Forge of Darkness

TWELVE

‘Do you know who I am?’

The young woman stood on the roadside, looking up at him.

She was old enough to have had her first night of blood, and there was a looseness about her that invited lust. At his question she nodded and said, ‘You are Lord Urusander’s son.’

By any measure, her respect was less than satisfying, verging on insult. Osserc felt his face reddening, a trait of his that he despised. ‘I am riding to my father,’ he said. ‘I deliver words of great import. From this day,’ he continued, ‘you will see changes come to the world. And you will remember this chance meeting on this morning. Tell me your name.’

‘Renarr.’

‘My father awaits me with impatience,’ Osserc said, ‘but for you I will make him wait.’

‘Not too long, I should think,’ she replied.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Only, milord, that I am sure the world is eager to change.’

He stood in the stirrups and scanned their surroundings. He had just crossed the ford of the nameless stream that half encircled Neret Sorr, although from here the settlement remained hidden behind the low hills directly ahead. Scrub flanked the stream’s basin, growing over the stumps of cut trees. The bushes seemed filled with birds, chattering in a thousand voices.

By the wet upon her leggings Osserc surmised that she too had been down at the stream, although she carried no skins or buckets. But he saw that she held something in one closed fist, and could guess at what it was. That alone made him feel ugly inside. ‘Are you from the village, then? I’ve not seen you.’

‘I don’t spend my evenings in the taverns, milord.’

‘Of course you don’t. But it seems that you know that I do.’

‘It’s known.’

‘Women fight to sit in my lap.’

‘I am happy for you, milord.’

‘What you are is insolent.’

Her expression faltered slightly and she looked down. ‘I am sorry that you think so, milord. Forgive me.’

‘It’s not your forgiveness that I want.’

And he saw then how his words frightened her, and that was the last thing he desired. ‘What do you hide in your hand?’

‘I–I do not hide it, milord. But it is personal.’

‘A stone from the stream.’

Eyes still downcast, she nodded.

‘A boy in the village?’

‘He is past being a boy, milord.’

‘Of course he is, to have earned your affection.’ Osserc drew up his spare horse. ‘You can ride? I will escort you back to the village. The day is hot and the road dusty, and I see that you wear no shoes.’

‘That is a warhorse, milord-’

‘Oh, Kyril is gentle enough, and most protective.’

She eyed the roan beast. ‘I did not know you gelded warhorses.’

‘Kyril would fight with my father’s horse, and that could not be permitted, as it endangered both of us — me and my father, that is — and distracted the other mounts. Besides,’ he added, ‘I grew tired of fighting him.’ After a moment, she still had made no move, and Osserc dismounted. ‘I was, of course, intending for you to ride Neth, since, as you say, it’s safer.’

She nodded. ‘You will be most impressive, milord, riding Kyril into the village. All will see that the son of Lord Urusander has returned, pursuing important matters of state. They will see the dust upon you and wonder what lands you have travelled.’

Osserc smiled and offered her the reins.

‘Thank you, milord,’ she said, pausing to sweep back her golden hair and deftly knot it behind her head; then she accepted Neth’s reins and drew close to the horse.

She waited for Osserc to swing into Kyril’s robust saddle before lithely leaping astride Neth’s back.

‘Ride at my side,’ Osserc said, guiding his mount alongside her.

‘I must not, milord. My beloved-’

Osserc felt his smile tightening and there was pleasure when he hardened his tone. ‘But I insist, Renarr. You will humour me in this small gesture, I am sure.’

‘Milord, if he sees-’

‘And if he does? Will he imagine that we dallied by the stream?’

‘You may wish him to think so — him and others, milord. And so make sport of him. And me.’

Osserc decided he disliked this young woman, but this made her only more attractive. ‘Am I to be challenged on my father’s own lands? By some farm boy? Will he think so little of you to imagine you unable to resist my charms?’

‘Milord, you are Lord Urusander’s son.’

‘And I am far from starved of the pleasures of women, as he must well know!’

‘Also known to him, milord, is your insatiability, and your prowess.’

Osserc grunted, feeling his smile return, but now that smile was relaxed. ‘It seems I have a reputation, then.’

‘One of admiration, milord. And perhaps, for young men, some envy.’

‘We shall ride side by side, Renarr, and should your beloved appear I will speak to put him at ease. After all, we have done nothing untoward, have we?’

‘You have been most gracious, milord.’

‘And you need never fear otherwise. As proof of that, I insist that you call me Osserc. I am my father’s son and we are humble before what modest privileges our family possesses. Indeed,’ he continued as they trotted up the road, ‘we take most seriously our responsibilities, which seems to be too rare a virtue among the highborn. But then, we are not highborn, are we? We are soldiers. That and nothing more.’

To this she said nothing, but he found her silence pleasing, since it told him that she was listening to his every word.

‘I will tell your beloved that he should be proud to have won your love, Renarr. The Abyss knows, I am too wayward and my future too uncertain, and besides, I have no freedom in such matters. For me, marriage will be political, and then there will be hostages and commissions and postings in border garrisons and the like. I see my future as one of service to the realm, and have made my peace with that.’

When he glanced across at her he saw that she was studying him intently. She quickly looked away. ‘Milord, there are some in the village — sour old women, mostly — who do not approve of your nightly visits with — to the taverns, I mean.’

‘Indeed?’

‘But by your words I see that you must find what pleasures you can, and I will speak against their harsh judgement, on your behalf. A life of sacrifice awaits you, milord.’

He laughed. ‘Then once again I am forgiven in your eyes?’

‘Please excuse my presumption, milord. A village is like a tree filled with birds all talking at once. All manner of things are said.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

They approached the slope of the last hill before the settlement. Off to the right, forty or so paces from the road and at the end of a rutted track, was an old stone house that had been abandoned generations past, its roof long since collapsed. Osserc slowed his mount and eyed the climb of the road. ‘You may not believe this,’ he said, ‘but I value your forgiveness, Renarr. In my mind, these are my last days of freedom, and with the news I bring, that claim feels starker than ever before. But I tell you,’ and he looked across at her, ‘I do yearn for a tender touch that I have not paid for.’

She met his eyes, and then turned her mount on to the rutted track. The glance she cast back at him was veiled. ‘I think your father and the world can wait a while longer, milord?’

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

‘ When you want a woman to give freely of herself, Osserc, let her know that the privilege is yours, not hers. Be tender in your touch, and afterwards, make no boasts to anyone. There are many kinds of love. Some are small and brief, like a flower, while others last much longer. Value each one, for too few are the gifts of this world. Are you listening, boy? ’

‘ I am, Hunn Raal. I always listen to what you have to say… until you’re too drunk to say anything worth listening to.’

‘ But boy, I ain’t never that drunk.’

Halfway to the abandoned house, he saw her let the polished stone slip from her hand. It vanished in the yellowed grasses.

They hobbled the horses behind the house, out of sight from the road, and Osserc took Renarr’s hand and led her in through the gaping doorway. The grasses were thick on the floor, lumpy with wooden remnants from the rotted, fallen roof. He spent a short time clearing a space and then laid out his cloak.

She stood watching him as he stripped off his armour and then set aside his sword belt. He was not ashamed of his body, for it was lean and he bore the muscles of a fighter. When he had pulled off his sweat-stained linen shirt he looked over to see that she had slipped out from her tunic. She wore no undergarments, telling him that she had bathed in the stream; perhaps to wash away a night of lovemaking with her beloved, and perhaps she still felt his clumsy, rough hands upon her body, his desperate kisses.

He would sweep away such memories, and in so doing would cause her beloved to begin to pall in her eyes, and she would find herself longing for a more seasoned touch — for in the ways of lovemaking the whores had taught him all he needed to know.

She was not thin, yet wore her weight as if she belonged in it, and no life of idyll or tug of years pulled down upon her. The curves were round and he had a vision of her in the future, swollen with child yet pretty much the same as she was now.

Osserc wondered, as he drew her to him, if she made use of the herbs the whores employed to ensure that a man’s seed took no root. As far as he knew, he’d yet to sire a bastard, though it was known that some whores went away and did not return, suggesting that the herbs were not foolproof. He had no aversion on that count, though his father would be less than pleased. Still, Urusander knew of his son’s trips down to the taverns — no doubt Hunn Raal kept his lord informed, perhaps in detail.

She was tentative at first, until her desire awoke to his measured caress, and much as he wanted to throw her down on the cloak and rut like a boar, he held himself back.

‘ There’s an art to torturing women in bed, Osserc. You want to tease… like a lake’s waves rolling on to the shore, with each wave reaching farther, only to slide back and away. You offer the flood, you see? And keep offering it, but not giving it, not until she begs to be drowned — and you’ll know it by how she holds you, her clutching hands, her gasps. Only then do you take her.’

When at last he slid into her, she cried out.

He felt something give inside her and wondered what it was, and only when they were at last done, and he rolled away and saw the blood, did he comprehend. She knew nothing of herbs, and her beloved was a man kept at a distance, and what he longed for Osserc had just stolen. The poor fool was finished.

Lying on his back, staring up at scudding summer clouds, he wondered how he should feel about all of that. ‘Renarr,’ he finally said. ‘If had known…’

‘I am glad, milord, that it was you.’

He heard her hesitation halfway through her confession, and knew that she had almost voiced his name; but in the wake of what they had done a new fragility had arrived, and Osserc knew enough to say as little as possible. He did not want this peasant girl walking up to the keep, belly distended, and shouting out his name.

His father would take her in — if only to spite his son. Things would get complicated. Besides, he had told her as much, hadn’t he? His future, the service and the sacrifices awaiting him? She understood well enough.

‘I will not ride with you into the village,’ she said.

He nodded, knowing she was up on one elbow and studying his face.

‘I need to go back to the stream.’

‘I know.’

‘Alone.’

‘If you think it best,’ he replied, reaching down to find her hand. He squeezed it and then held it up to his lips. ‘I will remember this day,’ he said. ‘When I ride the borderlands and grow old under the sun and stars.’

Her laugh was soft and, he realized after a moment, disbelieving. He looked across and met her eyes. She was smiling, and there was something both tender and sad in it. ‘I think not, milord, although it is kind of you to say so. I was… clumsy. Unknowing. I fear you must be disappointed, although you hide it well.’

He sat up, still holding her hand. ‘Renarr, I do not lie to make you feel better — I will not do that. When I say I will remember this day, I mean it, and above all, it is you that I will remember. Here, upon this cloak. To doubt me is to hurt me.’

Mute, she nodded, and he saw the glisten of tears in her eyes.

Suddenly she looked much younger. He studied her face. ‘Renarr, when was your night of blood?’

‘Almost two months past, milord.’

Abyss take me! No wonder her beloved only yearned! He climbed to his feet, reached for his shirt. ‘Your lips are puffy, Renarr. Use the cold water of the stream to ease them. I fear my beard has scratched your chin.’

‘I will pick berries and make more scratches.’

‘Upon your face? Not too many, I hope.’

‘A few, and on my knees, as if I had stumbled and fallen.’

He pulled on his leggings and reached for his armour. ‘By your wit, Renarr, I had judged you older.’

‘By my wit, milord, I am.’

‘Name your father and mother.’

She blinked. ‘My mother is dead. My father is Gurren.’

‘The old smith? But he was married to Captain — Abyss below, she was your mother? Why did I not know you?’

‘I have been away.’

‘Where?’

‘Yan Monastery, milord. In any case, I doubt you saw my mother much, and she died on the campaign against the Jheleck.’

‘I know she did,’ Osserc replied, buckling on his sword. ‘Renarr, I thought you just a girl — a woman, I mean — from the village.’

‘But I am.’

He stared at her. ‘Your mother saved my father’s life on the day of the assassins. She and Hunn Raal-’

‘I know, milord, and I am thankful for that.’

‘Thankful? She died.’

‘She did her duty,’ Renarr replied.

He looked away, ran both hands through his hair. ‘I need to think,’ he said.

‘There is nothing,’ she said. ‘I too will remember this day. That is all we need, is it not?’

‘And if you take my seed?’

‘I will make no claims upon you, milord.’ She paused and then added, ‘Most of the stories I’ve heard about you, milord, come from my father-’

‘Who hates us, and we do not blame him for that, Renarr — he should know that. He lost the woman he loved. My father still weeps to remember that day.’

‘It is all right, milord. It was my father’s unreasonable opinions of you that made me first curious, enough to see for myself. And, as I suspected, he is wrong about you.’

He thought to say more, but nothing came to him. She drew close and kissed him and then turned away. ‘I will wait here until you are well gone, milord.’

Feeling helpless, Osserc left the ruined house. He collected up both horses and led them on to the rutted track.

He caught sight of the polished pebble in the grasses, hesitated, and then continued on.

Three paces later he turned round and went back. He picked it up and slipped it into the pouch at his belt.

Once back on the road, he mounted the warhorse, and — Neth trailing — they took the hillside at a canter.

Ahead on the track, just past the village, a flag was being raised at the Tithe Gate at the bottom of the hill, announcing Osserc’s return. Seeing the banner climb skyward and then stream out in the wind pleased Osserc as he rode past the trader carts and the figures edged to one side of the road, standing with heads bowed. The flag’s field was sky blue studded with gold stars, and so marked one of Vatha blood. A second pole alongside the familial one remained bare, as it had done ever since Urusander ordered his Legion to stand down.

Houseblades — veterans of the Legion one and all — were pushing people from the gateway as Osserc approached. He rode through without slowing, nodding at the salutes from the old soldiers. The way ahead was steep and Kyril was blowing hard by the time they reached the keep’s High Gate.

He rode into the courtyard, hoping to see his father upon the steps — he would have been informed of his son’s return — but only retainers stood there. There had been a temptation, briefly entertained, to rein in at the Tithe Gate and order the Legion flag hoisted; but he had feared a refusal from the Houseblades. He imagined closed expressions looking up at him, and the sergeant telling him that only the Legion commander could order such a thing. Osserc’s authority was fragile enough, a thin shell left untouched out of respect for Urusander. So he had dismissed the idea. But now he wished he had insisted; that second flag would surely have brought his father out to meet him.

It seemed that he ever chose to do the wrong thing, and that each time boldness offered itself up he turned away from it; and to ride past the veterans with stern regard and silent resolve now struck him as diffident, if not pathetic. Self-possession, when nothing more than a pose, bared a prickly hide over a host of failures and all confidence could sink away leaving no trace: to hide weakness behind bluster was to hide nothing at all. He carried himself as if all eyes were upon him, and they gauged with critical judgement that hovered on the edge of mockery; Osserc imagined words muttered behind his back, laughs stifled when faces were turned away. He had earned nothing in his young life, and the airs he held to, he grasped with desperation.

Reining in at the steps, scowling as the grooms rushed in, he dismounted. He saw Castellan Haradegar — a man only a year or two older than Osserc — standing near the doors. Quickly ascending the steps, Osserc met the man’s eyes. ‘Where is my father?’

‘In his study, milord.’

Osserc had not yet eaten this day, but he knew his father forbade any food or drink anywhere near his precious scrolls. He hesitated. If he ate at once, then the import of his words would lose all vigour, but already a headache was building behind his eyes — he did not do well when hungry. Perhaps a quick bite first and then ‘He awaits you, milord,’ Haradegar said.

‘Yes. Inform the kitchens I will eat following my meeting with my father.’

‘Of course, milord.’

Osserc strode inside. The lower floor was crowded with workers — masons and carpenters and their flit-eyed apprentices — and the air was filled with dust, the stone paving underfoot coated in sawdust and the crumbled plaster that was all that remained of the old friezes that had once adorned every wall. He was forced to step round men and women, their tools and the blocks of marble and beams of rare wood, and these obstacles only darkened his mood. When he reached the study, he thumped heavily on the door and entered without awaiting invitation.

His father was standing over his map table, but this scene lost its martial pretensions in the details, since he leaned over an array of fired clay tablets, and the clothing he wore was ink-stained and spotted with dried droplets of amber wax. Urusander was unshaven and his long hair, streaked with grey, hung down in greasy strands.

Osserc strode forward until he stood opposite his father, the broad table between them.

‘You are in need of a bath,’ Urusander said without looking up.

‘I bring word from Hunn Raal, and Commander Calat Hustain.’

Urusander glanced up. ‘Calat Hustain? You were in the Outer Reach? Why did Hunn Raal take you there?’

‘We were visiting, Father. In the company of Kagamandra Tulas and Ilgast Rend, as well as Sharenas Ankhadu.’

Urusander was studying him. ‘Then where is Raal? I think I need a word with him.’

‘He rides in haste to Kharkanas, Father. There is dire news, which sent him to the Citadel, to audience with Mother Dark, and this same news sent me here, to you.’

Urusander’s expression was severe and it seemed to age him. ‘Out with it, then.’

‘A new threat, Father. Invasion — from the Sea of Vitr.’

‘Nothing comes from the Vitr.’

‘Until now,’ Osserc replied. ‘Father, this was of such importance that Sharenas and Kagamandra both rode out across Glimmer Fate to the very shore of the Vitr to see for themselves. Hunn Raal carried the news to the Citadel. Kurald Galain is under threat. Again.’

Urusander looked down but said nothing.

Osserc stepped closer to the table, until he felt its worn edge against his legs. ‘Mother Dark will have no choice,’ he said. ‘She will need the Legion once more. Sevegg, Risp and Serap have all ridden out, to carry word to the garrisons and to the decommissioned. Father, the flag must be raised-’

Urusander was studying the clay tablets, but at that he shook his head and said, ‘I have no interest in doing so.’

‘Then I will stand in your stead-’

‘I — you are not ready.’

‘In your eyes I will never be ready!’

Instead of replying to that accusation, instead of easing Osserc’s deepest fear, Urusander stepped away from the table and walked to the window behind him.

Osserc glared at his father’s back. He wanted to sweep the tablets from the tabletop, send them on to the floor to shatter into dust. For the briefest of instants, he wanted to drive a knife into his father, deep between the shoulder blades, straight down into the heart. But he did none of these things; he but stood, trembling against all that his father’s silence told him. Yes, son. You will never be ready. ‘What must I do to convince you?’ he asked, hating the weakness in his tone.

Urusander folded his hands behind his back but did not turn from whatever he was looking at through the murky window panes. ‘Give me one thought not made in haste, Osserc. Just one.’ He glanced over a shoulder, momentarily, and there was grief in his eyes. ‘And I will cling to it as if it were the Spar of Andii itself.’

Uncomprehending, Osserc shook his head. ‘Will you keep your only son beneath the respect of everyone? Your own soldiers? Why? Why do that to me?’

‘And if I make you commander of the Legion, you will have all the respect you so need?’

‘Yes!’

Urusander had turned back to the window. He now reached up and rubbed a smudge on the frail glass. ‘By title and the burden of responsibility, you will find all you yearn for? You will find this “respect” you’ve heard so much about, from old veterans and drunk fools; from the poets and what you think you see upon the wood panels so finely brushed into likenesses — from historians and other whores of glory?’

Osserc feared for his father’s mind. He struggled to return Urusander to this world, where matters of import needed to be discussed. ‘Father, listen to me. Mother Dark will summon you.’

‘I imagine that she will.’ But when he faced Osserc once more Urusander’s eyes were grave and wounded. ‘And in you, where there was weakness, there will be strength. And where there was strength, there will now be inflexible certainty. Doubts will drown, humility throat-cut and left face down in the mud, and on all sides they will salute you and hang upon your every word — which they must do, since you will hold their lives in your hands, Osserc. Not just your soldiers, but all of Kurald Galain. Every child, every child — do you comprehend any of this?’

‘You think me afraid? I am not, Father.’

‘I know, but I wish you were. Afraid. Terrified.’

‘You would have me frozen as a hare beneath a hawk’s shadow?’

‘I would have you afraid, Osserc. I would see you afraid — here, before me in this moment. I would see you realize that fear, and yet take its vast weight upon your shoulders, and stand strong. Resolute. I would see command humble you.’

‘Then, Father, I ask you. How will you ever see any of that if you do not give me command?’

‘Still you do not understand, do you?’

‘Because you offer, only to take away!’

‘Is it only commanders who know fear? What of the crippled widower who can no longer support his family? Or the widow with too many children to feed? What of the lone wanderer who spends a night without shelter when the wolves are hunting? What of the broken man who must rise to face every morning when all love is dead and all hope is lost? Tell me, who does not live with fear?’

‘Father, you give me nothing with these words. What fears have I faced, when you have kept me locked up here instead of riding with you and your soldiers?’

Urusander sighed. ‘You will find a soldier’s fear in your time, Osserc. I never doubted your courage with blade in hand and self-preservation the wager.’

Even a compliment from his father could sting in its utterance. Before he could muster a reply, however, his father continued. ‘Osserc, why did you ever imagine that I would give you the Legion?’

The question struck like a blow against his chest. Osserc felt his knees weaken and he almost reeled. ‘But — Hunn Raal said-’

Urusander’s brows lifted. ‘Hunn Raal? He’s like a lame dog I can’t keep from under my feet. He’s an Issgin — of course he does nothing but sniff my heels for any scrap he can find. The Issgin yearn for a return to the court, and he’s the closest of their brood to that and no doubt he imagines himself almost within reach of it. He rode to bring word to Mother Dark? He seeks an actual audience with her?’ Urusander shook his head. ‘The man is a drunk with a drunk’s bloated self-image — Abyss knows, drunks think themselves clever, and measure the prowess of their wit by the genius of their rationalizations. Of course, the first fool they deceive is themselves. There will be no audience with Mother Dark. Not for Captain Hunn Raal.’

‘But I am your son! Who else should inherit the Legion?’

‘Inherit? Is Kurald Galain’s only standing army a thing to be inherited? Like a keep, or a precious bauble? Is it a mine? A forge? A fine horse? A throne? Have you understood nothing? One cannot inherit the Legion — one must earn the right to the privilege of commanding it.’

‘Then why didn’t you prepare me for that? I could earn nothing here in this keep while the rest of you were out fighting! You have doomed me, damn you!’

Urusander leaned back at his son’s tirade. Then he said, ‘Because, son, for you I wanted something better.’

Osserc did not even recognize the room he found. It was small, crammed full of rolled-up tapestries from the rooms above. The bare stone floor was littered with moth carcasses and the air was rank with the smell of mould. Locking the door he threw himself down on a musty heap piled up along one wall. Shudders took him as he wept. He hated his weakness: even rage unmanned him. He thought back to Renarr, and saw anew the look in her eyes — which had not been tenderness. It had been pity that he saw. Even now, he suspected, she was spinning the tale to her giggling friends.

He wrapped his arms about his folded-up legs and rested his forehead on his knees, still fighting the tears, but now they marked his shame, his helplessness. His father held to glory as a miser clutched the world’s last coin. There was nothing here for Osserc; nothing for a son chained to childhood.

He would seal me in wax. Place me upon the highest shelf in some dusty room. To lie there, like some preserved memory. My father remembers innocent days and yearns for a return to his own childhood. But as that cannot be, he would make me what he once was, and keep me there: Vatha Urusander before the wars.

I am his nostalgia. I am his selfishness made manifest.

I will leave here. Tonight. Tomorrow. Soon. I will leave and not return. Not return until I am ready, until I have made myself anew. Indeed, Father, I am to inherit nothing from you, nothing at all. Especially not your weakness.

I will set out. Seeking truths. Seeking my place, and when I return I shall blaze with triumph, with power. I shall be a man such as… as Anomander himself. You think me not clever, Father? But I am. You think me unwise? You are to blame for what wisdom I lack, but no matter. I shall find my own wisdom.

I shall leave Kurald Galain.

And ride alone into the world.

To such bold claims, he saw in his mind his father’s face, and that look of disappointment as the old man said, ‘ Alone, son? Weren’t you listening? Your fears will run with you, like a pack of wolves howling to bring you down. The only true solitude, to any man, to any woman, to any thinking being, is death.’

‘I know that,’ he whispered in reply, lifting his head and wiping at his cheeks. ‘I know that. Let the wolves close in — I will kill them all, one by one, I will kill them all.’

His head pounded; he was hungry, but all he could manage was to lie down upon the rolls of cloth and close his eyes. Pain had its own teeth, sharp and eager, and they sank deep into him. Bite by bite, they could tear him away — they were welcome to all that was lying here — until nothing was left.

The shell was gone, shattered by an old man who had tried to convince him that a cell was a palace, and imprisonment a gift. Even Hunn Raal had lied to him. Hunn Raal, an object of contempt to the man whose very life he had saved. Was it any wonder the fool drank to excess?

But he’s been very busy, Father. Speaking in your name. That part was easy, since all he had to fill was silence. You do not even know it, but he has your future all mapped out. You’ve surrendered all choice, dear Father.

I am glad you didn’t raise the flag. The Legion is no longer yours, although you do not yet know that, either. It will march in your name, however. That it will do.

Changes are coming, coming to us all.

Over the next two days Osserc avoided his father, taking his meals in his chambers. He gathered together all that he would need, selecting two swords, including a hundred-year-old Iralltan blade — that forge, rival to the Hust, had been destroyed by the Forulkan, the family slaughtered and the keep fired. The mines had been later taken over in yet another example of Henarald’s acquisitive greed. The weapon had been a gift from Hunn Raal, and it was finely made, bearing an elegance of line that no Hust weapon could match. Osserc had never used it when sparring, although his practice weapon was a perfect match in balance, reach and weight. His other sword was from a secondary family forge, under the ownership of the Hust but tasked with making weapons for Urusander’s Legion. It was plain but serviceable, and held its edge well, although twice the bars of the hilt had been replaced after cracking round the grip.

Many veterans claimed that the Hust had deliberately supplied inferior weapons to Urusander’s Legion, but this was the subject of guarded mutterings in the barracks, since Lord Urusander, upon hearing that opinion, had revealed a rare loss of temper, publicly dressing down the officer who had voiced the suspicion.

Osserc believed the soldiers, although apart from the bars, his Legion sword bore no flaws in workmanship. The iron was free of tin pits and the blade was impressively true.

In addition to these weapons, he selected a hunting knife, a dagger and three lances. The armour he chose was not the full dress set: silver filigree invited a thief’s eye and besides, it was too heavy to suit his fighting style. Instead, he selected a thick but supple leather hauberk, studded over the thighs to pull its weight down. Stained black, it was reinforced beneath the leather on the shoulders and the back of the neck with iron strips bound to the quilting of the inner layer. The heavily studded sleeves ended at his elbows where they were joined by thick straps to his vambraces, which were of matching black leather but banded in bared iron. Over all of this he wore a grey cloak, since the leather of his armour did not fare well under the harsh sun.

The helm he chose was a light skullcap of blued iron with a chain camail.

At two bells past midnight on the third night, he carried his gear down to the stables, making use of side passages to avoid the main rooms where the occasional guard wandered. He had done as Hunn Raal had asked of him. He had delivered the news of the Vitr. His responsibilities were at an end, and whatever might now happen in Kurald Galain, he would play no part in it. In fact, he had ceased to care.

He reached the stables undiscovered, and once there he set about saddling his two horses. They had been reshoed since his return and he took a moment to examine the work. Satisfied, he loaded his camp gear on to Neth’s broad back, including two of the lances and the Legion sword. From this moment forward, he would wear the Iralltan blade.

He led both mounts outside and swung on to his warhorse. Both animals were restless as he rode across the courtyard. At the gate two guards emerged.

‘Late to be riding, milord,’ one said.

In the gloom Osserc could not recognize the man, although his voice was vaguely familiar. ‘Just open the gate,’ he said.

The men complied and moments later Osserc rode through and out on to the track. For a change, the route down into the town was unobstructed. Once among the low buildings he eased Kyril into a slow trot. At one point he thought he heard running feet off to his left, crossing an alley, but when he turned he saw little more than a dark shape, quickly vanishing from sight.

He thought nothing of it until, upon reaching the last buildings on the north edge of the settlement, he found a figure standing in the lane before him. Curious, Osserc reined in.

‘You have business with me?’ he asked.

There was some light bleeding out from a house on one side, enough for Osserc to see that it was a man who was blocking his path. Young, heavy-set, breathing hard from his run. It seemed his hands were stained and they hung half curled at his sides.

‘She told me everything,’ the man said. ‘It took a while, but she told me everything.’ He stepped forward. ‘Y’think I couldn’t see? Couldn’t tell that she’d changed? Y’think I’m blind? I been waitin’ for you, sir. Keepin’ an eye on the road. I knew if you lit out, it’d be in the dark.’

Osserc dismounted. He approached the man, and saw now, clearly, the welts and cuts on the man’s knuckles, the kind made by someone’s teeth.

‘You shouldn’t of done that, sir. She was sweet. She was pure.’

As Osserc continued advancing, the man’s eyes widened slightly, his nostrils flaring. When he began tugging free his knife Osserc leapt forward. He blocked the draw and closed one hand tightly on the wrist, forcing it down. His other hand found the man’s throat. He squeezed hard and continued squeezing, even as the man reached up and fought to pull free.

‘You beat her?’ Osserc asked. ‘That sweet, pure woman?’

The eyes before him were bulging, the face darkening. Osserc drew out the man’s knife and flung it away. The man’s legs gave out before him and his weight yanked at Osserc’s grip, so he brought up his other hand to join the first one. He saw the man’s tongue protrude, strangely black and thick.

His struggles weakened, and then ceased entirely.

Osserc studied the lifeless eyes. He was not sure if he had intended to kill the fool. But it was done now. He released his grip and watched as the body crumpled on to the dirt track.

I killed someone. Not in battle — no, it was in battle. Well, close enough. He went for his knife. He came to me, thinking to stab me. To murder me. And he beat Renarr — I saw the proof of that. He beat her like a coward. Might be he killed her — would I have heard? I stayed in my room, stayed away from the taverns. I know nothing of what’s happened in town.

He beat her to death, but justice was mine, mine to deliver.

He found himself back on his horse, riding clear of Neret Sorr, winding tracks, low stone walls and farmhouses before him. He was trembling and his left hand ached.

He had been counted strong, even by the soldiers he’d sparred with. And he had, with one hand, just crushed a man’s throat. A grip that had seemed filled with rage, with almost mindless fury — if only it had blinded him; if only he’d not been able to see the man’s face, his eyes, his open mouth and the jutting tongue. Somehow, even that ghastly mask had simply made him squeeze harder.

Osserc could not understand what had happened, how any of this had happened. He had meant to ride away unseen by anyone, setting forth on a new life. Instead, in his wake they would find a dead man, strangled, a parting gift of horror from the Lord’s son.

Thoughts of his father struck him then, like blows to the body that left him sickened. He urged Kyril into a fast canter, fighting to stifle a moan.

The night, so vast around him, seemed to mock him with its indifference. The world held no regard for his feelings, his fears; the mad cavort of all the things filling his head. It cared nothing for the ache in his left hand and how it felt as if it still grasped that throat — the throat with its hard muscles that slowly surrendered to the ever-tightening pressure of his grip, and the way the windpipe finally crumpled into something soft and ringed that moved too easily, too loosely. All these sensations roiled in his fingers, in the flattened throb of his palm, and though he dared not look down, he knew he would see murder’s own stain — a stain invisible to everyone else but unmistakable to his own eyes.

Hunched over, he rode on. And there came then a bleak thought, repeating in his mind amidst the thumping drums of horse hoofs.

The darkness is not enough.

Beneath bright morning light, Serap rode into Neret Sorr from the south track. Once on the high street, she swung her horse left and made for the keep road. But the way ahead was blocked by a flat-bed wagon, the ox rigged to it, and a small crowd. Three of the town’s constabulary were there, and Serap saw two young men approach from a lane opposite, carrying a body between them on a canvas tarp. They clutched the corners but kept losing their grip. Though other men walked with them none made a move to help.

Reining in, Serap looked to the nearest constable and saw that the man was studying her. After a moment he stepped forward.

‘Lieutenant Serap.’

She studied him. ‘Ex-Legion, yes? Ninth Company.’

‘Sergeant Yeld, sir. I was on Sharenas’s staff.’

‘What has happened here?’

‘Murder last night, sir. A local got strangled.’

‘If you’ve a mind to hunt down the killer,’ she said, ‘I have some experience at that. Has he run or he is holed up somewhere?’

All at once the sergeant looked uncomfortable. ‘Not sure, sir. No witnesses.’

‘Is there a seer in town?’

‘Old Stillhap up at the keep, sir. We haven’t sent for him yet.’

Serap dismounted. Her back was sore. She’d ridden hard from Kharkanas, bearing the latest news along with Hunn Raal’s usual exhortations to ensure that she spoke directly with Lord Urusander. Although the news she had been instructed to give him made her uneasy, since much of it was close to a lie, she was now committed. Still, a minor delay here in town might give her time to compose her thoughts, quell her misgivings, before seeing Urusander. ‘I will examine the body,’ she said, walking over to where the two men had finally reached the wagon with their burden.

The sergeant joined her. ‘Mason’s apprentice, though his master tells us he ain’t been showing for work up at the keep the past two days, and no one recalls seeing him in that time either. He was up to something, I suppose.’

The body was on the bed now and Serap climbed aboard the wagon. She drew the canvas to one side, revealing the corpse.

Yeld grunted. ‘Ugly way to die, sir.’

‘Not a rope or garrotte.’

‘No sir. Was hands that done that.’

‘Not hands, sergeant. One hand.’

Mutters sounded from the crowd now gathered round.

Serap straightened. ‘Takes a strong man to do that. I see a knife sheath at his belt but no knife.’

‘Found a dozen paces away, sir,’ said Yeld.

‘Blood on it?’

‘No. But look at his hands — seems he fought back.’

‘Anyone with a bruised face in this mob?’ Serap asked with a half-smile as she scanned the townsfolk. ‘No,’ she added. ‘That would be too easy.’

Someone spoke from the crowd. ‘Anyone seen Renarr?’

‘Who’s Renarr?’ Serap asked.

‘The woman he was courting,’ Yeld replied. ‘From what I gather.’

‘Millick was courtin’ and plannin’ t’marry,’ someone else said.

‘Where does this Renarr live?’

Yeld pointed to a solid stone house at the western end of the high street, close to the Tithe Gate.

‘Send anyone over there yet?’

‘Sir, she’s Gurren’s daughter. Gurren was married to Captain Shellas.’

‘And?’

‘And Gurren’s got no love for Legion. Or ex-Legion. I doubt we could get in the door.’

‘But she needs to be told, sergeant. Out of decency, she needs to know.’

‘I expect she knows, sir. It’s been on everyone’s tongue all morning, this whole mess.’

Serap returned to her horse. She gestured Yeld close and kept her voice low as she said, ‘Was this Gurren’s work? Did the boy — Millick — rape his daughter, you think? Knock her up?’

Yeld clawed at his beard, squinting at the ground. ‘Gurren’s got a temper. And he used to be a smith — still has a hand in, so long as it ain’t Vatha or Legion work. But sir, no one wants to lose a smith. This town’s only got the one who ain’t working day and night for Lord Urusander. I admit, living here now, I’m pretty reluctant to stir up a wasp nest-’

‘A mason’s apprentice was murdered in the street, sergeant.’

‘And no one’s looking at Old Smith Gurren. That’s the problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Meaning I heard from one of last night’s High Gate guards that Osserc rode out two bells past midnight, trailing a spare mount and kitted for a journey. He ain’t come back, and it gets worse.’

‘How?’

‘Clean horse tracks on the lane up to and then around the body. Freshly shoed, just like Osserc’s mounts were. Osserc’s probably the strongest man I know, lieutenant. Take all that and add to rumours from a few days ago, about Renarr coming back late from the stream — same track as Osserc rode in on earlier that morning… so you see, right now there’s rumours and just rumours and still plenty of mysteries. It’s a wasp nest no matter which side we kick at it.’

Serap cursed under her breath. ‘That gate guard been talking?’

‘Just to me.’

‘And those horse tracks?’

‘I took note, since I was put in mind of Urusander’s boy riding out. But I don’t think anyone else noticed. Get plenty of riding back and forth, and I obscured the path that went round the body. Scuffed it up, I mean.’

‘I know what you meant,’ she replied, irritated with the detail. ‘Has Lord Urusander been informed of any of this?’

‘Not yet, sir. I was on my way when you arrived.’

‘You could clear Gurren by making him put his left hand round the dead man’s neck — see if the imprint fits.’

‘Yes, sir, I could, though the body’s starting to swell up some.’

‘But if you did and Gurren was cleared of suspicion, you’d be left with one choice-’

‘Yes, sir, and it’s a rumour already out here. Going after Gurren would make it worse, if you see what I mean. Worse for Lord Urusander. Worse for the Legion.’

‘You’ve thought this through, Yeld.’

The sergeant shrugged. ‘We can’t make it go away, sir, but we can let it rust.’

Serap swung into the saddle. ‘I will report all this to Lord Urusander.’

‘All of it?’

‘All that he needs to hear. There’s been a murder. No witnesses and no suspects. The rest is just base speculation. The loss of a mason’s apprentice will be a hardship on the family, and no doubt the mason, too, and we both know that the commander will do what’s necessary to ease their loss.’

The sergeant nodded up at her. ‘Very good, lieutenant. Oh, and welcome.’

She eyed him jadedly at that, but he seemed sincere. She edged her horse past the wagon and then through the crowd. The mood around her wasn’t yet ugly, which was something. She did not envy Yeld and his squad.

Riding on, she drew opposite Gurren’s stone house and reined in. She eyed the shuttered windows, and then the faint wisps of smoke rising from the chimney. Dismounting, Serap left her horse standing on the track and made her way to the front door. She thumped on the blackwood.

There was no response.

Serap waited for a time and then made her way round to the back yard. Pushing through the gate, she saw Gurren hunched over the forge, stirring the coals.

She approached, but from one side, to give him the opportunity to see her. He offered up a single glance then returned to his work.

‘Old Smith,’ she said. ‘We’ve not met, but I know of you and, of course, of your wife. You have my deepest sympathies.’

He made no reply.

‘Gurren, where is your daughter?’

‘In the house.’

‘She does not come to the door.’

‘Ain’t surprised.’

‘Why?’

He faced her. He was not as old as his local title suggested, but he was bowed; the muscles from a lifetime with hammer and tongs were still visible but the skin around them was slack, as if he had been ill for a long time. The watery grey eyes were like broken glass. He spat yellow mucus on to the ground and said, ‘Night before last she barely made it back to the door, beaten half t’death. Witch Hale comes over and works on her, and comes out and tells me. Broken jaw, broken cheekbone; won’t see good outa her left eye ever again.’

‘Someone killed the man who did that, Gurren.’

‘I know. Hale got the girl to talk.’

‘What did she say?’

Gurren’s face was impossibly flat, impossibly empty of all expression. ‘From what Hale could make out, Urusander’s lad plucked her, but tenderly. But Millick saw enough to guess and took the rest out on her. And now Millick’s dead, choked in North Lane last night, and Osserc’s gone.’

‘That’s right,’ Serap said, seeing no need to dissemble. ‘Some rumours are going around that you might have been the one doing the killing.’

Gurren nodded. ‘I set those out, lieutenant.’

‘To muddy the trail.’

He eyed her, and then said, ‘I been holding a long hate for your lord, and your Legion that saw my wife killed, taken from me and Renarr.’

She nodded. ‘Poets have written of Urusander’s grief over your wife’s death.’

‘Poets can go fuck themselves.’

‘Well…’

‘I’m dying,’ Gurren said. ‘Witch Hale says it’s too late. Had my doubts about Millick all along, but she was set on him, you see, and with me leaving and all…’

‘I’m sorry how it turned out-’

‘I’d be a lot sorrier,’ he snapped, ‘leavin’ her to a lifetime of beatings and maybe worse. So it’s like this. I owe Osserc and if I could, why, I’d kneel before him, take that murdering hand of his, and kiss it.’

Serap stared, struck silent.

Gurren turned back to the forge. ‘Tell your lord this, lieutenant. Between us, now, the water is clear.’

‘I will tell him,’ she whispered.

‘But I want my daughter taken care of.’

She nodded. ‘I will swear to that.’

He shot her a hard look. ‘Legion vow?’

‘Legion vow, Gurren.’

The man suddenly smiled, and years vanished from him, despite the sickness behind his eyes. ‘I’ll be seeing my wife soon. There’s nothing like waiting, when the waiting’s about to end. Go on with you, then. I got me some chains to melt down for the nailmonger, and this fire ain’t nearly hot enough yet.’

‘Commander, it is good to see you again.’

Vatha Urusander seemed to study her for a moment before gesturing her to sit. They were in the room Hunn Raal called the Vault. Shelves lined all the walls, reaching to the ceiling. Scrolls, bound books, manuscripts and clay tablets bowed every shelf. A single work table dominated the room. Two chairs were pushed up against it, while the lower, padded chairs they now occupied stood like sentinels to either side of the low doorway.

The positioning was awkward in that Serap could not face Urusander unless she perched sideways on the seat. As expected, the commander seemed indifferent to this detail. There was an air of distraction about him that Serap had seen each time she had visited over the past two years, and she gauged it as the look of a man slowly losing himself. It pained her.

‘How are Sevegg and Risp?’ Urusander asked.

Startled, Serap shrugged. ‘They fare well, sir. Busy.’

‘Busy with what?’

‘Sir, I have news from Kharkanas.’

He glanced away, as if to study the archives lining the shelves opposite. ‘Hunn Raal has sent you.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And no doubt Risp and Sevegg are running horses into the ground to deliver word to the garrisons.’

‘Sir, there is need, once again, for the Legion. There is need for you.’

‘There will be no invasion from the Sea of Vitr. The very idea is ridiculous.’ He met her eyes and his gaze was sharp and hard. ‘Hunn Raal would have the realm stirred in panic. He sows fear with the sole aim of resurrecting the Legion — not to meet this imagined threat, but to coerce the highborn, Draconus and ultimately Mother Dark. He still bears the wound of our dismissal.’

‘I will not lie, sir, he does bear that wound. We all do.’

‘Old soldiers cannot fit in a peaceful world,’ Urusander said. ‘They feel like ghosts and they hunger for the zeal of life, but the only life they know is one of violence. War is a drug to them, one they cannot do without. And for many others, to see an old soldier is to know of sacrifices they never made, and to feel an obligation they come to resent, and so they would rather not see that old soldier. They would rather forget. For yet others, Serap, an old soldier reminds them of their own losses, and the grief stings anew. It is right that we go away, but more than that, it is right that we embrace silence and solitude. We have devoured horror and now we are as ghosts, because we stand next to death and we cannot leave its side.’

Serap stared at her commander. His words, delivered leaden as pronouncements, felt cold inside her now, an unwelcome gift filled with unwelcome truths. ‘Sir, an Azathanai emerged from the Sea of Vitr, a woman. She was found by a Warden and escorted through Glimmer Fate. That Warden named her T’riss. Monks of Yan Monastery intercepted them and commandeered the protection of the Azathanai. They brought her to their Hold. This proved a grave error. Sir, the woman resurrected the long-dead river god worshipped by the Yan and the Yedan. She then marched, in the fearful company of monks, to Kharkanas. Upon entering the city she raised the river in flood. Water dripped from stone to the very door of Mother Dark’s Chamber of Night.’

‘A moment,’ cut in Urusander. ‘You describe an assault upon Mother Dark.’

‘I do, sir. There were casualties.’

‘Who?’

‘The High Priestess Syntara-’

‘She is dead?’

‘No. In the Chamber of Night T’riss assailed the High Priestess and left her… sullied, in Mother Dark’s eyes. She was forced to flee and now seeks sanctuary with the Legion-’

‘Hold!’ Urusander rose suddenly. ‘What you say makes no sense. Mother Dark is not cruel. She would not cast out her own High Priestess! What you describe is madness!’

‘Perhaps I misspoke,’ Serap said. ‘We cannot know for certain what occurred in the Chamber of Night, in the moment of confrontation between the Azathanai and Mother Dark. Even Lord Anomander was late in arriving. But Syntara fled the chamber. She sought out Hunn Raal — sir, the High Priestess is changed, manifestly changed. It may be that what she now possesses — and what Mother Dark’s servants proclaim — is indeed a curse. But perhaps it is the very opposite. It may in truth be a gift. Sir, she is coming here, to you-’

‘And you imagine I will grant her sanctuary — from Mother Dark? Have you all lost your minds?’

‘Sir, she comes to you, not as the commander of the Legion, but as a scholar, as one who has delved the histories. She comes begging for your knowledge. What is this that she now holds within herself? Is it a curse as her rivals say, or is it a gift?’

‘Where is the Azathanai now?’

‘Banished by Mother Dark.’

‘Has Draconus returned from the west?’

Serap blinked. ‘No, he has not yet returned, not even to Dracons Hold, where awaits the army he has raised.’

‘Army? Don’t be absurd — the Consort seeks consolidation, lest any highborn take advantage of perceived weakness. He knows how precarious his position is, and how resented he is as well. Do you think I am unable to see through Hunn Raal’s incessant reports? No, Serap, and I sense Hunn Raal’s subtle twisting of all that you tell me here.’

The coldness inside her worsened and she had to struggle not to drop her eyes from his unwavering regard. ‘Sir, there is no twisting to the truth that the Deniers are awakened to their old faith. That the ancient river god has summoned its worshippers, and indeed has made both the Yan and the Yedan kneel to its suzerainty. The cult of Mother Dark is under threat. Kharkanas, upon the banks of Dorssan Ryl, is in danger of inundation. The old temple in the very heart of the Citadel has been usurped. If all this is not alarming enough, sir, we have reports — sketchy ones, to be true — of demons upon the shore of the Sea of Vitr. Captains Sharenas and Kagamandra Tulas are even now returning from the Sea of Vitr, and they ride not for the forts of the Wardens — they ride here, sir, to you.’

Urusander had been standing, his hands upon the back of the chair he had been sitting in earlier, through all that Serap recounted. When she finished she saw the knuckles of his hands bloom white, and then, in a blur, the chair was sent across the small room. It collided with the heavy table and broke apart as if struck by a siege stone. The sound of the impact, the shattering and splintering of wood, hung in the air.

Serap felt driven back into her seat by the ferocity of Urusander’s fury. Struck silent, she made no move, not wanting to draw his attention in any way.

He was staring at the wreckage he had made. Without looking at her, he spoke in a low tone, ‘What else?’

She fought to speak evenly. ‘Sir, there are rumours. Deniers among the Hust Legion. Deniers among the Wardens of the Outer Reach. Deniers among the Borderswords. Even among the highborn. All who refuse the cult of Mother Dark. We face a religious war, sir, and we are compromised on all sides. We cannot even be sure if all this was not long in planning, from the rise of the Azathanai to the rebirth of the river god. What is undeniable is this: Mother Dark is weakened, and neither Draconus nor Anomander and his brothers nor even all the remaining — loyal — highborn and their Houseblades will be enough — not against a peasant uprising in the countryside, an uprising bolstered by the Hust, the Wardens and the Borderswords.’

‘I do not want this,’ Urusander whispered.

‘There is a way through this, sir.’

‘I am done with it, all of it.’ He glared at her. ‘ I do not want this! ’

Serap rose. ‘Commander, we both know well Captain Hunn Raal’s ambitions, and so we must always view his zeal with caution. But he is no fool and his loyalty to you is absolute. We are not as unprepared as you might fear.’

‘I know why he sent you,’ Urusander said, turning away. ‘Not Risp, with her bloodlust. Not Sevegg, who can’t think past her crotch.’

‘Kurald Galain needs you, sir. Kurald Galain needs the Legion. However, I am neither blind nor deaf. Name a successor to the command and-’

Urusander snorted, but it was a bitter sound, and then he said, ‘There is no one.’

‘Sir, it is as you have said many times: you have done your duty. You have found a new life, with new interests, and they are yours by right-’

‘Abyss knows they are that!’

‘Sir-’

‘I know Hunn Raal thinks me unmanned. He fears I have lost the necessary edge, that I am dulled by inactivity.’

‘He does not discuss his fears with me, sir. If he did, I would tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he is wrong.’

‘Save the flattery, Serap. He might well be right. I have hidden myself away here. I sought to make a new… a new… setting. For my — for me and my son. The Legion is behind me, where I left it, and there I wanted it to stay.’

‘Sir, about your son-’

‘He is gone. We argued…’ Urusander shook his head. ‘He is gone.’

‘It may be, sir, that you have underestimated him.’

‘I have made mistakes.’

‘I have a tale to tell you, then, about Osserc. About your son.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Not now. You tell me there is a way through this.’ He faced her. ‘The highborn are not my enemy. I will not be the deliverer of civil war to Kurald Galain.’

‘We can win over the loyal highborn, sir.’

Urusander’s sneer was ugly. ‘By turning on Draconus.’

‘He is no friend of yours.’

‘He is the man Mother Dark loves.’

‘I doubt that, else she would marry him.’

‘If she did the highborn would surely rise and where would that put us? The Legion will defend Mother Dark. If this means defending Draconus too, then so be it. Thus: civil war.’

‘This must be the reason, then,’ said Serap, ‘why she does not marry him.’

‘Probably,’ Urusander growled. He bent down and picked up the back of the shattered chair. Fragments of the arms hung from it. ‘Wedding gift,’ he muttered, ‘these.’

‘They will accept a husband for Mother Dark, sir, but not from among their own. Someone from the outside, who curries no favours, who owes not one among them and would remain immune to their advances.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Mother Dark is not blind to expedience, sir. And if I may be so bold, neither are you. We stand in service to Mother Dark. We did so once, and now we shall do so again.’

He let the chair-back fragment fall to the floor, and then eyed her. ‘You say we are not unprepared.’

‘No sir, we are not.’

‘I must speak with Mother Dark, before I do anything else.’

‘Sir, forgive me, but there may not be time. That said, sir, I am at your disposal.’

‘I was going to send you after my son.’

‘I think it best we let him alone. For a time.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The tale I spoke of earlier, sir. Will you hear it now?’

He strode to the doorway. ‘Walk with me, Serap. The air is too close in here and I need the feel of light upon my face.’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Speak to me, then, of my son.’

The sound of many horses reached Gurren as he was shovelling coal, and upon hearing the mounts drawing up on the street in front of his house, he dropped the shovel, dusted his blackened hands, and made his way towards the side passage.

He was halfway along when he saw the soldiers, at least a dozen, and among them two Legion healers. Coming to the corner he saw that Witch Hale had emerged from the house and stood blocking the front door. Gurren pushed between a pair of soldiers. One of the healers moved close to Hale and the two began talking.

An officer spoke to Gurren. ‘Old Smith, forgive us this intrusion-’

‘I might,’ he said, ‘or I might not.’

‘Lord Urusander sent us, sir-’

‘Don’t “sir” me.’

‘My apologies. I did not mean to imply rank, only respect.’ Gurren’s eyes narrowed. The officer went on. ‘Your daughter has suffered injuries.’

‘Witch Hale’s seen to them.’

‘Lord Urusander holds the utmost regard for Witch Hale,’ the officer replied. ‘But our Legion healers are trained in the mending of bones and the purging of infection. Cutter Aras, who speaks with the witch, apprenticed under Ilgast Rend. They have discovered sorceries-’

‘As you say,’ Gurren interrupted, and then he moved past the officer, walking over to where stood Hale and Aras. Ignoring the Legion cutter, Gurren edged close to Hale. ‘You can tell ’em to all go away, witch.’

The woman shook her head. ‘You stubborn whorespawn, Gurren. You ain’t been listening. This is Denul he’s talking about here. If Ilgast Rend had made it to your wife before her last blessed breath, she’d still be alive. The cutter says he can mend the broken bones and even save her eye. The cutter can give her back her future, Gurren, so wipe that miserable scowl off your face and let ’em inside.’

Gurren stepped back. Numb, he nodded at Aras. The man quickly slipped past, followed by the second Legion healer.

Witch Hale said, ‘And listen to me. Your rotted lungs — might be Aras can-’

‘No. I’m going to my wife.’

‘And you’ll just up and leave Renarr all alone?’

‘She’s known it was coming. My girl’s got protection now. Legion protection. I’m going to my wife.’

‘Town needs a smith-’

‘I’m going to my wife.’

Snarling something Gurren couldn’t make out, Witch Hale went back into the house.

Gurren found he was wiping his hands over and over again, but all he managed was to smear them evenly with sweaty coal dust. With his mind he felt inside his body for the places of sickness. They sat like empty absences in his chest, things that felt nothing even as they sickened everything around them. He saw them as lumps of coal, and the blood he coughed up showed the black from those lumps. Those numb gifts were carrying him to Shellas. He loved them dearly.

Renarr would grieve. That had been the worst part in all of this. Grieving and alone, their little girl. He looked over at all the soldiers, wondering why they had all come down just to deliver a pair of healers. He saw how they had ranged out, watchful — but not watching Gurren or the house; instead, they faced outwards, and something about them made him shiver.

They would take care of their little girl, and might be Shellas would be happy with that, with them being Legion and all. She could rest easy and look kindly on him, and might be she’d step forward after watching him crawling towards her for so long, long enough to confirm that his love for her had never died — she’d step forward and lift him up, and reach into his chest, and pull out those black lumps of grief. He’d watch her throw them away, so that he could breathe again, without coughing, without feeling the horrible tightness.

Heal me, my love, as only you can.

Another two riders were coming down from the keep. Gurren squinted. The Lord himself, and at his side that woman from the morning. They cantered through the Tithe Gate, pausing there for the Lord to issue some orders, and then rode on to draw up within the rough semicircle made by the soldiers.

Urusander’s grey-blue eyes were fixed on Gurren, and the old man saw in them raw pain which was what he always saw in them, which was why he could never meet them for long. And he remembered how sick that weakness had made him feel. Urusander could not have loved Shellas the way Gurren did. Urusander had no right to weep for her death; he had no right to take from Gurren his own pain.

The Lord dismounted and walked straight to him. ‘Gurren-’

But Gurren pointed at Serap. ‘She made a Legion vow.’

‘I know,’ Urusander replied.

‘I bless your son,’ Gurren said, feeling his face set stubbornly — and all at once he could meet Urusander’s eyes, and feel nothing. ‘I bless him, sir, and nothing you ever say will change that.’

If there was anguish in the commander’s eyes before, it was as nothing to what Gurren saw in them now. But still he felt nothing, and was astonished when it was Urusander who broke the gaze.

‘She will be taken care of,’ the Lord said then.

‘I know. It was promised.’

‘Will you come to the keep, Gurren?’

‘What? What for?’

‘I want you both under my roof. I want your daughter to find you there, with her, when she mends.’

‘I got work to do here.’

‘I will release one of the smiths to stand in your stead.’

‘For how long?’

‘For as long as needed.’

‘Until I die? Has to be until I die, sir, and afterwards, too. Town needs a smith, more than you do.’

‘If you would keep an eye on the work going on at the keep, Gurren, then we have a deal.’

‘I can do that. Until I get too sick. And don’t say nothing about your healers working on me.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ was Urusander’s soft reply.

Gurren jerked a nod.

‘We will send a wagon down for you and your daughter.’

‘Want some of my tools, too. The best ones.’

‘Of course. As many trips as needed.’

‘When I’m gone then, sir, what of my girl? Back to this empty house?’

‘If you would permit it, Gurren, I would formally adopt her.’

‘You would, would you?’ Gurren glanced away, studied the small crowd of townsfolk who’d been drawn to the commotion. ‘She’s not a girl any more, though. She’s a woman and that’s how she needs to be treated. You don’t call her “daughter” or nothing either. She’s our daughter — me and Shellas made her.’

‘I know,’ replied Urusander.

Gurren nodded.

‘Gurren,’ said Urusander, louder, more formal, ‘how is the water between us?’

Gurren met the man’s eyes and was surprised to see the anguish gone, the eyes now filling with warmth. He nodded again. ‘The water is clear, Lord.’

Serap held back. She saw Lord Urusander transformed; she saw the commander she had always known. All indecisiveness had vanished. There were things to be done and, at last, orders to be issued. Her only regret was Osserc’s absence. She imagined that he had fled after murdering Millick; fled thinking he was now an outlaw and almost certainly disowned by his father for the crime. The boy did not understand his father at all. But then, that baffled regard was mutual.

How could it be otherwise, with so much mud in the water between them? Mud and swirling currents, the endless, helpless stirring of silts so that nothing could ever come to rest.

But on this day, she had seen a dying old man and a heartbroken, guilt-ridden commander stand face to face, and make peace with each other.

They walked now, as would old friends, up to the house, and then disappeared inside.

Mother Dark, you have found a worthy husband here. A most worthy husband.

When she swung round to return to her horse, she looked up and saw, whipping hard in the breeze, the Legion’s banner, high above the gatehouse.

It was done.

Urusander’s Legion had returned to Kurald Galain.

Against the bright blue, cloudless sky, the banner was like a golden blade, torn from the sun itself. She squinted at it. Painters called that colour liossan.

In the wake of terrible fever, in a strange, warm stillness that filled her being, Renarr opened her eyes. She saw her father, and with him strangers. The twisted, damaged vision that had claimed her left eye was gone now, and everything seemed impossibly clear. Even the pain of her swollen face was fast fading.

Her father leaned closer. ‘Little girl,’ he said, his eyes wet. ‘Do you see who’s here? It’s Lord Urusander himself.’

Her gaze slipped past her father, to the man standing near, and in the Lord’s face she saw the son. Renarr looked away.

‘Changes, little girl,’ said Gurren, in a tone she’d never before heard from him. ‘In your whole world, Renarr. Changes, blessed changes.’

There was no denying that. Millick was dead. The man she loved was dead, murdered by the Lord’s son. And now here stood the Lord, and her father babbling about how they were going to live in the Great House, and how she would be taken care of from now on, and the Lord was smiling and nodding, and all she could think about was Millick, to whom she had told everything because he saw that she wasn’t the same any more — Millick, weeping and drunk and feebly trying to put her face back together, on his knees beside her telling her how his cousins had got the story of her confession out of him after a cask of ale, and how they laughed at him and called her a whore to his face, until he was driven to madness. Blind rage, he kept saying, trying to explain himself, how his fists just lashed out unseeing when she came upon him beating Eldin and Orult behind the house, how he punched not knowing whom he punched.

And how Witch Hale got her story all wrong, because Millick had gone in hiding from his cousins and their friends, and Renarr got fevered and had to crawl home in the middle of the night, and Renarr’s jaw was too swollen and she couldn’t get the right words past her broken mouth.

Changes. It was a day of changes all right.