is it so hard to understand?’ he asked her. ‘I keep looking for justice.’

Sharenas looked down at the castle leavings that crowded the lord’s ankles. You’ll not find it here, Vatha Urusander. ‘Sir, Hunn Raal cannot be trusted.’

His mouth twisted into a faint smile. ‘And you can?’

She had no reply to that question. Any exhortation would demean her.

After a moment he shook his head. ‘Forgive me, captain. As you say, there have been changes since you were last here. Thus, you remain, for the moment at least, outside all of that. Your clay is still wet, awaiting impress, and I but wonder at who would claim such an unmarred surface.’

‘Sir, I cannot but doubt Hunn Raal’s version of that battle. I have known Lord Ilgast Rend all my life. I fought at his side. We knew fear upon the field, in the clash of weapons and the roar of the press. True, he possessed a fierce temper-’

‘Captain, he chose to march upon us. He arrayed the Wardens and sought battle. None of that can be questioned.’

‘Perhaps not. And if he came with his own Houseblades, and not Calat Hustain’s Wardens, I could be made to believe Hunn Raal’s tale – although even then, I would expect an exchange of insults, and indeed a grievous offence committed, to which Ilgast had no choice but to give answer. But the charge set upon Lord Rend – the safe keeping of the Wardens – he would have taken most seriously.’

‘It seems not,’ Urusander retorted.

‘There was the matter of the pogrom-’

Urusander grunted dismissively. ‘For which Rend chose not to accept my own promise of justice, to be attended upon every criminal in my ranks, every slayer of innocents.’

‘Did you give him that promise, sir? Face to face?’

He drew his cloak tighter about him, and then turned to the narrow trail that led back to the gatehouse. ‘I was indisposed on that day,’ he muttered. He set out.

Rattled by that admission, Sharenas followed. ‘And then, sir,’ she persisted, ‘there is the murder of the Hust.’

‘Your point?’

‘The attending of justice, sir.’

He halted abruptly and faced her. ‘Civil war, captain. This is what is now upon us. Though I held to peace – though here I chose to remain, holding fast upon my legion. Though I summoned every wayward veteran back into my fold, under my responsibility. Yet still they elected to march upon me. How can I know if Ilgast Rend was not following Anomander’s orders? How can I not contemplate the purpose of striking at my legion before it was fully assembled, the tactical value, the strategic purpose of such a thing? After all, captain, it is what I would do.’

He resumed walking.

‘I doubt that, sir.’

Her words brought him back. ‘Explain, captain.’

‘If at Anomander’s behest, sir, Ilgast Rend would surely have come with more than just the Wardens. His own Houseblades, for one, and perhaps even those of Anomander. Or what of the Shake? Who more bears the wounds of that pogrom than the warrior monks of Yannis? And what of the other Great Houses? To crush you now would be the proper tactic. Sir, Ilgast Rend brought to us a show of force, a symbol of his disapproval. Something happened, in that meeting between him and Hunn Raal. If Raal can poison three thousand men and women of the Hust, would he shy from provoking Rend to a foolish decision?’

Urusander studied her. The day was failing around them, the wind picking up, bitter with cold. ‘I cannot say,’ he finally said. ‘Let us ask him, shall we?’

‘Best wait on that,’ Sharenas said. ‘Forgive me, sir. But we do not know the strength of your camp. I would speak to Lieutenant Serap first. She has suffered the loss of two sisters, after all, and this might well have cleared her vision of Hunn Raal. More, I would know the High Priestess’s place in all of this. And what of Infayen Menand, and Esthala, and Hallyd Bahann? Commander, these officers I have just mentioned – your favoured in the Legion – each one has been named in the pogrom and its grisly list of terrible crimes. Each one, I would say, has acted upon Hunn Raal’s orders.’

‘You think,’ Urusander said, ‘that you and I will stand alone, against an array already bound in conspiracy.’

‘A conspiracy in your name, sir, although that cause floats before them as but the thinnest veil. When the last flames of this war die down, I envisage a sudden end to the illusions, and ambition will stand naked before us.’

‘Who commands the Legion, captain?’

She shook her head. ‘The last commander to lead it into battle, sir, the last to lead it into victory, was Hunn Raal.’

‘I have made a mistake,’ Urusander said.

‘Nothing that cannot be remedied,’ Sharenas replied.

‘Sharenas Ankhadu, are we now at war?’ He looked away. ‘I called it such, only a few moments ago.’

‘Even from this, sir, peace can be won without any more bloodshed.’

‘Barring those who have committed crimes in my name.’

Indeed? And will you now do our enemy’s work for them? Execute the majority of your officers? Whether Ilgast Rend heard your promise or not, he would have been sceptical. Your justice, Urusander, thrives best in imagination. It remains an ideal, unsullied by any real world.

Scud over us if you will. I chose the land below you, and choose it still.

They continued on, skirting the edge of the high ground as they made their way to the front gatehouse. The setting sun on their left was a red smear on a horizon made dark by the burned grimace of the forest. Above that smear, the sky was streaked in gold.

She thought again about Urusander’s last promise. Justice shone fierce and blazing in the man walking at her side. Should he seek to impose it, however … in the face of this man’s justice, mortal flesh will simply melt away. No, he would be blunted at every turn. What had begun with the slaying of Enesdia – the slaughter at the wedding site – was a cascade of retribution. Too many aggrieved agencies to see anything like proper justice in what was to come. She was not even certain that Urusander could regain control of his own Legion. Not while Hunn Raal lives.

The Issgin line lived under its own curse, and Hunn Raal was but the latest in its filial list of fools. But such stains had a way of spreading outward.

Urusander’s justice was without subtlety. There was not just one war being waged here. Surely he must comprehend that. And what of me? Have I now committed myself to Vatha Urusander? Am I not nobleborn? What harsh choice awaits me, should this all unravel?

No, now was not the time to decide. For this moment, she would hold to honour, and her duty to her commander. For as long as he seemed fit to command. If there came a time when she must cut herself loose, she would be ready.

‘Sharenas,’ Urusander said, ‘I am pleased that you are back.’

* * *

There was value in keeping close those who dwelt in all company, mostly unseen, always beneath regard, who served the single purpose of cleaning up whatever mess had been left behind. This notion lingered in the mind of High Priestess Syntara as she idly watched the maid gathering up the meal’s leavings. She knew, as well, how a man’s thoughts would set off down entirely different paths, gauging and perhaps even reflective, as eyes fixed on the swell of the girl’s behind, the thinness of her skirt.

Base impulses rode wine-heavy fumes, and there was no need to glance across at her guest to glean his musings. A drunk’s appetites were blind to every edge. Plates could crash, the young woman could cry out, as in his mind he flung her to the floor, and made blurred the boundaries of his desire.

It was no easy thing, to spar with a man like Hunn Raal. While her sober cleverness could slip in and around, past and through, a drunk was prone to sudden, unexpected moves. The dance was always uncertain.

For the moment, however, in this satiated silence following food and too much wine, she could ignore Hunn Raal and contemplate the necessity of people beneath notice. Only a deluded fool had the audacity to assert the notion that all were equal – no matter the arbiter, the final judge of such things; the sheer idiocy of such a claim earned no serious contemplation. Judgement was no crime in itself, and hardly a thing to shy away from, if the alternative was a levelling of all things to some idyllic, but impossible, ideal.

She had heard Urusander drone on about justice, as if by proscription and delineation law could be made to stand in place of what was both undeniable and wholly natural. If in earning privilege, in attaining mastery over others, we find ourselves waging perpetual war to keep all things in their proper place – lesser people included – is it any wonder that we select few come to live a life under siege? And who can be surprised when desperation drives us to despicable acts of cruelty?

Such laws as Urusander would impose fashion for us the enemy’s face. It can be no other way. Things are not equal. People are not equal. There are those few who will rule, while the rest must follow.

Hunn Raal can have this woman, this maid, should he so choose. Her life is in his hands. In mine, too, for that matter. But we need no laws to force upon us the ethics of our comportment. Virtue never stands outside awaiting invitation like a stranger at a gathering. It is born of the light within us.

In any case, see how bright it burns in some, but not others.

The maid departed.

‘She is new?’ Hunn Raal asked.

Syntara sighed. ‘Many young women now come to me. It is my task to interview them, and find their place in things, be it household or temple.’

‘Ah,’ Hunn Raal said, slowly nodding. ‘She did not pass muster then, as a priestess in waiting.’

‘Lowborn and ignorant,’ Syntara said, settling back on the cushions. ‘Wholly lacking in any spark.’

Hunn Raal reached for his cup. ‘Most of the soldiers in my legion would share that assessment, should you make it of them. Lowborn. Not knowing much. And yet, are they not valuable? Are they not worth fighting for? Their lives, High Priestess, should not be a waste.’

‘Oh, spare me,’ she replied. ‘You fling them into the teeth of battle and think only of the outcome, the groaning shift of vast unseen scales. Does it nudge you a step closer to what you seek? That is your only concern, captain.’

Beneath heavy lids, he studied her for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘You are wrong. We seek recognition. For the sacrifices we made.’

‘Oh? And did the Houseblades of the Great Houses not make the same sacrifices? Why then do they not rate in your esteem?’

‘But they do. Soldiers, little different from us. It is their masters with whom we have a disagreement. In fact, High Priestess, it would not surprise me to find, on the day of battle, many of those Houseblades refusing to draw weapons, refusing indeed what their lords and ladies would demand of them.’

‘Is this your dream, Hunn Raal? A true uprising of the commoner, the lowborn, the ignorant and the witless? If so, then High House Light is not for you.’

Smiling, he held up a pallid hand and studied it. ‘The gift made no such distinctions, Syntara, and certainly not those you would now impose. How quickly a faith is corrupted.’

Anger flashed through her, but she bit it back. ‘Consider this, then. If there are none to serve, if, in the elevation of everyone, litter fills the streets, meals remain uncooked, crops lie unharvested, clothes unmended, the dust left to choke us all in our repasts, how fares this new paradise of yours, Hunn Raal?’

He scowled across at her.

She continued. ‘You wear a sword, captain, hinting at the threat behind your every request. But not just requests – after all, we need not mince words’ meaning here – no, behind your expectations. Of obedience. Of compliance. Of the continuation of the way things are, provided that the way things are sets you above those others, and makes solid your claim to rule over them.

‘As for your soldiers, why, I would think each dreams an identical dream – no different from your own. A retinue of servants for each soldier, slaves even, as proof of that “recognition” you so desire. Every ploughed field will sprout some new estate, as your beloved soldiers scramble to carve out their rightful place in the new scheme. As for the peasants, why, their lives will not change. They were never meant to change, not by your reckoning, in any case. You would shake the order, but not so much as to send the framework down into crashing ruin. This war of yours, Hunn Raal, is but a shuffling of the pieces. That and no more.’

‘And what is it that you seek, High Priestess, if not the same, as you elbow your way to the table?’ He snorted behind his cup. ‘You dance well, but it is in the same fire as the rest of us.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You can have that table, Hunn Raal, and all the new but grubby faces around it. What I seek is a new place, a new realm, in fact. One where Light rules, and Dark has no claim. I will make it here, in Neret Sorr.’

‘That wins us nothing, Syntara. They will marry. There will be unification through balance, Dark upon one side, Light upon the other.’ His expression grew ugly. ‘Now you sit here, seeking to change what we agreed upon, and I like it not.’

She narrowed her gaze on him. ‘I sense how the power of my gift now infuses you,’ she said. ‘Who would have thought that Hunn Raal, this rough, rarely sober captain of the Legion, should find in himself a burgeoning sorcery? By title you should name yourself warlock and be done with it.’

He laughed, collecting up the wine jug and leaning back on the cushions. He poured his cup full once more. ‘I’d wondered if you knew. It is … interesting. I explore it, but cautiously, of course. Risky to be headlong in such matters, as I am sure you have discovered.’

‘My comprehension is absolute,’ Syntara replied. ‘So much so that I advise you to be most careful in that exploration, Hunn Raal. You may in ignorance unleash something you cannot hope to control.’

‘Abyss take me, Syntara, but you have grown arrogant. Young women come to you, shining with dreams of a better future for themselves, for their wretched lives, and you set most of them to scullery, to waiting on you and your guests. Your High House Light looks suspiciously similar to every other noble household, and yet here you sit, spouting bland pretensions to justify your – apparently – near universal contempt for everyone else.’ He paused, drank deep, and then said, ‘I see now what Lanear saw in you. The beauty of your flesh belies an ugly soul, Syntara.’

‘No longer,’ she snapped. ‘I am purged. Reborn.’

‘Repeated, more like,’ he said, smirking.

There would come a time, possibly soon, when she would no longer need this man. The notion calmed her down. ‘You have not yet asked, Hunn Raal.’

‘Asked what?’

‘The maid. Do you want her tonight? If so, she’s yours.’

He set the jug and cup down, and then rose, carefully. ‘A man has needs,’ he muttered.

She nodded. ‘I’ll send her to your chambers, then. You may have her, for a day or two. But no longer, lest the dishes pile up.’

He stared down at her with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘You say I should name myself warlock, Syntara. I would offer some advice of my own, to you. You are not alone in this newfound power. Best, I think, we work together. Urusander weds Mother Dark. He is given the title of Father Light. The civil war ends on that day. As for you and Emral Lanear, well, fight with your temples all you want, just keep it civil.’

She said nothing as he made his way out. Drunks made dangerous adversaries indeed. No matter. Warlock or no, he would never be her match.

In her mind, she unleashed a momentary spasm of power. A side door was pushed open almost immediately thereafter, and the serving girl stumbled into the chamber, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘Yes,’ murmured Syntara, ‘that was me. Now, come closer. I need to look at your soul.’

Even terror could not win out against Syntara’s will. She found the girl’s soul, and crushed the life from it. In its place, she planted the seed of herself, a small thing, that would control its newfound body, and lead it into untold horrors. Through the girl’s eyes now, Syntara could look out, whenever she chose to, and not even Hunn Raal would be the wiser.

‘Now then, warlock,’ she said in a low whisper, ‘let’s see the depths of your appetites, shall we? Things to use, things to abuse, things to twist my way.’

Syntara sent the girl to the captain’s quarters.

There was value in keeping such creatures close at hand.

Lowborn, ignorant. Such a pathetic soul, so easily snuffed out. No great loss.

She would raise a temple, here in Neret Sorr. And set into its floor a Terondai, artfully recreating the sun and its torrid gift of fire. An emblem of gold and silver, a symbol of such wealth as to make kings ill. A temple to house a thousand priestesses, two thousand servants. And in the central chamber, she would raise a throne.

The marriage was doomed. There was not enough left in Vatha Urusander to assure a proper balance. Perhaps, she reflected, he had never been what others believed him to be. There was little of value in commanding an army: the talents required seemed few, and the measure of respect accorded it woefully out of proportion.

One need only look at Hunn Raal to see the truth of that. His talent, such as it was, served to feed the ambitions of others, clothed in the trappings of an acceptable violence. When she looked upon soldiers, she saw them as children, still trapped in their games of heroism, triumph, and great causes. But so much of that was delusion. Heroes fell into their heroism, mostly by accident. The triumphs were short-lived and, ultimately, changed nothing, which made those triumphs hollow. As for great causes, well, how often were they revealed to be little more than personal aggrandizement? The elevation of stature, the tidal swell of adoration, the penile gush of glory.

Pray the servants tiptoe in to clean away the sordid stains, once that blazing light was past.

The young woman would please him, she knew. Every hero of the male frame needed his compliant beauty, a creature excited by the stench of old blood on his hands, thrilled to see his wake where bodies lay piled in heaps. Why, she all but drooled at the prospect of his strong arms about her.

The heroes marched back and forth in the courtyard below, day after day, clanking and boisterous in this serious posturing. They each stood, in ranks or alone, with blades within easy reach. This announced to all their dangerous selves. No, she understood them well enough. And like the fate awaiting Vatha Urusander, all would soon come to comprehend their own irrelevance.

There has never been an age of heroes, or not one of which the poets sing in their epic tales. Rather, we but witness one age upon another, and another, each one identical in every detail but for the faces – and even those faces blur into sameness after a time. In recognizing that, is it any wonder Kadaspala went mad?

Oh, they might point to the slaughter, the murder of his sister. But I believe it to be another kind of death that has broken our age’s greatest painter of portraits. When at last he realized that every face was the same. And it looked out at him, ox-dull, belligerent and unchanging. And what were once virtues were suddenly revealed for what they truly were: pride and pomp, preening and pretence.

The age of heroes comes as a belief, and leaves unseen, as a conviction. Not even witnessed, it then finds resurrection in the past, the only realm that it can call home.

There was nothing to weep for, no true loss to bemoan.

She would raise a temple to Light, and by that Light she would reveal unwelcome truths, and by that Light, there would be no place to hide. And then, my friends, in that new age where heroes cannot be found, let us see what glory you might win.

But fear not. I will give you a thousand mindless virgins to use. Of them, there is an inexhaustible supply.

With my temple and the new age it will birth, I can offer this promise – a world where no lies can thrive, not even the ones you whisper to yourself. Only truth.

Urusander wants pure justice? Well then, in the name of Light, I shall deliver it.

* * *

With sufficient pressure, even the most pastoral of communities could crack. Too many strangers, too many new and unpleasant currents of power, or threat, and neighbours came to acquire cruel habits. Suspicion and resentment thrived, and the unseen torrent that rushed deep, stirring up sediments, held all the violence waiting to happen.

The town beneath Urusander’s keep had suffered too long. It had reeled to unexpected deaths, buckled to sudden losses, and the crowds of unfamiliar faces, most of them arrogant and contemptuous, turned moods dark and foul.

Captain Serap avoided the Legion camps surrounding the town. Outwardly, she was contending with the grief of two dead sisters, and so her fellow soldiers remained at a distance, and this well suited her. If indeed she was suffering the loss of loved ones, it felt vague, almost formless. She had found a tavern on the high street, which, while it occasionally played host to off-duty soldiers, was more often than not crowded with villagers, whose brooding resentment hung thick and bitter in the smoky air.

It was an atmosphere she welcomed; the heavy swirl of ill humour was now something she could wear, like a winter cloak, and beneath its suffocating weight she was muffled, muted inside and out.

There was no desire to get drunk. No particular need for numb oblivion, and the wild flare of a night’s worth of lust, desire, and thrashing limbs in one of the upstairs rooms ranked low in her list of needs.

The only gift she sought – the one she had found in this place – was solitude. It had always struck her as odd, how so many of her fellow soldiers feared isolation, as if stranded upon a tiny island with only their own self for company. Moments existed to be rushed through, filled to the brim with … with whatever. Anything within reach, in fact. Conversations crowded with nothing of worth; games where knucklebones rolled and bounced and wagers were made in bold gesture or wild shout; the hard muscle pulled close, or soft flesh depending on one’s tastes. A few might sit alone, working on knife edges or whatnot, while still others muttered a lifetime’s worth of confessions into their ale tankards, nodding as they gauged the worth of every returning echo. But all that this did was mark the time passed and make it nothing more than something to be filled.

Lest the silence begin speaking.

It was astonishing, Serap reminded herself, just how much the silence had to say, when given the chance.

Sisters made a community, tightly bound and conspiratorial. That community mocked every need for solitude, if only to fend off the threat it posed. She should have missed it more than she did. Instead, she felt cut loose, set adrift, and now she floated on fog-bound water, where barely a ripple marred the blank surface.

It was a strange realm, this muttering silence, this reflective pool that seemed so dismissive of pity, grief, and commiseration. She had no desire to reach down to break the mirrored perfection of the calm surrounding her. It was enough, she felt, to simply listen.

Risp died in battle, far off to the west. Her first battle. Sevegg had died just outside Neret Sorr, slain by a wounded officer of the Wardens. That, too, had been her first battle. There were details, in the skein of war, which rarely earned mention – the truth of so many who died doing so in their first ever battle. It hinted too much of something unpleasant, something cruel lying in wait beyond the limits of civil contemplation. The silence whispered it to those who dared listen. ‘It is to do, darling, with the sending of innocents to war.’

Well, of course. Who would do such a thing?

‘They do. Over and over again. Training is but the thinnest patina. The innocence remains. Even as each young soldier’s imagination builds proper scenes for what is to come, the innocence remains. Now then, sweet children, draw that blade and march into the press.

‘Here arrives the first shock. Faces twisted with intent. Others arrayed before you, each one seeking to end your life. Your life! What has happened here? How can this be?’

Oh, it could be. It was. None of the trappings, girded and stout, could truly hide the white, unstained banners carried by so many into battle.

But to think on it was to feel one’s own heart breaking, breaking and breaking. ‘Never mind those young faces striving to look fierce, or dangerous. Never mind the mimicry they attempt, to appear wizened, wearied, unaffected. All of that, darling, is a mask turned both inward and out, convincing neither. Focus with purpose here, upon those white, pristine banners.

‘And think, if you dare, of those who sent them into battle. Think, Serap, as I cannot. Must not. But if we draw too close, you and me, if we press on with this silent conversation, one of us will flinch in the end. And flee.

‘To silence’s end, closed out with empty conversations, or tankards of ale, or men into whose lap you will slide with laughter and promise. Into company, then, and the filling of this moment. Filling unto bursting, eager to flow over into the next moment, and the next…’

Solitude demanded courage. She knew that now. The crazed revellers displayed their cowardice in that wild and insistent commune with anything and everything: that incessant need to blend in, and among, and keep forever at bay the howling silence of being alone. But she would not yield to contempt, for she could see in their need something she knew well.

Despair.

Despair is the secret language of every generation in waiting. And you find it in the face of every innocent soul, as it marches into its embattled future. While the rest of us, innocent no longer, look on with blank, indifferent eyes.

She sat alone at her table, in the gloom and smoke, and on all sides, white banners waved in the silence.

A short while later, two soldiers entered the tavern. There had been a time, not long ago, when Urusander’s discipline was like a fist closed about his legion. Propriety and courtesy ruled the behaviour of his charges, when on duty or not.

But Hunn Raal was no Vatha Urusander. The lessons the captain had learned from his battles in the past fell upon the wrong side of propriety, and made mockery of courtesy. Of course, he was far from alone in this sour aftermath, where cynicism and contempt stalked the veteran soldier, and if she gave it some thought, Serap found herself skirting dangerous notions about the worth of things, and the true cost of war.

The newcomers swaggered in, inviting challenge. They were not entirely sober, but neither were they as drunk as they let on.

Settled back in her chair, in shadows, Serap remained undetected by the two men as they strode to the bar.

‘I smell Deniers,’ one of the soldiers said, gesturing at the barkeep. ‘Ale, and none of that watered-down piss you’re offering everyone else in here.’

‘There’s but one keg,’ the barkeep said, shrugging. ‘If you don’t like what I serve, you can always leave.’

The other soldier grunted a laugh. ‘Aye, we could. Not saying we will, though.’

Farmhands at a nearby table were pushing back their chairs. Brothers, Serap decided, four in all. Burly, too poor to drink enough to get drunk, they now stirred, disgruntled as bears.

The barkeep set two tankards down and asked for payment, but neither soldier offered up any coins. They collected their tankards and drank.

The four brothers now stood, and the scrape of chairs brought the two soldiers around. Both men were smiling as they reached for their swords.

‘Want to play, then?’ the first soldier asked, drawing his blade.

On seeing the weapon, the brothers hesitated at their table. None carried weapons of any sort.

Serap rose, stepped out from the gloom. When the soldiers saw her, their expressions went flat. She approached them.

‘Sir,’ the second soldier said. ‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘Oh but it was,’ Serap replied. ‘It was going right where you wanted it to go. How many are waiting outside?’

The man started, and then offered her a lopsided grin. ‘There’s been rumours, sir, of Deniers, hanging out in the town. Spies.’

The first soldier added, ‘Had a squad-mate get stabbed nearby, sir, just the other night. He never saw who jumped him. We’re fishing for knives, that’s all.’

‘Hebla got himself stuck by a fellow soldier,’ Serap said. ‘The man cheats at knuckles, a game none of the locals can afford to play with Legion soldiers. What company are you two in?’

‘Ninth, sir, in Hallyd Bahann’s Silvers.’

‘His Silvers.’ Serap smiled. ‘How Hallyd likes his pompous nicknames.’

The second soldier said, ‘We’ll be sure to let our captain know how you feel about them nicknames, sir.’

‘Is that a prick of the blade, soldier? Well then, when you do tell Hallyd, be sure to hang around, in case your mention reminds him of when I laughed outright in his face. Silvers, Golds! Why not shave your heads and call yourself Pearls? Or, for the more useless ones in your company, the Shiny Rocks? Well, I’m afraid my laughter snapped his temper, the poor man. Easily done, of course, as you will find.’

She watched them, noting how both men struggled to work out how they might respond to her. The prospect of violence was not far away. After all, if this officer had insulted their commander, might they not earn Hallyd’s backing should that officer’s blood be spilled? Indeed, had she not just provoked them, calling into question their company’s honour?

When the first soldier adjusted the grip of his sword, Serap smiled and stepped close to him, one hand reaching up as if to caress the side of his face. Seeing his confusion, her smile broadened, even as she drove her knee up and into his crotch.

Whatever crunched there sent the man to the filthy floor like a dropped sack of turnips.

Serap was already turning, sending her left elbow into the face of the second soldier, breaking his nose. The rush of pleasure she felt as the man’s head snapped back was almost alarming. In a flash, she realized that her own fury had been building for some time, seeking an outlet – any outlet.

She was now moving back, to acquire the proper distance. A kick with the side of her boot, at a downward angle, to strike the brokennosed soldier’s left leg, just below the knee, yielded another satisfying pop. Howling, the man collapsed.

The tavern door was shoved open and three more soldiers rushed in. Serap faced them.

‘Stand down!’ She pointed to the foremost soldier, a woman she thought she recognized, although the name escaped her. ‘Collect up your squad-mates, corporal. Drawing a sword on an officer of the Legion is a capital offence – disarm this one here and place him under arrest. I am off to have a word with your captain, as it seems he is losing control of his Silvers.’

The corporal’s eyes were wide, and then she said, ‘Yes, sir. Our apologies, sir. There was word of insurgents in this tavern-’

‘A reason to pick a fight with the locals, you mean. I have not yet decided how many of you will end up charged. I suppose it depends on what you do next, corporal, doesn’t it?’

The three newcomers were quick in carrying off their fallen comrades.

When they were gone, Serap selected a coin from her purse and set it on the bartop. ‘For their ales,’ she said, before striding over to where stood the four young brothers. ‘Listen to me, you fools. When two soldiers come in wearing swords, you leave them be. Understand? First off, they’re not on their own. Second, they’re thirsty for blood. Am I making myself clear?’

Nods answered her.

‘Good, now sit down and order a round – the tab is mine.’ She then returned to her table.

Settled into the shadows once more, Serap waited for her bloodlust to pass. The silence had things to say about that, but she was in no mood to pay attention to it, right now. Alas, it was persistent. It is afflicting us all, this growing anger, and how it so easily answers all that ails us, all that haunts us, and all that frightens us.

I wanted a fight as much as they did.

Oh, banner of white, you came in with such a swagger, I wanted to see it stained red. If only to make a point.

Now, if only I could work out what that point was, we could close out the night and be done with it.

* * *

‘It was awful,’ the man said. ‘I – I can’t get it out of my skull, that’s all.’ And he leaned forward where he sat on her cot, hiding his face in his hands.

Renarr studied him for a moment, and then moved to her trunk. ‘I have some wine here,’ she said, flipping back the lid and reaching inside.

‘Gives me a headache,’ the man said behind his hands.

‘Then remove your clothing, and we can forget this world for a time.’

‘No.’

‘Soldier, what do you want from me?’

His hands dropped away from his face, but he refused to meet her eyes. ‘Around the campfire, with people you fight beside – people you fight for, in fact – well, you’d think we could talk about anything. But it’s not so.’

Renarr poured herself a goblet of wine, settled the trunk’s lid back down and sat upon it. ‘Even words aren’t free,’ she said.

‘I know. I’ll pay you … for your time. If that’s acceptable.’

She considered his offer. ‘I’m not your mother,’ she said. ‘Nor your wife. When I spoke of escaping this world for a time, I meant it as much for me as for you. But I suppose my side of the bargain rarely occurs to any of you, does it? After all, you pay to answer your needs, not the whore’s.’ She waved a hand as he made to rise from the cot. ‘You need not go. What your coin buys from me is mostly up to you. That is the point I was trying to make. But I was also warning you – I have no special wisdom, no worthy advice. I cannot light your path, soldier.’

‘Then what can you do?’

‘I can listen. For the coin. As I said, you are paying for what you need.’

He shot her a look, and she could not but see his youth, his child’s eyes so terribly trapped in a man’s body and a soldier’s armour. ‘You’re a cold one, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘It may be what I need,’ he said, looking upon the floor of the tent, his hands now clasped together but restless. ‘Hard judgement. Righteous condemnation.’

She sipped the wine. It was on the turn. ‘High words,’ she said, ‘for a soldier.’

‘There were three boys in the forest camp. Young, not one taller than my hip. We were three squads. Fourth, Seventh, Second. Well, when we were done with the mother, some of the men – they went for the boys, too. Those boys … it wasn’t me who cut their throats, when it was done, but I wish it had been. I wish the mercy had been mine to offer them.’ He was trembling now, his entire body, making the cot creak. The words had rushed out, and she could see in his eyes that there was no going back. ‘I didn’t touch them, those boys. I could never have done anything like that. But now, all the time, they’re with me. The looks on their faces when we … when we did what we did to the mother. And then, the shock when we turned on them, too. Blank faces, like dolls …’

He wept.

Renarr remained sitting on the trunk, confused. Did this soldier want comfort? Or did he indeed seek condemnation? It was clear that crimes had been committed. Urusander would see those men hanged. In fact, it was possible that all three squads would dance on the rope. Her adoptive father was famous for his righteous outrage. ‘Have you reported this to your captain?’ she asked.

The blunt, toneless question met the man’s grief and swept it aside. She might as well have struck him across the face. Wiping at his eyes, straightening where he sat, he glared across at her. ‘Is that a joke? The bitch sent us into that camp! She could hear that mother’s screams from where she lounged in the next glade! Oh, and what was she doing while we murdered that family?’

‘Never mind,’ Renarr cut in, before the soldier could tell her what his captain had been up to. Renarr already knew enough to guess who the woman was. ‘And,’ she added, ‘obviously, Hunn Raal is not, strictly speaking, next on the chain of command. Is he? No, it’s the captains made equal, with only Urusander above them.’

The man abruptly stood, began pacing. ‘You can’t know,’ he said. ‘Hiding out here. Can you?’

She felt herself grow cold, and struggled to still her shaking hand as she drank again from the goblet. ‘You know who I am,’ she said. ‘You sought me out, thinking … what? That I would take this to Urusander? It was in your head – why, I have no idea – that my father and I still acknowledge each other. How did you work this out? Oh, he sends her down to the whore camps because she’s bored, the dear lass. Is it not what a father would do?’

He stopped pacing, and sat again, looking away. ‘Then deliver his justice yourself, Renarr. With your own hand! This heart wants to still its infernal beat! My bones close around it – I can barely breathe. I swear, those raped children – they’ve found me. Haunting me day and night now. It’s not what I signed up for, don’t you see? Not in my vow of service to the realm!’

‘It would seem that by far the most righteous punishment for you, soldier, is to leave you alive. Haunted by guilt for the rest of your years. You flee the ghosts of three raped boys, do you? Even when you did not take part? Well, how sad for you.’

He glared at her now, visage darkening. ‘I’m not paying for contempt.’

‘Oh, I am sorry. I was trying to make a point. It was clearly fine, then, that you raped the mother. Her ghost wanders elsewhere, one presumes. But those poor boys, with you watching on! Like botflies they’re now under your skin, gnawing their way into your heart. Of course, they were the ones watching you, at least at first, while you fucked their screaming mother.’

He stood, reaching for his weapon-belt. ‘For this, I’ll pay you nothing.’

‘For this,’ she retorted, ‘I will not be a coward’s path. You know the way to the keep, soldier. I am sure Urusander is there even now. And yes, he will accept an audience with a soldier of his legion.’

‘My squad-mates-’

‘Oh yes, them. Why, they’ll know, of course, once the charges are brought down. I see now why you thought it best to go through me. In that instance, you all stand accused, and all face the same punishment. You stand with your brothers and sisters, and not once do they question you or your loyalty.’ Renarr finished her wine.

‘It’s not cowardice,’ the young soldier said.

‘Isn’t it? Your entire tale is one of cowardly acts, from the moment you rode into the forest, hunting Deniers. Slaughtering women and children? Setting their homes ablaze? Entire companies, so brave in how you outnumbered your every opponent, and set swords to their flimsy spears and whatnot. Your armour against their thin hides. Your iron helms and their oh-so-fragile skulls.’

He drew his gutting knife.

She met his gaze, unafraid, understanding what this night had brought to her. ‘So be it,’ she said quietly. ‘Give me, then, your one moment of courage.’

With a savage slash – beneath eyes suddenly triumphant – the soldier cut his own throat. Blood poured out, rushing from the severed jugular.

He toppled and she stepped back.

He made of this whore’s tent a temple, and me his priestess. Or, at least, someone to stand in for his god – as priestesses are purported to do. He uttered his crimes … But the body lying on the floor beside her cot, so motionless now when an instant earlier it had been bursting with life – she could not tear her gaze from it.

There are ways of leaving. The worst of these is also the most final. You see, the bastard left, yet left his body behind. Why does the thought make me want to laugh? Guests will leave a mess, won’t they just? It falls to the host to see it cleaned up.

I am no priestess. This is no temple. But the confessions spill out night after night – none as bleak as this one, to be sure. But it was coming. I should have seen that. The fools have blood on their hands, guilt in their souls. The High Priestess of High House Light isn’t much interested in all that, alas. And their mothers are far away.

It is, I see now, an issue of faith. Faith and faiths, the natural ones and the other kinds, the imposed kinds.

She recalled the aftermath of the battle against the Wardens, and all the cries from the soldiers left dying on the field, while the whores and looters walked among them. So many had called out, like children, for their mothers. Their god, or goddess, was too remote for them, in that drawn-out journey into death. It was a faith they’d dropped away from, abandoned. What was left, if not the purest, the sweetest of all faiths? ‘Mother! Please! Help me! Hold me!’

Renarr had been witness to all that, there amidst the heaped bodies and the stench. But her memories of her own mother offered nothing. Too vague, too formless, making that ethereal, half-imagined figure almost godlike.

Wrong faith, then. Not one for me to call upon, not now, not later. Not even at the very end, I should think.

But these soldiers, they were far from their mothers, and few were able to reach their wives or husbands, assuming they had any. Failed by the High Priestess and that remote and strangely sinister temple they were even now building, and its god so bright as to blind all who might gaze upon it. Failed, too, that faith in the mother always close, always a short tear-filled run away, her arms opening wide to collect up the wayward child. Faiths, then, failed and failed again. What was left?

The whore, of course. Confused and confusing idol. Priestess and mother, lover and goddess, and all faith reduced to the basest of needs, one simple game to play out all the infernal wars of power. Astonishing, isn’t it, what a few coins can purchase?

Renarr collected up her heaviest cloak, and strode out from her tent. She set out from the whores’ camp where it clung to one side of the Legion’s outermost earthworks, and made her way along the embankment. Ahead, the dull, muted lights of Neret Sorr, and beyond that, the high hill of Urusander’s fortress.

Men had a way of filling her up, it seemed. He had sought her out, to make her his hand of justice. She had refused him to his face, and in answer to that he had taken his own life. She recalled the triumph in his eyes at that final moment, at the gift his own knife gave to him. There was something in those young eyes that fascinated her.

What did he see, I wonder? What avenue opened before him? A sudden way through, an escape from all the torment? Or was it just the venal act of a selfish child, wanting to somehow punish the woman standing before him … just passing the guilt along, as cowards will do.

Well, in that he failed. The poor, misguided fool.

But there was some irony, she decided, in that she now found herself walking into Neret Sorr, and that fell keep looming above it.

Dear Father. I bring word of hidden temples where your soldiers confess their crimes. I stand before you, a much-used priestess, carrying in me a soldier’s plaintive cry for absolution … well, a few hundred soldiers and a few thousand plaintive cries. They have lost their faiths, you see. All of them, barring the renting of my flesh, thus relieving us all with assurance that, in coin, at least, one kind of faith remains secure.

This is how the power of the bargain wins out against all other powers. Tell the High Priestess to pay heed. Invite confessions amidst handfuls of coin, to ensure that the believers understand how this deal gets made. They’ll grasp the notion quickly enough, until every temple is sheathed in gold.

But tell her, also, to do nothing with such confessions. Mouth the proper words of absolution, if she must, but set out no course of hard justice, or proper retribution. Dead sinners are no longer generous, after all, and no longer impelled to rent for a time the easement of their guilt. Take it from a whore, dear Syntara, it’s about renting, not purchasing.

She walked through the town. Frost limned the muddy ground, the walls of buildings. Overhead, the stars ever in their place, forever silent, eternally witnessing. She had grown to appreciate their remoteness. Whore as goddess and goddess as whore. Oh, how confused your worship, yes? Never mind. It all works out in the end – I saw as much in that soldier’s eyes.

* * *

There had been a smithy below the keep’s hill, but its owner had died. The house, sheds and outbuildings had been torn down, along with flanking houses, to make room for the new Temple of Light. Hunn Raal was amused when he thought of the scorched earth awaiting the foundation stones, the heaps of ash, clinkers and cinders; the ragged tailings and sand-studded droplets now hard and brittle as glass.

Few understood the manifold expressions of the sacred that so cluttered the world on all sides. Few had the wits to see them. Kurald Galain, after all, was born of fires, of forges and vast forests of fuel awaiting the heat and smoke of industry. Pits in the ground, veins of ore, streams of sweat and dripping blood, the straining struggles of so many men and women to make of life something better, if not for themselves, then for their children.

Fitting, then, to raise a temple upon such holy ground. Not that Syntara would ever comprehend that. She was intent, he now understood, upon a narrowing of the sacred, threateningly surrounded by a wild, chaotic proliferation of the profane. Once all such potential threats were eliminated – indeed, desecrated – then, why, she would hold within her embrace all that was sacred.

Religion, Hunn Raal decided, was the marriage of holiness with base acquisitiveness, self-defined and purposefully delineated to eliminate natural worship – worship lying beyond the temple walls, beyond the rules, the prohibitions. Lying beyond – more to the point – the self-pronounced authority of whatever priesthood arose to manage, with grubby hands, the sacredness of things. And, incidentally, getting rich on the proceeds.

Well, he understood High Priestess Syntara. It wasn’t difficult. He even understood the Deniers, and the threat they posed, with their open faith – with the way they made all things in their lives holy, from whittling down a tent stake to singing and dancing under the light of full moons. Even the Shake temples saw those forest-dwelling savages as a threat to whatever privileges the monks and nuns claimed as their own. Which was, if one considered it, ridiculous, since those savages of the wood were, in fact, the Shake’s congregation, their blessed children.

Oh, that’s right. Their blessed children. Real children, that is, the ones they could steal, I mean. Never mind the mothers and fathers. Just the children, please, for our blessed ranks.

He took another mouthful of wine, swirled it through the gaps in his teeth, then pulling it back to flow over his tongue one more time, before swallowing. Thus. He understood Syntara and her pious High House of Light. He understood the Deniers, too, and the Shake.

But not Mother Dark. Not this empty darkness and its unlit temple, its unseen altar and invisible throne. Not this worship of absence. Dear Emral Lanear, I do sympathize. Really. Your task is nigh impossible, isn’t it, whilst your goddess says nothing. In that despairing silence, why, I too might decide to take to my bed as many lovers as I could. To fill up all those empty spaces, the ones inside and out.

Well, Urusander old friend, you can have her. If you can find her, that is.

Rest assured, Syntara will bring light to the scene. Enough to expose the conjugal bed, at least. She’ll wave a hand and deem it a blessing. As if you two were children who would only fumble helplessly in the dark.

Wed the two, then. Urusander’s fiery bright cock. Into her unlit cunt. Maybe that union was always holy, now that I think on it. A man’s raging light, a woman’s purest dark. We men, we do have a thing for caves, and other comforting places. Our womb, from which we were so ignominiously thrown out. To then spend a lifetime trying to crawl back – but what is it that we truly seek? Sanctuary, or oblivion?

Glancing down, he pushed the maid’s head away from his crotch. ‘Oh, give it up, will you? I’ve drunk too much tonight.’

She glanced up at him, just a flicker’s worth of eye contact, and then she rolled on to her side.

‘Amuse yourself,’ Hunn Raal said.

Now, dear Syntara, let’s discuss the notion of murder, shall we? Shall we paint your temple blood red? Or should we wait a few generations first? At the very least, set the engineers to fashion ingenious gutters to channel a flow you would wish endless.

And yet, you decried my seeming thirst. Border guards, Wardens, Deniers. The Hust. I am indeed soaked with blood. All necessary, alas. We’ll save the Shake for later. The nobles need humiliating first. Anomander and his brothers brought to their knees. Draconus sent packing – although, between you and me, Syntara, I admit to some admiration for the Consort. Now there’s a man unafraid of darkness! So unafraid as to climb back into the womb and make of it the finest palace of delight!

It’s no wonder his nobleborn kin so envy him, enough to foment abiding hatred. Yes, of course we’ll make use of that, given the chance. Still … poor Draconus. No man deserves your fate, to be twice cast out of the womb.

Lying beside him, back arching, the maid made moaning noises, and gasps. But the ecstasy sounded forced. This lass would have done fine as a priestess, I think. Too bad.

Oh, Syntara, we were speaking of murder, weren’t we? And all the paths to and from its grisly gate. And here is my promise: when we’re done with our task; when at last Lord Urusander stands beside Mother Dark, the two wedded … do not expect a third throne, Syntara – not for you and not for your church. If we can scour out the wretched Deniers and the Shake – if we can burn them into ash and cinders – do you imagine we could not do the same to you?

By fire, this gift of light, no?

He had explored the newfound sorcery within him, with far greater alacrity than he had led Syntara to believe. Enough to know that the woman pleasuring herself beside him in this bed was nothing but a husk. And this in turn amused him greatly, as the secret spark within the maid – Syntara herself – now struggled to bring life back into that body’s benumbed carcass.

Go screw yourself, Syntara. Or, rather, go on screwing yourself. We have all night, after all.

He recalled that flicker – the meeting of his gaze with hers – and the faint unease in the maid’s once pretty eyes. I imagine you first crowed at my seeming impotence. But now, do you begin to wonder?

I may be base. A drunk. A man standing in the middle of a river of blood. But I won’t fuck a corpse, woman. Take your voyeur games elsewhere.

When next we meet, over fine wine and decent food, we’ll talk of … oh, I don’t know … how about this as a worthy topic? Yes, why not? We’ll speak of desecration. A topic on which, I’m sure, you’ll have plenty to say, High Priestess.

Tell me again, won’t you, of those artful gutters beneath the floors of the temple?

And I might speak to you, perhaps, of sorcery beyond the reach of any god or goddess, beyond the reach of every temple, every church, every priesthood with all its strident rules and lust for the butchery of the blasphemous.

A magic unfettered. Natural worship, if you will.

Of what, you ask?

Why, the same as yours, High Priestess. The worship of power.

This power – and I dare you to take it from my hand.

He drank down another mouthful of wine, sluicing it as was his habit, while beside him – making the bed creak – the maid went on and on, and on.

* * *

Sharenas strode into the tavern. After a moment, she could make out a figure seated at the back, shrouded in gloom. She crossed the chamber, threading between tables where townsfolk were seated, welcoming both the sour heat and the furtive glances. Even the faces of strangers offered a kind of comfort – too long riding alone, camping in wild places, abandoned places. And other nights, as guest in a household, she had felt the pressure of her hosts’ unease, their mistrust. Urusander’s Legion, once elevated so high, honoured and respected by all, had stumbled fast.

The truth, which in better times was happily ignored, was that the sword always cut both ways. Valiant defence, brutal attack, it was all down to the wielder’s stance, the direction chosen. The saved could become the victim in an instant.

Sharenas disliked the notion: that she, too, was dangerous, unpredictable, with the weapon at her belt ever ready to be unsheathed. But the world made its demands, and she too must answer them.

Reaching the table, she met Captain Serap’s eyes, seeing in them a cold, glittering regard. Sharenas sat opposite, her back to the room. ‘Captain. I am sorry for your losses.’

‘We were all there,’ Serap said. ‘Do you remember? Riding out to meet Calat Hustain. You chose Kagamandra’s side for most of that journey, as I recall. Happy enough to flirt with a promised man.’

Sharenas nodded. ‘Whilst you and your sisters giggled and whispered, so pleased with your new ranks. Lieutenants, back then, as I recall. Unblooded officers, crowded under Hunn Raal’s soggy wing.’

Serap studied her with a tilted head, and then smiled wistfully. ‘We were young then. The world seemed fresh. Alive with possibilities.’

‘Oh, he was happy enough to lead us, wasn’t he?’ Sharenas started as someone stepped close – a boy, likely the barkeep’s son, setting down a tankard before her. The youth quickly retreated. ‘Do you still look upon him with admiration, Serap? Cousin Hunn Raal. Murderer, poisoner. He’s gathered every betrayal imaginable into a single knot, hasn’t he?’

Serap shook her head, and then shrugged. ‘It may seem to be clumsy on his part, Sharenas. But it isn’t. Every crime he commits ensures that Urusander remains unstained. My cousin doesn’t hide, does he? He chooses to wear his culpability, and knows that he can bear its terrible weight. It is, in fact, a family trait.’

‘Hmm. I’d wondered about that. The seeming clumsiness, that is. It would be easy to assume the drunkard’s natural carelessness, the sloppiness that comes with dissolution. Even so, Serap – the slaughter of a wedding party?’

Serap waved a hand, and then frowned. ‘Not the Hust? You surprise me. Or perhaps not, as the noble blood in you must howl loudest when the lives of kin are sacrificed. Mundane soldiers, even ones bearing demon-haunted weapons, are beneath notice – well, maybe a mutter or two, if only at the crassness of the deed.’

Sharenas allowed herself a slow smile. ‘I always judged you the sharpest. So, is this how it is, then? You stand with Hunn Raal.’

‘Blood of kin, Sharenas. But you should understand this. In so many ways I still have the eyes of the innocent. I will care for my soldiers. I will, if necessary, give my life for theirs.’

‘Bold words,’ Sharenas replied, nodding. ‘I’m curious. Do you believe Hunn Raal would do the same?’

Something fluttered in Serap’s eyes, and the woman glanced away. ‘Have you reported to the commander?’

‘I have spoken to Urusander, yes.’

‘Does he remain … disinterested?’

A curious question. Sharenas collected up her tankard, drank down a mouthful of the weak ale, and grimaced. ‘You do not come here for this, do you?’

‘Supplies are low. Everyone has to make do.’

‘How would you react, I wonder, if I now told you that Vatha Urusander intends to arrest Hunn Raal, and a good many other captains of the Legion? And that I bear with me the evidence of their many crimes – crimes that can only be answered by the gallows.’

Serap laughed.

Settling back in her chair, Sharenas nodded. ‘And this was a man we once followed, unquestioningly. A man we would give up our lives for. Back when the enemy was foreign. Well, as you say, Serap, we were all young once, and that was long ago.’

‘Best you choose your side, Sharenas, with great care. He is not the man he once was. In many ways,’ she added, ‘we’d do better with Osserc.’

‘He has not returned, then.’

‘No. And no word of where he has gone.’

Sharenas glanced away. ‘I have advised against confronting Hunn Raal. For the moment.’

‘Wise.’

‘Things need cleaning up first.’

Serap’s brows lifted. ‘Oh? And how will you manage that?’

Sharenas rose in one fluid motion, the blade leaving the scabbard with a hiss, and then lashing out across the table, taking Serap by the neck. The keen edge cut through, separating the woman’s head from her shoulders. As the head pitched forward to thump hard on the tabletop, blood shot from the stump of Serap’s neck, like a fountain in a courtyard. But the pulsing torrent was shortlived.

Sharenas stepped around the table and gathered up a corner of Serap’s cloak. She carefully wiped down her blade. Behind her, in the tavern, there was absolute silence.

‘Like this,’ she answered quietly. She studied the head lying on the table, the look of surprise fast fading as all life left the eyes, as the nerves of the face surrendered, slowly sagging. It was, she decided, a rather innocent face.

Sharenas sheathed her sword, and then drained the tankard and set it down beside the head. She drew out a coin and snapped it down, and then swung about and strode from the tavern.

It was a start. She had a long night ahead of her.

Outside once more, shivering in the bitter cold night air, she set out for the Legion camp.

* * *

‘Shit.’ Hunn Raal sat up on the bed. The wine was heavy and acrid in his gut, but the sickness suddenly roaring in his skull had little to do with that.

Beside him, the nameless maid stirred, and said in a slurred voice, ‘What is it?’

He twisted round, reached out and took hold of the young woman’s neck. It felt flimsy in his grip. ‘Look at me, High Priestess. Are you there?’ He then grunted. ‘Yes, I see that you are. Blood has been spilled. Blood of my family. Someone has murdered Serap. Down in the town.’

The maid’s childlike face, round and soft, was darkening above Hunn Raal’s grip. Voice now rasping, she said, ‘Best awaken the guards, then.’

Face twisting with disgust, Hunn Raal pushed the woman away, hard enough to send her over the far side of the bed. He quickly threw on his clothes, and strapped on his sword-belt. He paused then, weaving slightly. ‘No, enough of this.’ A pulse of sorcerous power, held inside, made him suddenly sober.

The maid had climbed to her feet on the other side of the bed, her naked body ghostly pale. ‘How did you do that?’

Snarling, he spun to face her. ‘Get out.’ Another surge of sorcery, reaching into the body facing him, grasping hold of that secretive sliver of Syntara, and then tearing it loose, flinging it away like a torn rag. The maid collapsed.

Oh, a fine new rumour for Hunn Raal now – he kills the women he fucks. Strangles them, by the marks round the poor girl’s neck. Well, yet another sordid cloak to wear. These burdens are enough to make a man drink.

He gathered up a fur-lined cape, and then strode from the bedchamber.

Two guards stood at the far end of the corridor. Hunn Raal marched towards them. ‘Pult, rouse a squad to guard Vatha Urusander’s private chambers. If he wakes to the noise, inform him that we have an assassin in the town below, but that I have begun the hunt. Mirril, you’re with me.’

As Pult set off towards the troop hall, Mirril fell in a step behind Hunn Raal as he made his way to the keep’s central staircase.

‘There’s a dead woman in my bedroom,’ he told her. ‘Never mind the rumours that’ll come of that. The High Priestess of Light has a growing thirst for corpses – not that you can easily tell who’s dead and who isn’t, once she’s done with them. Look for the eyes, Mirril – they don’t match the face around them.’

The soldier made an obscure warding gesture.

‘Just get rid of it,’ Hunn Raal ordered. ‘No family to inform, I should think. Bury her in the refuse heap below the kitchen chute.’

‘And if, uh, she comes back to life again, sir?’

He grunted. ‘I doubt that – I wasn’t fooled, you see. But still … oh, take off its legs, then. Arms, too.’

‘Sir, I would advise the hog pens, rather than the heap.’

He glanced back at her as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘And the next slice of ham you eat, Mirril? How will it sit? No, the notion doesn’t appeal to me. Perhaps a shallow grave, then. Pick people you trust in this.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘And let the soldiers know – no one from the High Priestess’s household can be trusted.’

‘That’s past saying, sir.’

They reached the main floor opposite the front doors. ‘Good,’ said Hunn Raal. ‘Off you go, then.’

‘Yes sir.’

He left her to take care of the maid and set out across the compound towards the barracks. By rota, a company of Hallyd Bahann’s Golds were quartered there, five squads in all. Two guards stood at post outside the barracks entrance, both coming to attention upon seeing Hunn Raal approach.

‘Wake the lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said to one of them, and then he beckoned the other closer. ‘Saddle up, soldier, and take this word down to the Legion camp. We’re on the hunt for an assassin – someone has just murdered my cousin, Serap. In the town proper. I want two companies to enter Neret Sorr and begin looking for the body. We can pick up the trail from there, if need be. Though,’ he added, ‘I doubt it will be necessary.’ Seeing the questioning look on the man’s face, Hunn Raal said, ‘I doubt she’s the only intended target this night, soldier.’ Pausing, hands on his hips, he faced the gatehouse. ‘Civil wars are dirty, but we need to hold fast to our cause.’

Led by the lieutenant – a young man Hunn Raal did not know – the Golds emerged from the barracks, still buckling on their gear, a few of them swearing at the bitter chill.

‘Lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said, ‘shape up your soldiers, and be smart about it. One squad remains on station here. The rest of you, we’re marching down into Neret Sorr.’ He gestured at the lieutenant to join him, and then set out, at a brisk pace, towards the gatehouse, and the switchback track that led down into the town.

* * *

Renarr had time to step into a shadow-thick alcove at the gatehouse before the gates swung wide and a rider emerged, pushing his horse into a careless gallop as soon as he was clear of the gate. An instant later a company of soldiers, led by Hunn Raal, appeared, moving at a quick pace. When the last soldiers in the column were past, she waited a few moments longer, and then walked back on to the track, just as the gatehouse guards were pushing at the squealing gate. One cursed upon seeing her, clearly frightened by her sudden appearance. She moved forward.

‘Who’s that, then?’ the other guard asked, holding up a staying hand.

‘Renarr. Summoned by my father.’

She saw, as lanterns were drawn close, both recognition and suspicion. They would have known, after all, if Urusander had dispatched any messenger down into Neret Sorr. But then one grunted and said to the other, ‘Captain Sharenas left earlier.’

This man looked enquiringly at Renarr, who solemnly nodded.

They waved her through. ‘Not a good night,’ the first guard said as she passed. ‘Killings in town below, we heard. Black-skinned assassins, agents of Lord Anomander. Officers of the Legion getting backstabbed. It’s what it’s come to.’

‘Best stay here at the keep tonight,’ called out the other guard.

She continued on.

There were lights in the tower, where Urusander kept his private abode. She thought she saw a dark shape move past a window, but could not be sure. The courtyard was slippery underfoot, slick with frost. She glanced over at the squad mustered up near the barracks, and saw some of them watching her as she crossed to the keep’s main entrance.

She’d probably taken a few of them to her bed, but at this distance, and in the uneven light, there was no way to tell.

Father, I should tell you. I have intimate knowledge of your legion, its soldiers, with their myriad faces, their singular needs. I know them better than you. It’s how certain things blur together, you see. The heat of sex and the heat of battle. Death entwined with love, or something like love, if we are generous enough to gauge the motions, there beneath the furs.

Tents and temples, beds and altars, the propitiations and rituals, all the forms of confession, weakness and desire. The conceits and pride’s fragile temerity. All the appetites, Father, flow together in those times, those places. I could list for you the cowards, and the ones who would stand fast. I could speak to you about conscience and grief, and above all, about what a soldier needs.

Alas, that need no mortal can answer, though I can see you, Father, I can see you trying. When few others would dare.

Shall we give it a name, that need? Dare we venture inward, to face that sorrowful child?

Tent and temple, we raise them to disguise all that haunts our soul. Between lover and priest, I think, it is the lover who can reach closest to that shivering, wide-eyed child. The priest, ah, well, the priest killed his inner child long ago, and now but plays at wonder, dancing joy’s steps with shuffling, self-conscious feet.

Consider this, Father. No whore has ever sexually abused a child. I know this – I watch them, my hard women and men of the stained cloth. Some are harsh bitches and bastards, no doubt about that. Hardened beyond pain. For all that, they know innocence when they see it.

But priests? Most are fine, I’m sure. Honest, diligent, trustworthy. But what of those few others who took on the robes and vestments for unholy reasons? What do they see – the ones so eager to ruin a child?

Best ask the High Priestess, Father, because I have no answer to that question. All I know, and I know this with certainty, is that inside that abusing bastard priest there is the corpse of a child. Wanting company.

She was in the house now, upon the stairs, reaching the landing and making her way towards Urusander’s wing of the keep.

Soldiers stood at guard in the corridor. They eyed her warily as she approached.

‘My father is awake,’ she said. ‘Captain Sharenas summoned me to him, at his request.’

They moved aside.

One spoke as she passed. ‘Taking the night off, Renarr?’

Low laughter, dying away when she opened the door and strode into the first chamber.

A desk buried beneath scrolls and the strange seashell cases the Forulkan used to store their sacred writing. Behind this misshapen monument, her adoptive father. He had half risen at her appearance, and now, upon his weary face, there was the look of a cornered man.

She recognized that expression: she had seen it on occasion in her tent. Indeed, she had seen it this very night.

Renarr unclasped her cloak and folded it carefully against the back of a chair. Then she walked over to a side table. ‘The last wine I had this evening,’ she said, taking up a decanter and sniffing at the mouth, ‘was sour.’ She poured herself a glass. ‘Father,’ she said, turning to face him, ‘I have so many things to say to you.’

He would not meet her gaze, intent instead on a scroll laid out before him. ‘It’s rather late for a conversation,’ he said.

‘If you mean the time of night, then, yes, perhaps.’

‘I did not mean the time of night.’

‘Oh, that bulwark,’ she said, sighing. ‘I know why you threw it up, of course. Your love for my mother, and what did I do? I went into the camps, into the taverns, to learn a trade. Was I punishing you? Perhaps I was simply bored. Or at that age where rebellion seems a good idea, an idea full of … ideals. So many of us, at around my age, will flare bright, with the vague, despondent understanding that it will all fade. Our fire. Our nerve. The belief that it all means something.’

He studied her at last, with the heaped desk between them.

‘Osserc is out there,’ Renarr continued, ‘flaring bright. Somewhere. Me, I didn’t walk that far.’

‘Then, Renarr, is your … rebellion … at an end?’

Was that hope she saw in his eyes? She couldn’t be sure. ‘Father, I can’t give you my reasons. But I know what my choices yielded, beyond this much-used body. My mother was an officer in your company. I was her daughter, held apart from her beloved legion. So, I knew nothing of it, nothing of a soldier’s ways, nothing of my mother’s ways.’ She sipped the wine. ‘What she did to me, and what you did to Osserc … well, of your children, one of us at last understands your reasons.’

She did not think there was enough in her words to make his eyes glisten, and the sudden emotion, so exposed and raw in Urusander, shocked her.

Looking away, Renarr set down the goblet. ‘A young soldier of the Legion came to me tonight. He came, not for my cheap gifts of love, but to confess his crimes. Slaughter of innocents. Terrible rapes. A mother, her young boys. He named the squads and the company. Then he stood before me, and cut his own throat.’

Urusander rose from behind the desk. Then he was directly before her. He moved as if to reach out, to take her into something like an embrace, but something held him back.

‘Father,’ she said, ‘you have troubled children.’

‘I will make amends, Renarr. I promise you. I will make amends!’

She would not yield her heart to him, lest it sting with pity. In any case, such feelings within her had sunk into the depths. She did not think she would see them again. ‘Your High Priestess, Father, needs to understand – her temple, the faith she offers, it needs to be more than it is. Speak to her, Father, speak to her of hope. It’s not all there simply to serve her. She needs to give something back.’

She stepped away, retrieving her goblet. She drained it, and then went to her cloak. ‘My bed is not the place for confessions, especially the bloody kind. As for absolution,’ she turned and offered him a faint smile, ‘well, that will have to wait. There are things remaining, Father, that I still need to learn.’

The man looked wretched, but then he slowly straightened and met her eye, and nodded. ‘I will wait, Renarr.’

She felt that promise like a blow to her chest, and quickly angled away, to struggle with her cloak and fumble at the clasps.

Behind her, Urusander said, ‘Take your old room tonight, Renarr. Just this night. There are dire events in the town below.’

She hesitated, and then nodded. ‘This night, then. Very well.’

‘And Renarr, tomorrow morning, I would hear from you the details of that young soldier.’

‘Of course.’ But he would not. She would be gone with the dawn.

Bedrooms of girls and boys. All the way to tents and temples. Whoever could have imagined the distance possible between them, all in the span of a handful of years?

* * *

Silann walked through the camp, hunched over against the cold. His wife’s new habit of sending him on errands, delivering messages, along with a host of other demeaning tasks, was growing stale. He understood the nature of this punishment, and to begin with he had almost welcomed the escape from her company. Better than weathering the contempt in her eyes, the myriad ways of dismissal she had perfected in his presence.

Command was a talent, and he was not foolish enough to believe that he possessed it in abundance. Mistakes had been made, but thus far there had been no obvious, or direct, repercussions. That was fortunate and Silann had sensed a rebirth of possibilities, the way ahead opening up. He would do better next time. He would show Esthala that she had not married the wrong man.

Still, an angry woman carved deep trenches, and pulling her from them would not be an easy task. But he would make her see him in a new way, no matter what it took.

There had been that boy, that escape. And Gripp Galas. Back then, there was pressure, with choices that needed making, the kind of pressure that could stagger anyone in the same situation. Blood to be spilled, and then quickly buried. Moments of panic could take the surest officer.

Well, they were past that now. She was holding this grudge far too long. No one deserved the disgust she seemed so determined to level upon him, not after all these years of marriage. Uneventful marriage. No crises, and a son – true, he’s rejected the soldier’s path, but surely we can forgive him that, if only to accept, finally, that his is a weak soul, a soft soul, too tender for most professions, and we well know the harshness of an army’s culture. Its cruelties.

No, it’s all for the better, Esthala, and all this contempt – for me, for our son, for so many others – it offers no useful salve to your life. You must see that.

To reveal tenderness, darling, is not a confession of weakness. And even if it is, then we must all know that weakness, with someone.

You seek to be strong, at all times, in all company. It makes you impatient. It makes you cruel.

Still, he was done with delivering mundane messages. He would face her down, this night. There were different kinds of strength, after all. He would show her his, and name it love.

He started as a figure joined him, matching his stride. A glance across revealed a hooded, cloaked form and little else. ‘What is it you wish with me, soldier?’

‘Ah, forgive me, Silann. It is Captain Sharenas, fighting the cold however I can.’

Though she did not draw back the hood, Silann knew the voice. ‘Welcome back, Sharenas. Have you just returned, then?’

‘Yes. I was on my way to speak to your wife, in fact.’

Ah, then … well, Esthala and I will need to find another night, I suppose. Tomorrow night, to work things through, to make it better again. ‘She is awake,’ Silann said. ‘I too am on my way back to her.’

‘I assumed as much,’ Sharenas said.

The camp was relatively quiet, as the cold bit ever deeper. A few fires were still lit, making lurid islands of orange, yellow and red light. But most tents they passed were dark, tied up, as soldiers slept beneath blankets and, if they were lucky, furs.

‘Have you reported to Lord Urusander?’ Silann asked.

‘I have,’ she replied. ‘It was … extensive. The countryside, Silann, has become a troubled place. Many have died, and few of those were deserving of the violence delivered upon them.’

‘That is always the way, in civil war.’

‘Worse, of course, when the victims knew nothing of any civil war. When, alas, they were the first ones to fall to it. Knowledge and intention, Silann. In these circumstances, we can name them crimes.’

A faint tremor slipped through Silann. ‘Have you … have you compiled details, then?’

‘As best I could,’ Sharenas replied. ‘It was difficult, as not everyone was willing to speak to me.’ She paused, and they turned down a side avenue, approaching the command tent of Esthala’s cohort; then she said, ‘But I was fortunate to find some who would.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Yes. Gripp Galas, for one. And, of course, young Orfantal.’

Silann’s steps slowed and he half turned to the woman walking beside him. ‘An old man, I’m told, prone to baseless accusations and pointless feuds.’

‘Galas? I think not.’

‘What then do you wish with my wife?’

‘Only what needs doing, Silann. A conversation, just like the one I’m having with you right now.’

When he halted, Sharenas turned back to face him. The hood still hid her features, but he saw the glitter of her eyes. ‘This is an unpleasant conversation, Sharenas,’ he said. ‘I don’t think my wife will welcome your presence, not tonight, in any case.’

‘No, I suspect you’re right in that, Silann. A moment-’ She reached for something under her cloak. ‘I have something for you.’

He caught a flash of blue iron, felt a sharp sting under his chin, and then it seemed that everything simply drained away.

Blinking, he found himself lying on the ground, with Sharenas bent over him.

It was all … strange. Disturbing. He felt a hilt pressed up against the underside of his chin, and something was pouring out from his mouth, sliding thick and hot down his cheeks.

No. I don’t like this. I’m leaving now. He closed his eyes.

Sharenas pulled the dagger free. She collected Silann by the collar and dragged him between two equipment tents. Then she cleaned her blade on his cloak and sheathed it again.

It was only twenty or so paces to Esthala’s tent. Straightening, Sharenas resumed her journey. She reached the front and tapped at the ridge-pole, and then drew back the flap and stepped inside.

There was a brazier on the floor, emanating dry heat and a soft glow. Beyond that, Esthala was on a cot, settled back but still dressed. She looked over and frowned. Sharenas drew back her hood before the woman could speak, and saw a swift change of expression accompany recognition, but not one she could easily read.

‘Sharenas! I see you’ve not yet shed the leagues of travel behind you. But still,’ she sat up, ‘welcome back. There’s mulled wine near that brazier.’

‘Your husband will be late, I’m afraid,’ Sharenas said, drawing off her cloak. ‘I ran into him, on his way up to the keep.’

‘The keep? That idiot. I told him to send a rider if he did not find one of her acolytes. He gets nothing right.’

Sharenas collected the pewter jug and poured out two cups of the steaming wine. The sharp smell of almonds wafted up into her face. Leaving one cup where it was, she brought Esthala the other one.

The captain stood to receive it. ‘So, what brings you to me, then? And couldn’t it wait until the morning?’

Sharenas smiled. ‘You are legendary, Esthala, for working through the night. I myself recall, when we arrayed for battle on a clear morning, seeing you heavy with sleep. Quite the harridan, in fact.’

Snorting, Esthala drank.

From the camp outside, distant alarms rang out.

‘What now?’ Esthala asked, turning to set her cup down on the edge of the cot and reaching, at the same time, for her sword-belt.

‘Probably me,’ Sharenas replied, drawing her sword.

Esthala caught the faint rasp and whirled.

The sword’s blade sliced through the front half of her throat. Sharenas quickly stepped back to avoid most of the blood that sprayed out from the wound.

Esthala stumbled back, both hands grasping at her neck, and fell awkwardly across the cot, snapping one of its legs. As the cot sagged, the woman rolled off it to settle face-down on the tent floor. Her legs twitched for a few moments, and then fell still.

Sharenas quickly sheathed her weapon, cursing under her breath. She had been anticipating most of the night, for the work that needed doing. Instead, the Legion camp was now wide awake. And, in moments, one of Esthala’s lieutenants would come to the tent.

Still, there was time – at least for her to make her way to where the horses were kept. My apologies, Urusander. This hasn’t quite worked out as I had planned. And now I must ride away, with a bounty on my head.

Not all the nobles are hiding in their keeps, doing nothing. I will defend my blood first, Urusander. Surely you’ll understand that. Civil war is a messy business, isn’t it? Just ask Gripp Galas.

The rage within her remained bright and hot. It yielded a fierce, demanding thirst. She had wanted to stalk the night, moving through the camp, from one command tent to the next. For you, Vatha Urusander. And for Kurald Galain.

And another. But he rides far from here now, seeking the woman he would marry. I am relieved, Kagamandra, that you do not see me on this night, nor the trail of blood I have left behind me. And now, alas, I must flee, my work unfinished. And that, my friend, galls.

With her dagger, she cut through the back wall of the tent, and then slipped out into the night.

* * *

Humiliation bred a kind of hunger. Dreams of vengeance and acts of malice. Corporal Parlyn of the Ninth Company in the Silvers stood near the tavern door, leaning against the frame, and eyed Bortan and Skrael as they stood over the headless corpse of Captain Serap, their expressions difficult to read in the wavering light.

Neither man was displeased, she was certain, at Serap’s sudden demise. And if not for the beating they’d taken at her hands, incapacitating both of them for most of this night, they would have been among the first suspects in the murder.

The four brothers who had been sitting near the captain, however, were consistent in their retelling of events, and their tale matched that of the barkeep and his pale, shivering son. A travel-stained officer of the Legion had sat with Serap, engaging in quiet conversation that was brought to an abrupt end with the slash of a sword. Serap’s head was still lying on the table, stuck there, cheek and hair, by the thick pool of blood beneath it.

Serap’s lips were parted, caught in an instant of surprise. Her eyes, half-lidded, stared out with the chilling disinterest of the dead. Earlier that evening, Corporal Parlyn had stood opposite her, facing a sharp dressing down in front of her squad. The wake of that had curdled Parlyn’s insides, stung bitter and dark with vague hatred. But even that was not enough to leave her satisfied at the captain’s death.

Hunn Raal had come and gone. A few words ventured by the corporal, relating the story told by the witnesses, and then he was off, but not before countermanding his initial order to scour the town. It was, perhaps, the reason for her squad’s present disgruntlement. Bortan and Skrael had both drawn closer to the four brothers, who stood in a nervous clump behind their table. The stench of blood was heavy in the air, and, like wolves, her two soldiers were ready to bare fangs.

Humiliation. The denizens of the tavern had witnessed it, delivered by Serap herself, and Bortan and Skrael were hungry to pass it on.

Parlyn was tired. They’d been given the task of removing what was left of Serap, but it seemed that her energy – what little remained – was trickling away, drip by drip. Even her soldiers stood as if uncertain where to start.

But a vicious fight with the locals would answer their need quickly enough. Sighing, she stirred into motion, stepping into the room. ‘Skrael, find us a sack, for the head. Bortan, take Feled there and go hunt us down a stretcher.’ She paused, glancing across to the last three soldiers in the squad. ‘The rest of you, take station outside, eyes on the street.’

That last command was not well received. It was cold out there. Parlyn scowled until the three soldiers shuffled towards the door. She glanced back to see the barkeep appear from the kitchen with a burlap sack, which he pushed into Skrael’s hands.

Bortan, with a final glare back at the brothers, joined Feled at the door. They exited.

One of the brothers stepped forward, eyes on Parlyn, who raised her brows. The man hesitated, and then said, ‘She did good by us, sir. We’d like to be the ones to carry that stretcher … to wherever it needs going.’

Parlyn frowned. She glanced across at Skrael, who stood near the table, staring down at the severed head. There was no question that he’d heard. The corporal moved close to the farmer and said in a low voice, ‘I appreciate the sentiment, but by the time Bortan gets back, I expect you four to be gone. Our blood’s up, you see. Someone’s murdered a Legion officer. It’s our business now.’

The man looked back at his brothers, and then faced her again. ‘To show our respect, you see.’

‘I understand. If her ghost lingers, she’ll know how you feel. Go home, now.’

‘Well, I hope you catch that murderer, that’s all.’

‘We will.’

The four made their way out of the tavern. Parlyn watched them leave and then turned to see Skrael glaring at her.

‘Yes,’ she snapped, ‘it’d be easier, wouldn’t it?’

‘Sir?’

‘If they were the shits you wanted them to be.’

‘Not just me, sir. You called us out this night, to do some hunting.’

‘I did. Turns out, we were hunting the wrong enemy. I’ll accept that, with humility. You might try the same. Now, is that a coin there in the blood?’

He looked down at the table. ‘It is.’

‘Slip it into her mouth and close up that jaw, if you can. Silver eases the ghost.’

Skrael nodded. ‘So they say.’

He collected up the coin and studied it for a moment. ‘Barkeep says this one was Sharenas’s. Paying for the drink, I suppose.’

Parlyn had heard the same. It seemed an odd thing to do. She wondered about the conversation between those two officers, and how it could have led to what had happened here. She wondered, too, how Hunn Raal had known.

The sound the head made when Skrael pulled it free triggered in Parlyn an old memory from her childhood. Out behind the house where the wagon ruts ran down into that dip in the road. Mud that could pull your boot right off if you weren’t careful.

We used to think it was bottomless, that mud, enough to suck you right down, swallow you whole.

Yes, that’s the sound.

Left behind on the tabletop, blood and strands of hair. An empty tankard.

Well, I guess we’re not all going up on report after all. There’s a bright side to everything. And when Raal catches up to Sharenas, why, we’ll see her swing.

Skrael moved past her, the sack clutched in both hands. He grimaced. ‘Heavier than I expected, sir. Where to?’

‘Put it down by the door. We’ll wait for Bortan and Feled with the stretcher.’

She heard him cross the room, but did not turn. He’d pocketed the silver coin, she had seen. But the night was nearly done, and she was past caring.