Forge of Darkness

TWENTY

Endest Silann looked old, as if his youth had been torn away, revealing something aged with grief. Many times Rise Herat had seen a face stripped back by the onslaught of loss, and each time he wondered if suffering but waited under the skin, shielded by a mask donned in hope, or with that superstitious desperation that imagined a smile to be a worthy shield against the world’s travails. These things, worn daily in an array of practised expressions insisting on civility, ever proved poor defenders of the soul, and to be witness to their cracking, their pathetic surrender to a barrage of emotion, was both humbling and terrible.

The young priest had come to his door like a beggar, fingers entwined on his lap and twisting ceaselessly, as if he held newborn snakes in his fists; and in his eyes there was a wretched pleading; but even this was of the kind that expected no largesse. How could one help a beggar who saw no salvation in a coin, or a meal, or a warm bed at night?

Rise had stepped back in invitation and Endest had shuffled past, moving like one afflicted by a host of mysterious ailments, proof against any medicine. He selected a chair near the fire and sat, not yet ready to speak, and studied his writhing hands. And there he remained.

After a time, the historian cleared his throat. ‘I have mulled wine, priest.’

Endest shook his head. ‘I close my eyes to sleep,’ he said, ‘and meet the same horrid dream, as if it but awaits me.’

‘Ah, that sounds unpleasant. Perhaps a draught to make you senseless would help.’

He glanced up with red-shot eyes, and then looked down again. ‘I have no certainty of this world, historian. This is the dream’s legacy, its curse upon my wakefulness — even now I am haunted and so in need of reassurance.’

‘Set hand upon stone, priest. Feel wood’s familiar grain, or the cool flank of a clay vessel. None of these things are uncertain. But if you would look to us soft creatures who move through this world, then I fear you will find us ephemeral indeed.’

Endest’s hands parted and made fists on his lap, the knuckles whitening, but still he would not look up. ‘Do you mock me?’

‘No. I see the weight of a curse upon you, priest, as surely it is upon us all. You close your eyes and dread the waiting dream. While here I pace in my room, longing to open my eyes and so discover all this to have been a dream. So here we face one another, as if to contest wills.’

Abruptly, Endest began thumping his thighs, swinging down upon them hard with his fists, in growing ferocity.

Rise stepped closer, alarmed. ‘Hear me! You are not asleep, friend!’

‘How can I know?’

The cry, so filled with despair, silenced the historian.

Endest ceased punching his thighs, his head shifting as if he was looking for something on the floor, and then he spoke. ‘I step into the hearth chamber. They have been arguing — terrible words, cutting like knives upon kin and loved ones. But she is not right, the woman dying on the hearthstone. I see her in the robes of a High Priestess. Of course,’ he added with a weak, dry laugh, ‘they are women who like to spread their legs. They do not fight, and would make of surrender a gift, even if one of little worth for its easy ubiquity.’

Rise studied the young priest, struggling to understand the scene Endest Silann was describing. Yet the historian dared not ask a question, although this prohibition seemed in itself arbitrary. The man before him had no answers.

‘I walk up to her, numb, unable to stop myself. She is already wed — though how I know this I do not know — but I see her as Andarist’s wife, and a High Priestess, beloved child of Mother Dark. She is not yet dead, and I kneel at her side and take her hand.’ He shook his head as if refusing an unspoken objection. ‘Sometimes her husband is there, sometimes not. She is badly used and dying. I watch the life leave her, and then I hear Lord Anomander. He is saying something, but none of the words make sense — I do not know if he speaks another language, or if I simply can’t hear them distinctly. When I grasp her hand, I am whispering to her, but the voice is not my own — it is Mother Dark’s.’

‘It is but a dream,’ Rise said quietly. ‘Do you recall, there was a banquet, Endest, which we attended. Two years ago. It was before Lord Andarist met Enesdia — before he saw her as a woman, I mean. Scara Bandaris was there, as guest to Silchas. The captain was telling a tale of when he was offered hospitality in House Enes on his way down from the north garrison. He had been amused by Lord Jaen’s daughter, who walked with the airs of a High Priestess. That was the title Scara gave Enesdia, and this memory has twisted its way into your dream. Nor, Endest Silann, were you there in the time of her dying. No one was but her killers.’

The priest was nodding vigorously. ‘So this world insists, and I bitterly bless its every claim to veracity, each time I awaken, each time I stumble into it. Still, what answer will you offer me, historian, when I find her blood mingled with sweat upon the palms of my hands? I have examined myself, stripped naked before a mirror, and I bear no wounds. What correction will you provide to right my senses when I walk the Hall of Portraits and see her image so perfectly painted upon the wall? High Priestess Enesdia. The label is worn, but I can make it out nevertheless.’

‘There is no such portrait, priest — no, a moment. Ah, you speak of her grandmother, who was indeed a High Priestess, but before the coming of Night. Her name was Enesthila, and she served as the last High Priestess of the river god, before the cult’s reformation. My friend, such is the sorcery of dreams-’

‘And the blood?’

‘You say that you speak in your dream, but that the voice belongs to Mother Dark. Forgive this blasphemy, but if there is blood on anyone’s hands, Endest-’

‘No!’ The priest was on his feet. ‘Have I no will left to me? We beg her for guidance! We plead with her! She has no right!’

‘Forgive me, friend. I reveal only ignorance in speaking on matters of faith. Have you spoken to Cedorpul?’

Endest slumped back down in the chair. ‘I went to him first. Now he flees the sight of me.’

‘But… why?’

The young man’s face twisted. ‘His hands remain clean, his dreams untouched.’

‘Do you imagine that he would welcome what leaves you outraged?’

‘If she demanded his lifeblood he would offer her his throat, and know delight in the bounty of his gift.’

‘But you are not so enamoured of sacrifice.’

‘When my every prayer to her goes unanswered…’ he glared at the historian, ‘and do not dare speak to me of trials to test my faith.’

‘I would not,’ Rise Herat replied. ‘As I said, to track down this path is for me a fast unravelling of reason. But three strides along and I am floundering, too many ends in my hands and doubtful of every knot.’

‘How is it you can deny a belief in power?’

‘It is my thought that without belief, there is no power.’

‘What do you win with that, historian?’

Rise shrugged. ‘Freedom, I suppose.’

‘And what do you lose?’

‘Why, everything, of course.’

The priest stared up at him, his expression unreadable.

‘You are exhausted, friend. Close your eyes. I will abide.’

‘And when you see the blood on my hands?’

‘I will take them in my own.’

Endest’s eyes filled with tears, but a moment later he closed them and set his head back against the chair’s thick padding.

Rise Herat watched sleep take the young priest, and waited for the mask to crack.

They rode through a city subdued, where light struggled and what commerce Orfantal saw spoke in strident voices, with gestures sudden and fretful. The gloom of the alleys that led on to the main thoroughfare bled out like wounds upon the day. He was riding one of Lady Hish Tulla’s horses, a placid mare with a broad back and twitching ears, her mane braided yet cut short to raise the knotted stubble into a crest. He wondered if the animal had a name. He wondered if she knew it and held it as her own, and what that name might mean to her, especially when in the company of other horses. And did she know the names given to other horses; and if she did, then what new shape had she found in her world? Was there some inkling that things were not as they had once seemed; that something foreign was now lodged in the animal’s head?

He did not know why such questions haunted him. There were all kinds of helplessness, just as there were many kinds of blindness. A horse could carry on its back a hero, or a villain. The beast knew no difference and deserved no stain from the deeds of its master. A child could stumble in the wake of a father who murdered for pleasure, or a mother who murdered from fear, and yet find an entire life spent in the shadow of such knowledge. Questions could not arise without some sense of knowing, and the worst of it was, with that knowing came the realization that many of those questions could never be answered.

Directly ahead rode Gripp Galas, who had returned from the wedding that never happened at Hish Tulla’s side, and the lady had been wearing armour and weapons, and there was news of deaths coming down from the north. All of this made the room where Orfantal stayed, and the house that surrounded it, seem small and woeful. Gripp and Hish Tulla had been silent and yet filled with grim news, but Orfantal had been too frightened to ask any questions, and he fled the weight of their presence.

But on this day they were escorting him to the Citadel, into the keeping of the Sons and Daughters of Night. He was about to meet Lord Anomander and his brothers: all the great men his mother had talked about, and if there was talk of war, then Orfantal knew that he had nothing to fear in the midst of such heroes.

Lady Hish Tulla rode up alongside Orfantal. Her expression was severe. ‘You have known such hardship since leaving House Korlas, Orfantal, and I fear the unpleasantness is not yet at an end.’

Ahead of them, Gripp Galas glanced back, and then looked forward once again. They were approaching the first bridge. That brief moment of attention disturbed Orfantal, though he knew not why.

‘There has been news from Abara Delack,’ she continued. ‘The monastery has been assaulted and burned to the ground. Alas, the violence did not end there. Orfantal, we have word that your grandmother has died, and that House Korlas is no more. I am sorry. Gripp and I disagreed on this, the telling of such terrible news, but I feared you would hear it when in the Citadel, in an instant lacking sensitivity — the place awaiting you is a buzzing wasp nest of gossip, and often words are spoken for the sole purpose of witnessing their sting.’

Orfantal hunched over in the saddle, fighting a sudden chill. ‘This city,’ he said, ‘is so dark.’

‘More so in the Citadel,’ Lady Hish Tulla said. ‘Such is the flavour of Mother Dark’s power. At the very least, Orfantal, you will soon lose your fear of the dark, and in that absence of light you will find that you see all there is that needs seeing.’

‘Will my skin turn black?’

‘It will, unless you choose the ways of the Deniers, I suppose.’

‘I would have the cast of Lord Anomander,’ he said.

‘Then Night shall find you, Orfantal.’

‘At House Korlas, milady, did everyone die? I had a friend there, a boy who worked with the horses.’

She studied him, and did not immediately reply.

They rode out across the broad bridge, the clash of the hoofs on the cobbles beneath them suddenly sounding hollow. Orfantal could smell the river, rising up dank and vaguely foul. It made him think of brooding gods.

‘I do not know,’ Hish Tulla said. ‘The fire left very few remains.’

‘Well, he used to be my friend, but then that went away. I am glad Mother wasn’t there, though.’

‘Orfantal, grief is a difficult thing, and you have already been through a lot. Be patient with yourself. There is a substance to living, and sadness is woven through it.’

‘Are you sad, milady?’

‘You will find a balance. Whence comes the answer to sadness few can predict, but it does come, in time, and you will learn to appreciate pleasure for the gift that it is. What you must never expect, Orfantal, is joy unending, because it does not exist. Too many strive for the unachievable, and this pursuit consumes them. They rush frantic and desperate and so reveal weakness in the face of sadness. More than weakness, in fact. It is in truth a kind of cowardice, that which espouses an evasive disposition as if it were a virtue. But this bluster is frail work.’ Then she sighed. ‘I am too complex, I fear, and make of advice things insubstantial.’

Orfantal shook his head. ‘I am no stranger to feeling sad, milady. Tonight I will weep for Wreneck, and for the horse I killed.’

They had crossed a short span and now ascended the lesser bridge over the Citadel’s moat. At Orfantal’s confession, Gripp Galas reined in and turned his horse to block the way.

‘That beast was on its last legs,’ he said.

‘You did not see its last struggles, sir,’ Orfantal replied.

‘True, I did not. But if you had not sacrificed your mount in the manner you did, you would not be here now.’

Orfantal nodded. ‘My spirit would be free, and back on the grounds of House Korlas, and it would play in the ruins with the ghost of Wreneck, from before he decided to not like me any more. I would have a friend again, and that horse would be alive now, with a few memories of the boy it carried, a boy who was not cruel to it.’

Gripp looked down, seemed to study the cobbles for a long moment, and then he sighed and swung his mount round.

They continued on, beneath the arch of the gatehouse, watched by black-skinned Houseblades in the livery of House Purake.

Lady Hish Tulla spoke. ‘Take him inside, Gripp. I will meet you later in the Grand Hall.’

‘Milady?’

‘Go on, Gripp. Give me a few moments, I beg you.’

The old man nodded. ‘Come along, hostage, and I will see you home.’

Hish Tulla watched them ride across the courtyard, still fighting the sob that threatened to tear loose from deep inside her. A boy’s innocent words had left her broken. The flimsy frame of her self-control, so hastily resurrected in the wake of her comforting embrace of Lord Andarist, weathering his grief on their knees at the foot of the hearthstone, had collapsed once again.

By day’s end she would be leading her company of Houseblades back to her keep. With the shattering of traditions, she was no longer confident that Sukul Ankhadu was safe, although she knew enough of Castellan Rancept’s talents to hope he could mitigate any possible threat, at least for the moment. But this decision strained her resolve from another direction now, one unexpected and almost unbearably precious. She thought of the man accompanying Orfantal into the Citadel, and felt once again a quickening of her breath.

She was not as old as her experience reputed, while Gripp Galas had seen a century, if not more. There would be amusement and not a little scorn behind their backs, once it became known that Lady Hish Tulla, for so long believed to be unattainable, had given her love to Lord Anomander’s manservant. On better days, in times past, she would be proof against their mockery, but there was a new frailty in her now, exposed and raw.

She had believed herself settled into bitter resolution, making peace with what she imagined to be a life spent in solitude, offering up a straight line in her march through all the days and the nights to come. Even the prospect of war, detestable as it was, had voiced to her a bold welcome, if by fighting she could find reason to live, and if by righteous defence of worthy things she could give meaning to that stern march, no matter how long or how short her life’s trek.

In the Citadel ahead, with its seething tumult of troubled spirits, and its host of opinions and arguments clothed in flesh and heated expressions, she would find the fate of her future. Drawing a deep, settling breath, she nudged her mount forward once again.

A groom rushed up to take her horse and she dismounted, regretting that she had elected to leave her armour behind, to await her departure from the city. But neither chain nor iron scale could serve to defend her against the ridicule to come, once her surrender became known, and bright eyes settled upon Gripp Galas, limping at her side. She imagined the disdain from her fellow highborn, and perhaps something of perturbation in her breaking with the ranks of nobility; and without doubt many would see her as fallen from the rung, divested of propriety. Among others, there would be contempt for Gripp Galas, as he would be seen as overreaching, even grasping, betraying some brazen lust for elevation. A clamour awaited them both, with the shunning by old friends and kin to make a siege of the isolation awaiting them.

Yet, for all of that, Hish Tulla vowed a refusal of such indulgences; she would weather this storm, because, at last, she was no longer alone.

With luck, Orfantal would find a new friend, even here in the Citadel, and so cease his longing for death. Still, she wondered at this stable boy, this Wreneck, and what had happened to make him turn away from Orfantal. Oh, woman, turn sharp to observe your own thoughts, in what will come of your love for Gripp Galas. The boy voiced no pain at the death of his grandmother. You can well guess who drove the knife into that friendship.

Wreneck, if your spirit now haunts House Korlas, pray you find a stern regard when meeting the eyes of Nerys Drukorlat. In death you are made equal, and so, dear boy, you are at last free of her. Speak to her then, of every horror her fear inflicted, upon living and dead.

Tell her her grandson does not mourn her passing.

A dozen spacious rooms along the south side of the Citadel were now the demesne of Lord Anomander and his brothers. The chambers were poorly lit, and upon the walls hung the oldest of the tapestries, many dating from the founding age of Kharkanas. Time had faded the scenes to add mystery to their obscurity, and though Emral Lanear more than once leaned close in an effort to make out what she was seeing on her way to Lord Anomander’s quarters, the High Priestess was left with a strange disquiet, as if the past was selfish with its secrets, and would make of the unknown something malign and threatening.

The end of beauty was never so coy. Each morning, every sign of ageing shouted its details to her unblinking regard in the mirror. She was left with no hope of fading into frayed threads, and as she walked past this succession of mocking tapestries she longed to slip into their insubstantial, colourless worlds, and so become a creature frozen and forgotten. In that world she need never reach her destination; nor open her mouth to speak. Most of all, she would be but one more figure in those pallid scenes who never had to explain themselves, to anyone.

See how I envy the past, and long for all that it so willingly surrendered in its retreat from the present. These strident defences and pathetic justifications will fall to silence. Each breath is left half drawn. A word begun remains unfinished. The past wore recrimination with indifference. Welcoming dissolution, it looked upon every cause with blank eyes, and cared not who stirred the dust. It was a conceit to imagine that the past spoke anything at all, not to the present, nor to the unknown future. By its very nature, it was turned away from both.

She found Lord Anomander seated in a deep, high-backed chair, legs stretched out as if he but took his leisure, unmindful of the chaos into which the world was descending. His brother, Silchas, paced along the far wall, passing in front of three floor-to-ceiling tapestries with scenes too worn to discern. The white-skinned man’s expression was troubled. The glance he shot at the High Priestess was fraught.

Emral stood before Lord Anomander, although he’d yet to lift his gaze from the floor. ‘First Son,’ she said, ‘Mother Dark will speak with you now.’

‘That is kind of her,’ Anomander replied.

Silchas made a sound of frustration. ‘Still he sits like a thing carved from stone. Andarist is gone from us. Our brother walks the burning forest, and in that infernal realm waits no salvation. But still Anomander sits, offering nothing.’

‘Lord Silchas,’ asked Emral, ‘do you fear that Andarist will take his own life?’

‘No, High Priestess. His guilt seeks no quick end. It is said ash makes fertile soil and I wager he has sown his seeds and now tends a burgeoning bounty. It will make a bitter harvest indeed, but he means to grow fat on it.’

‘Everyone seeks an answer to the crimes committed,’ Emral said. ‘Everyone speaks of war but no army assembles.’

‘We await the Hust Legion,’ said Silchas, still pacing. ‘In the meantime my hands are worn bloody beating against my brother’s obstinacy, and with each stride I take, this room seems smaller, and with it the Citadel and indeed, all of Kharkanas. In my mind’s eye, High Priestess, even Kurald Galain huddles in a shallow embrace.’

‘We must find our resilience,’ she replied.

Anomander grunted, and then said, ‘You will search an eternity for that, High Priestess, in the smoke of darkness.’ Finally he looked up at her, his eyes hooded. ‘She will see me now? Does she finally offer the bones of this faith, and if so, what substance has she employed in the fashioning? Will this frame show us iron or flimsy reeds? And what of the flesh you offer in raiment, Emral Lanear? For ever soft and for ever yielding to suit the cushions and silks of your beds, but in an act stripped of love we are all diminished.’

She flinched. ‘I will confess, Lord, we have made of sensation something sordid.’

‘Mother Dark is free with her indulgences,’ Anomander replied, carelessly waving a hand. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess. In every age there comes a time when all subtlety vanishes, all veils are torn aside, and men and women will speak brazen truths. By such bold proclamations we find ourselves divided, with the span between us growing daily.’

‘You describe civil war in its crux,’ growled Silchas. ‘It is well upon us, brother. But the time for philosophy is past; if indeed one could ever claim its worth in any time. If your clear eye hangs on every current, you become blind to the river’s deadly rush. Have done with the analysis, Anomander, and draw out this ill-named but righteous sword.’

‘By so doing, Silchas, I sever what remains between me and Andarist.’

‘Then find him and make this right!’

‘He will insist on his grief, Silchas, while I hold to vengeance. We have each made our proclamation, and see this yawning span grow between us. High Priestess, I asked for your forgiveness and I am humble in that pleading. It seems we are all trapped in indulgences for the moment. Andarist and his guilt, Silchas and his impatience, and me… well… she will see me now, you said?’

Emral studied the First Son. ‘Of course you are forgiven, Lord Anomander. The very air we breathe is distraught. Yes, she will see you now.’

‘I should be pleased,’ Anomander said, his frowning gaze once more upon the floor beyond his boots. ‘I should rise up now and with haste renew our acquaintance, and hold to the expectation of guidance from our goddess. So what holds me here, except the anticipation of yet more frustration, as she offers up the insubstantial if only to observe my floundering, and how am I to read her expression? Must I suffer again her remoteness, or will it be a look enlivened by my misery? This goddess of ours blunts my fury when she refuses to name her enemy.’

Silchas snorted. ‘Name them renegades and be done with it! Leave Urusander to writhe on the gibbet of suspicion, and let us ride to take down the slayers of Jaen and Enesdia!’

‘She forbids me to draw this sword in her name, Silchas.’

‘Then draw it in the name of your brother!’

Anomander met his brother’s eyes, brows lifting. ‘In the name of my brother or in the name of his grief?’

‘See the two as one, Anomander, and give it a vengeful edge.’

‘The sentiments but glare at one another-’

‘Only one does so, brother. Grief but weeps.’

Anomander looked away. ‘That surrender I cannot afford.’

The breath hissed from Silchas. ‘See the room grow smaller, and see the man who will not move. High Priestess, do report our weakness to Mother Dark. Then return to us with her answer.’

Emral shook her head. ‘I cannot, Lord Silchas. She takes audience with the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl. She asks that the First Son join them.’

There was a sound from the outer room, and a moment later Gripp Galas stepped through the open doorway. He bowed before Anomander. ‘Milord, forgive this interruption-’

‘You are a welcome sight,’ Anomander replied.

‘Milord, I have with me the child Orfantal, and would present him to you.’

The First Son rose. ‘This pleases me. Do bring him in, Gripp.’

The old man half turned and gestured.

Emral watched the boy edge into view, hesitating upon the threshold to the chamber.

‘Orfantal,’ said Anomander. ‘You are most welcome. I am informed that you have made of your journey to Kharkanas an adventure worthy of a bard’s song, perhaps even a poem or two. Please enter and tell us about yourself.’

When the boy’s dark eyes touched briefly on Emral, she smiled in answer.

Orfantal stepped into the room. ‘Thank you, milord. Of me there is little worth saying. I am told that I am ill-named. I am told that my father was a hero in the wars, who died of his wounds, but I never saw him. My grandmother is now dead, burned to ashes in House Korlas. If she had not sent me here after sending away my mother, I would have died in the fire. I see nothing in me worth a poem, and nothing in my life worth singing about. But I have longed to meet you all.’

No one spoke.

Then Silchas stepped forth and offered his hand. ‘Orfantal,’ he said, ‘I believe there is another hostage in the Citadel. A girl, perhaps a year or two younger than you. She is often found in the company of the priests, or the court historian. Shall we go and find her? By this means I can also show you more of your new home.’

Orfantal took the man’s hand. ‘Thank you, milord. I heard you had white skin, but I did not think it would be as white as it is. Upon my grandfather’s scabbard there is ivory, and your skin is just like that.’

‘Lacking the polish, however,’ Silchas said with a smile, ‘though surely just as worn.’ He led Orfantal back to the doorway, pausing for a final glance back at his brother. ‘Anomander, do not make her wait too long.’

When they had left, Gripp Galas cleared his throat. ‘My pardon, milord. The boy has yet to find somewhere to stand.’

‘That is not cut out from under him, yes,’ Anomander said. ‘Pray he finds firm footing here, and if so, I will envy him.’

Gripp Galas hesitated, and then said, ‘Milord?’

‘Yes?’

‘If you have no further need of me-’

‘Abyss take it, friend, I see no end to my need for you.’

Emral saw the old man’s eyes tighten, as if his master’s words were somehow cause for pain, but he nodded and said, ‘As ever, milord, I am at your disposal.’

‘Prepare our horses, Gripp. We shall depart Kharkanas before the day is done.’

‘Very good, milord.’

Anomander turned to Emral. ‘High Priestess, I would welcome your company on my way to the Chamber of Night.’

‘Of course,’ she replied.

Orfantal felt that he had made a fool of himself. He walked with his hand swallowed up in Silchas’s grip, and was already lost in the maze of corridors and hallways. At least those rushing people they came upon in their journey were quick to step aside, so none of the rough jostling that had afflicted him and Gripp Galas earlier occurred this time. He berated himself for his thoughtless words, the first he had spoken to Lord Anomander. With luck, the First Son would soon forget the introduction had ever happened.

He vowed that he would do better next time, and find the words to make Lord Anomander understand the pledge of service he intended. In time, he sought to become as necessary to the First Son as, it seemed, was Gripp Galas. It had surprised him to see the high regard that had been shown the old man, and he realized that he had been careless in his opinion of Gripp.

For all that, he reminded himself that Gripp was a murderer, cold-blooded and not above treachery. He still remembered that soldier’s look on his face when the old man stabbed him in the back. In that face there had been shock, and disappointment, as if to ask the world why, with all its rules, it could do no better than this. It was a look Orfantal understood. In his games of war he had fallen to a thousand knives in the back a thousand times, and though he had never held up a mirror to gauge his expression at any of those fateful moments, he suspected that he would have looked no different from that poor soldier.

He heard the scrape of claws on the tiles behind him, and a moment later a skinny dog pushed up against his legs. Startled, he paused, and Silchas turned at the same moment.

The dog’s mangled tail was wagging fiercely as the animal circled in front of Orfantal.

Silchas said, ‘Well, already you’ve made a friend, hostage. This dog is from Lady Hish Tulla’s household. For some unknown reason, it came in the company of an Azathanai.’

They continued on, with the dog now close by Orfantal’s side.

‘If such beasts could tell their stories,’ Silchas mused, ‘what do you imagine they might say?’

Orfantal thought of the horse he had killed. ‘I think, milord, they would just ask us to leave them alone.’

‘I see nothing of that sentiment in this animal.’

‘Milord, what if what we see as happiness is in truth begging us not to hurt them?’

‘A dreadful thought, Orfantal.’

The boy nodded agreement. It was a dreadful thought.

Lady Hish watched Gripp Galas approach. The Grand Hall was crowded with servants, with messengers bearing frantic questions and few answers, with Houseblades gathered in clumps like wolves circling an uncertain prey, and priests and priestesses passing to and fro as if desperate to find something to do. She stood near the first of the columns lining a wall, struggling to make sense of the expression on the face of the man she loved.

She spoke the moment he joined her, ‘He demands yet one more task from you? Are we to be delayed then?’

‘Beloved,’ Gripp said, unable to meet her eyes, ‘I must remain at his side. We are to ride this day. I cannot join you, not yet.’

‘He has refused us?’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Summoned into the presence of Mother Dark. I am to meet him at the gate, with our horses prepared.’

‘I will join you in that task.’

She saw his eyes narrow slightly on her, but she was in no mood to offer explanation.

The First Son walked in silence, but Emral could hear the soft, muted beat of his sword’s scabbard against his leg with every stride. The weapon’s presence was already well known, not just in the Citadel, but in all Kharkanas, and she had heard tales twisting the truth of the sword’s origins. Many now spoke as if Lord Anomander had forged the weapon with his own hands, and that the failure to give it a name was proof of the First Son’s chronic indecision.

This latter argument was the conjuring of the worst of the court’s inhabitants, although in nature such people were not exclusive to the Citadel. Bearing the wounds of a thousand small bites, she had once voiced this complaint to the historian and he had but nodded, and spoken of not just this time and place, but of countless others. ‘ It is the habit of the petty-minded to derogate the achievements and status of those who, by any measure, are their superiors. High Priestess, they are the wild dogs in the forest, ever ready for a turned back, but quick to yip and flee when the prey shows its fangs.’

She had considered the analogy for a moment, and then had replied, ‘ When enough such dogs have gathered, historian, they may not flee the bearded beast, and instead show fangs of their own. In any case, any opinion on superiority is subject to challenge.’

‘ I mean not such things as titles, or wealth, or even power, when I speak of superiority, High Priestess. I refer to something more ephemeral. To find a truly superior person, follow the dogs. Or, better still, follow the blood trail. No other gauge is necessary but to observe the viciousness of the eager beasts and see for yourself the beleaguered foe.’

Was the man at her side thus hounded? There was little doubt of that. And was there not something in the assertion that the forging of that weapon was not yet complete? Its edge was well honed to be sure, and the blade bore a fine polish. But it was not yet Anomander’s own, no matter how forceful Hust Henarald’s insistence that the weapon was fit for the hand of but one man.

They reached the door and Emral stepped back.

But Anomander shook his head. ‘I request your presence within, High Priestess.’

‘First Son, I believe it was Mother Dark’s wish-’

‘We will speak of faith, High Priestess. I am informed that High Priestess Syntara is now the centre of a cult that directly opposes that of Mother Dark. With her under the protection of Lord Urusander, the matter is both religious and political.’

She glanced away. ‘I was not aware of this development, First Son.’ A moment later she drew a deep breath and said, ‘But I am not surprised. Not with respect to Syntara’s ambitions. Still, Urusander’s role in this confuses me.’

‘You are not alone in that.’

She opened the door and together they strode into the Chamber of Night.

The darkness hid nothing. Mother Dark was seated on the throne. Facing her from a few paces away but now stepping to one side was the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, who bowed to both Anomander and Emral, offering them a faint smile.

Lord Anomander wasted no time. ‘Azathanai, I assure you that I have no unreasoning aversion to foreign advisers in this court. Still, I wonder at what of value you can offer us, since we are here to discuss the measures we must take in order to keep our realm from tearing itself apart. The legacy of the Azathanai in this matter is no less dubious than if a Jaghut stood in your place.’

‘With regret, First Son,’ said Grizzin Farl, ‘I agree with you. Although a Jaghut might prove wiser than me and could I find one nearby to stand in these worn moccasins, why, I would give the poor creature good cause to rail at my presumption.’

‘Then what keeps you here?’ Anomander asked.

‘By title I am known as the Protector, but this is no welcome aspect. I appear where I am most needed, yet in hope most distant. My attendance alone is a sour comment on your state of affairs, alas.’

There was a challenge to these words, but Anomander simply tilted his head, as if studying the Azathanai in a new light. ‘We found you tending Kadaspala. Even then, it seems, you could have made shackles of your hands to close on his wrists, and so keep him from his terrible self-mutilation. Instead, you came too late.’

‘This is so, First Son.’

‘Do you stand here before us, then, to announce a threshold already crossed?’

Emral could see how Mother Dark looked between the two men, and there was, at last, alarm in her eyes.

Grizzin Farl bowed. ‘You have the truth of me,’ he said.

‘Mother Dark,’ said Anomander, ‘did you understand this?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘It seems that I asked the wrong questions of our guest. Confusion attended me, First Son, with misleading thoughts of the last Azathanai to stand before me.’

‘Of whom we know nothing,’ Anomander said. ‘Did this T’riss speak for the river god? Did you bargain with that rival and so win from it the sacrifice of a thousand souls?’

‘You insult us both,’ Mother Dark snapped. ‘We bargained peace between us.’

‘And what manner the currency of this exchange?’

‘Nothing of substance.’

‘Then, what manner this peace? Shall I describe it? The forest to the north might burn still, but the huts are surely silent. By that one might assert the blessing of peace, of a sort.’

‘We did not invite death between us!’

Emral saw how the goddess trembled with her rage, but Anomander seemed unaffected. ‘Grizzin Farl, what do you know of this T’riss?’

‘I know of no Azathanai by that name, First Son.’

‘Do you have her description?’

Grizzin Farl shrugged. ‘That signifies nothing. If I so desired, I could hover before you as a bird, or perhaps a butterfly.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you name her born of the Vitr. Two Azathanai set out to explore the mystery of that caustic sea.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is one of them.’

‘And the power she unveiled tells you nothing either?’

‘Only that it was uncommonly careless, and so not like an Azathanai at all. There are proscriptions against such blatant interference.’

‘Why?’

‘It is unhealthy for any Azathanai to invite the resentment of other Azathanai.’

‘And this the one named T’riss has done?’

‘So it seems, First Son.’

‘You are rather passive in your resentment, Grizzin Farl.’

‘I am not the one imposed upon, as the Tiste do not fall under my influence.’

Emral gasped as the implications of that comment settled in her mind. She looked to Mother Dark and was stunned to see no expression of surprise in her features.

Anomander stood like a man nailed to a wall, although nothing but empty air surrounded him. All at once, Emral felt her heart wrench for the First Son. He now stared fixedly at Mother Dark. ‘At last,’ he said, ‘I find the bitter truth to my title, Mother. A son you would have, but one swaddled and helpless, thinking only of your tit’s sweet milk.’

‘I cannot hasten your growth, First Son, by any other means.’

‘Yet you recoil at my sour breath.’

‘Only the hurtful words it carries.’

‘Are you then an Azathanai, Mother, deceitfully attired in the body of a Tiste woman we once all knew?’

‘I am that woman,’ she replied, ‘and no other.’

‘Then where stands your guardian, or has it made its flesh darkness itself?’

‘These questions are of no value,’ Mother Dark said. ‘I have summoned you, First Son, to send you to Lord Urusander. We will have the truth of his motives.’ She paused and then said, ‘Is this not what you wished?’

‘I will indeed march on Urusander,’ Anomander answered. ‘With the arrival of the Hust Legion.’

‘Do not wait for them,’ she said. ‘Ride to him now, beloved son. Meet with him.’

‘To stand within reach of him, Mother, I would need to wear chains with the weight of mountains, to keep my hands from the sword at my side. But then, would it be better if I simply disarmed myself outside his command tent, knelt and offered him the back of my neck?’

‘I do not believe he is in any way responsible for the murders of Lord Jaen and his daughter. Look him in the eye as he tells you the same, and together you may turn your ire upon the true slayers.’

‘Renegades from the disbanded units? Or would you have me offer up the pathetic possibility of Deniers with noble blood on their hands?’

‘It seems that I must do nothing but weather your scorn. Perhaps this is every mother’s lament.’

Anomander turned away, ‘My scorn, Mother, is not yet awakened. Indeed, you see before you a sleeping man, still lost to the night and troubling dreams. If I twitch, it but signals my helplessness. If I voice a moan, it is a sound empty of meaning. No brush of fingertips will prod me awake, and so I yearn for the knife’s sharp jab. The only question that remains is: who will wield that knife?’

‘If you imagine Urusander to be so treacherous,’ said Mother Dark, ‘then we are already lost.’

‘He harbours Syntara,’ said Anomander. ‘A new cult rises in Neret Sorr. It faces you as a rising sun challenges the night. And so I wonder, Mother, how many gauntlets do you need thrown down?’

‘Go to him, First Son.’

‘There is no need,’ Anomander replied. ‘He prepares to march on Kharkanas. We need but await his knock on the wood of the Citadel gates.’ He moved to the door. Before reaching for the latch, he glanced back at Mother Dark. ‘I have listened to your counsel, Mother. But what I do now is in defence of Kharkanas.’

The door closed quietly behind the First Son. Emral thought to follow but something held her back. She remained facing Mother Dark, but could think of nothing to say.

Grizzin Farl sighed. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘your adopted son is a formidable man.’

‘If I had another path, less painful for him, I would choose it.’

‘For all of you, I would think.’

But she shook her head. ‘I am prepared to bear what will come.’

‘You invite a lonely existence,’ Grizzin said, with sorrow in his eyes as he regarded Mother Dark.

All at once, to Emral’s eyes, it seemed that Mother Dark transformed into something more solid than stone, and then just as quickly she seemed to fade, until she was almost insubstantial. ‘Azathanai, with what you have told me of the events taking place to the west… by solitude alone can I ensure a long existence, and a role in all that is to come.’ Her gaze shifted from Grizzin Farl and settled upon Emral. ‘High Priestess, make of your worship an unflinching recognition of the unknown, and, indeed, the unknowable. By devotion and acceptance of mystery, the chaos that haunts us all is made calm, until the sea itself becomes a mirror content with a placid reflection.’

Emral glanced at the Azathanai, and then returned her attention to Mother Dark. ‘I see no source of strength, Mother, in such surrender.’

‘It opposes our nature, yes. Do you know why I did not refuse the lusts of the priestesses? In that moment of release, time itself is abandoned, and in its place even the mortal body seems as expansive as the universe. In that moment, Emral, we find utter surrender, and in that surrender a state of bliss.’

Emral shook her head. ‘Until the flesh returns, with its aches and a deep heaviness inside. The bliss you describe, Mother, cannot be sustained. And if somehow it could, why, we would soon wear visages of madness, one and all.’

‘It was, daughter, a flawed dispensation.’

‘And now we are to embrace not flesh, but empty contemplation? I fear the void’s kiss will not seem as sweet.’

Mother Dark leaned her head back, as if exhausted. ‘I will,’ she said in a low mutter, ‘let you know.’

Orfantal stood in the centre of the room, looking round. ‘This is mine?’ he asked.

Silchas nodded.

There were scrolls upon shelves, and books bearing brightly coloured illustrations. At the foot of the bed was an ancient trunk and it was filled with toy soldiers, some made from onyx and others from ivory. Upon one wall, in a horizontal rack of blackwood, rested three practice swords, a buckler and, upon a peg beside them, a boiled leather vest. On the floor beneath it was a helmet with a cage-like visor to protect the eyes. Three lanterns burned bright and the light was harsh to Orfantal’s eyes, used as he was to a lone candle to fight the shadows of his room back in House Korlas.

He thought of that room again, and tried to imagine it blackened by smoke, the stone walls cracked, the bed in which he had slept nothing but a heap of ashes. Every thought of his past now came to him with a stench of burning, and the faint echo of screams.

‘Are you unwell?’

Orfantal shook his head.

The dog was still with them and now, having completed its exploratory circuit of the chamber, went to lie down beside a thickly padded chair in one corner. In moments, it was fast asleep, legs twitching.

There came a knock upon the door and a moment later a round-faced young man entered, dressed in stained robes. ‘Lord Silchas, I received your message. Ah, here then is young Orfantal, and already settled in. Excellent. Are you hungry? Thirsty? The first task is to show you the dining hall — not the one in the main chamber, but the lesser one where by weight of masonry alone we are not intimidated. Now then-’

‘A moment,’ interrupted Silchas. He turned to Orfantal. ‘I will take my leave now,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I yield to a good keeper. You are comfortable with this?’

Orfantal nodded. ‘Thank you, Lord Silchas.’

‘Cedorpul,’ said Silchas, ‘will it be you in charge of Orfantal?’

‘The historian has elected for himself that privilege, milord, and will be here shortly.’

‘Oh dear,’ Silchas said, smiling down at Orfantal. ‘Expect an education in confusion, hostage, but one that I am sure will achieve for you admirable resilience against the eternal chaos afflicting the Citadel.’

Orfantal smiled without quite understanding what the Lord meant, and then he went to the trunk to examine the toy soldiers.

Silchas grunted behind him and said, ‘I foresee an impressive knowledge of historical battles to come.’

‘Glory belongs to every boy’s dreams,’ said Cedorpul. ‘I am sure, however, that the historian will offer his share of unheeded wisdom in such matters.’

‘By this we ever trek familiar paths,’ said Silchas. ‘Goodbye, then, Orfantal.’

‘Goodbye, milord.’

After he had left, Cedorpul cleared his throat. ‘Now then, the dining room. I will not be so negligent as to let you starve. Also, I expect, given the bell that just sounded, that your fellow hostage, Legyl Behust, is even now haranguing the servers.’

With a longing glance at the soldiers in the trunk, Orfantal straightened and followed Cedorpul out of the room. Moments later the dog joined them, tail wagging and tongue lolling.

Glancing down at it, Cedorpul made a disgusted sound. ‘Worms. We’ll have to do something about that, I think.’

In the absence of light and in the death of every colour, draining his imagination and the scenes it desperately conjured, Kadaspala sat alone in the room he had been given. It was not a large room. With hands groping and feet shuffling he had explored its confines, and in his mind he painted its details in shades of black and grey: the cot where he lay down at night, which creaked with his restless turning, the rope netting of its mattress stretched and sagging beneath him; the quaint writing desk with its angled surface, ink wells and footpad; the water closet with its narrow, flimsy door and the latch that rattled loose in its fittings; the long side table that ran the length of one wall, where rested jugs and goblets of copper that stung the tongue harsher than the wine filling his mouth; the wardrobe with its weathered surface. They seemed, one and all, the leavings of a past life, and he thought of this room as a tomb, artfully arrayed to honour the memory of living, but shrouded in eternal darkness, in air that tasted dead.

There were few memories of the journey down to Kharkanas. They had taken his knife, and since leaving him here, after a cadre of healers arrived to fret and sigh, his only visitors were servants coming with food and later departing with the servings barely touched. One, a young woman by her voice, had offered to bathe him, and he had laughed at that, too empty to regret the cruelty of the sound, and the fleeing pad of her feet to the door had simply made him laugh all the harder.

In a world without tears, an artist was left with nothing to do and no purpose to hold on to. Anguish was a satisfying torment to feed creative impulses, but he felt no anguish. Longing that spoke no known language offered up an endless palette, but he longed for nothing. Wonder made the brush tremble, but all wonder was dead within him. He had been betrayed by every talent sewn into his sinews, scratched into his bones, and now that he had severed the threads to vision, he shared this darkness with lifeless gods, and this room was indeed a tomb, as befitted its occupant.

He sat upon the cot, painting the air with one finger, brushing lines of black knotted with touches of grey to give shape to the creaking of the ropes under him. There was little talent in perfect rendition. Setting banal reality upon a board or canvas made sordid the modest virtue of craft; as if perfect brush-strokes and obsessive detail could exist as something beyond technical prowess, and could in fact announce profundity. He knew otherwise and it was this contempt that sat like swirling ripples marking the surface of his dissolution, turgid but hinting of life.

In the world he had left behind, an artist needed to tie contempt down and make the bindings tight, and take damp cloth to where it bled through. To let it loose was to attack both artist and audience, and he had neither the strength nor the will for such a thing: even the sentiment left him exhausted.

He had descended into madness, there in the chamber of the house his memory dared not revisit. He was not yet certain that it had departed. Blindness made a mystery of everything just out of reach. He had decided to wait, and upon the only canvas left to him paint sounds upon the ephemeral walls of this crypt: the creaks and faint echoes; the muted slap from people passing by the door, those footsteps so urgent and so pathetic; the dull repetition of his own breath and the sullen thump of his heart; the languid surge and ebb of the blood in his veins.

All in shades of black and grey, upon the insubstantial but exquisitely absolute walls of his blindness.

Once he was done, perfectly rendering this chamber, he would reach outside, to wander the corridors, recording everything. There is a new history coming, my friends. History as seen by a blind man. I will find Rise Herat, who gives us his delicious version as told by a man who says nothing. I will find Gallan, who sings unheard and walks unseen by any. Together, we will set out to find our audience, who heeds us not. And by this, we perfect the world and raise for posterity every grand monument to stupidity.

I see towers and spires. I see bold bridges and the palaces of the privileged. I see forests where the highborn hunt, and where poachers are hanged by their necks beneath trees. I see jewels and stacked coins inside guarded fortresses and upon the walls stand earnest orators, crying down the paucity of all. I see their lies catch up to them, in flames and vengeance. I see a future laden with ash and soot-coated pools, and gibbets groaning. And all that I see, I will paint.

And all the historian would not say, keeps him mute.

And the weeping poet will walk away, to hide his absence of tears.

And everything ends.

He heard himself laugh, a low cackling sound, and quickly etched its wavy, juddering lines with his finger. The streaks hung there in the darkness, slowly fading as the echoes dwindled.

The blind man paints history. The voiceless historian mimes the tale. The poet dispenses with music, dancing in discord. There is no rhythm to these brush-strokes. There is no beginning and no end to this tale. There is no beauty in the song.

And this is how it is.

My friends, this is how it is.

At the Citadel gate Hish Tulla and Gripp Galas found three of Anomander’s officers awaiting their lord. Kellaras, Dathenar and Prazek were girded as for battle, and as Gripp went to collect Anomander’s horse from the stables Hish Tulla waited a few paces away from the Houseblades.

There was no conversation under way. Of the three, only Kellaras bore the ebon hues that were a legacy of his time in the Chamber of Night, and it seemed that this had made a tension among the three, as if loyalty itself was perhaps no thicker than skin.

Gripp returned with Anomander’s mount and his own. ‘Both had been left saddled,’ he said to her in explanation.

‘Distress is a flavour,’ Hish said, ‘that none welcome but none can avoid.’

At her comment, Dathenar grunted in amusement. ‘Wail for the world’s end, milady, when even the grooms lose sleep.’ He gestured grandly. ‘Observe our befuddled state in this courtyard, and imagine the same throughout Kurald Galain. I have had many thoughts on civil war in the times leading to this, but not once did I imagine it so shrouded in confusion.’

‘It is the failure of certainty that has you reaching for the sword at your side,’ Hish replied. ‘We all strike out from a place of fear.’

Before Dathenar could answer, Lord Anomander appeared in the doorway of the Citadel and strode towards them, unconsciously cleaving a path through the disordered ranks in the compound. Arriving, he reached for the reins of his horse.

‘Captains,’ he said, addressing his Houseblades, ‘ride now, south to the Hust Legion. Accompany it on its march to Kharkanas. Request of Commander Toras Redone to make encampment upon the north side of the city, and see to the Legion’s provisioning.’

Hish watched as the three men mounted up. They departed without another word.

‘Now, Gripp-’

‘I wish a word with you,’ Hish cut in.

Anomander hesitated, and then sighed. ‘Very well. I intend no rudeness, Lady Hish, but I seek to find Andarist, and so cannot measure the length of my absence from Kharkanas. This invites impatience.’

‘And the fear of being alone, too, it seems, Lord Anomander.’

He frowned.

‘Gripp spoke to you of his desire to be with me, and you refused him. I have never asked anything from you, Lord Anomander, until this moment. Here I stand, pleading. Has he not done enough for you? Has he not given enough of his life in your service?’

Gripp stepped towards her, his face wretched. ‘My love-’

But both Anomander and Hish held up a staying hand.

‘Lady Hish,’ said the First Son, ‘Gripp Galas made no such request of me.’

Hish swung on Gripp. ‘Is this true? Did you fail in this one request of your master?’

‘Forgive me,’ the man said, bowing his head. ‘My lord said that his need for me was pressing.’

‘I did,’ Anomander said. ‘But I see now they were careless words. Lady Hish, your pardon. That you are brought to this, by my insensitivity, shames me. You ask for dispensation, but I ask that you withdraw your request.’

Hish stared, struck speechless.

Then Anomander turned to Gripp Galas. ‘Old friend, long have you served me, with valour and with honour. As my most trusted servant I have set my weight upon you, and not once heard from you a word of complaint. You have dressed my wounds on the field of battle. You have mended the damage of my clumsy youth. Did you truly believe that now, on this fraught day, I would once more draw tight this leash? We are all weakened by distress, and indeed it seems every tender emotion lies exposed and trembling to a forest of knives. Gripp Galas, old friend, your service to me ends here and it ends now. You have won the heart of a woman who in all things is nothing less than breathtaking. If love needs permission, I give it. If your future with Lady Hish can be served by any sacrifice within my ability, I give it.’ He set his gaze upon Hish Tulla. ‘Nothing need be asked and nothing need be surrendered by you, my lady. On this, of all days, I will see love made right.’ He swung into the saddle. ‘Go well, my friends. We are done here.’

As he rode out through the gate, Gripp Galas stared after his ex-master. He reached out one hand to his side, groping.

Hish stepped close and clasped that hand, and then felt some of his weight as he seemed to sag.

‘You damned fool,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I thought you knew him.’

The forest had broken down in this place. It left skeletal trees rising from marsh grasses, and rotting logs blanketed in moss. Black water surrounded every hummock and the smaller islands were made from tufts of grass and reeds. The air smelled of decay and insects swarmed. They were camped upon the verge of this sunken land, brought up in their flight from the south. A dozen fires smouldered, green grasses fed into the flames to fill the air with smoke and so drive back the biting insects. Narad sat near one of them, eyes watering.

They had been criminals marching in file, and he was the last of that line, the last to despoil this miserable congress of civility. The proclamation of his ugliness was smoke-stained, fly-bitten and filthy, and he felt at home in this place, barring the company he kept.

Others had joined them. From the west had come a company commanded by Captain Hallyd Bahann, and with him was a beautiful woman named Tathe Lorat and her daughter, Sheltatha Lore. Their soldiers brought tales of slaughter at a monastery and the pillaging of Abara Delack. And now, riding up from the south, another troop approached and with their sighting the squads around Narad stirred, collecting their weapons and donning their helms. At last, he heard, their captain had arrived.

There were many kinds of curiosity, Narad realized as he stood with the others and fixed his gaze on the riders. To see a face behind a name, if that name was wreathed in tales of heroism, was a clean kind of curiosity. But the face of a monster invited its own fascination, perhaps in the shock of recognition, since every face could be seen in one; or, more to the point, from that one face, it took little imagination to find one’s own. Narad did not know which lure made him strain to see Captain Scara Bandaris, but he knew that a transformation awaited the man.

Since their flight from the slaughter at the wedding site, Narad had begun, with quick glances, to set upon the features of the soldiers around him the semblance of corpses. In his mind he looked upon his companions as if they were lying on the ground, all life gone, with faces frozen in death. Perhaps it was only a game, or perhaps it was a promise, or even a prayer. He wanted them all dead. He wanted to gaze down on the once-laughing eyes and see the look of men and women who no longer had anything to laugh about. He wanted to see the jest of fate, and would show each face he saw a smile they would never answer, and could never challenge.

At the head of his troop, Captain Scara Bandaris rode up, harshly reining in his lathered horse. Narad squinted up at the man’s face, eager to set that lifeless mask upon it.

Instead, he saw nothing but blinding rage.

‘ By whose command? ’

The soldiers who had begun gathering close to greet their captain suddenly recoiled.

Something bright, like a fire, ignited in Narad.

Scara Bandaris dismounted. He strode directly towards Sergeant Radas. ‘Who is your commanding officer, sergeant? Tell me!’

‘You are, sir.’

‘And what orders did I leave you with?’

‘We were to await you in the forest. But sir, Lieutenant Infayen Menand brought us orders from Captain Hunn Raal.’

Scara’s face displayed incredulity. ‘Hunn Raal ordered the Legion to murder Lord Jaen and his daughter? To take the lives of highborn gathered to celebrate a wedding? Hunn Raal ordered you to unleash your soldiers on Enesdia? To rape her and leave her to die on the hearthstone? The hearthstone that was a gift from Lord Anomander to his brother? May I see these orders, sergeant? May I see for myself the sigil of Hunn Raal?’

Radas had gone white. ‘Sir, Lieutenant Infayen, who bore the word of Captain Hunn Raal, assumed command. I am a soldier of Urusander’s Legion. I follow the orders of my superiors.’

‘Where is Infayen now?’

‘East, sir, to join Commander Urusander.’

Captain Hallyd Bahann approached, Tathe Lorat at his side and trailing behind them an old man with but one leg, who struggled as the sodden ground made uncertain purchase for his crutch. Narad had looked upon Hallyd before, and had found it easy to imagine his visage made lifeless, all arrogance stripped away. It had been a delicious vision. Hallyd Bahann was a bully and the proof of that was in his bearing and his swollen features. He was a man who would look his best when dead.

‘Scara, old friend, welcome,’ said Hallyd. ‘There have been miscalculations, I think. We are agreed on that, you and me. The challenge before us now is to mitigate the damage to our cause.’

Scara was studying the man with level eyes. ‘Our cause indeed, Hallyd,’ he said in a suddenly calm voice. ‘Do remind us, Hallyd, of that cause. I find myself in need of this noble list uttered aloud. Be logical in your assembly, and lift us all once more into the realms of virtue. But pray, old friend, begin at the bottom, there in the blood between a dead woman’s legs.’

Hallyd’s smile vanished.

Without awaiting a reply, Scara continued. ‘Will you not carry us higher then, ignoring the stains as best you can, to a hostage slain defending that woman, cut down not in honourable contest, but as a wild dog staked to the ground? Then to an old man, a father and hero of the wars against the Forulkan, who died on the threshold of his son-in-law’s house?’ He spoke loudly, with weight, and that voice carried through the camp, pushed harsh against the silent soldiers. ‘But wait. Let us add a new rung in this righteous climb to our cause. A maid, one arm severed and then cut down. A maid, venal benefactor of the inequity we so despise. And the Houseblades, barely armed, who laid for our cause a carpet of split flesh and matted grasses.’ He raised his arms, like an orator set aflame with outrage. ‘But here anew we see more signs of Hunn Raal’s certain path to justice! The burnt corpses of Deniers in the forest! Why, those old wax witches grew fat at our expense, did they not? And the children showed improper pomp in the cut of their rags. Do speak to us, Hallyd Bahann, of our pure purpose. Tell me how a choice of faiths divides the realm we have sworn to defend, and do name your reasons for the side you set us on. Write your list in the columns of smoke behind me and stretch it across the heavens-’

‘Cease your tirade!’ snarled Tathe Lorat. ‘There will only be justice for Urusander’s Legion when we stand unopposed. We needed to strike first, Scara, and in a manner to divide our enemies that remain.’

He turned on her a sneer. ‘Divide? Did anyone truly believe that scattering a few corpses of Deniers among the slain would win a false trail? Lord Jaen was a master with the blade, but even he could not match Cryl Durav. That man slain by Deniers? He fell to multiple thrusts, killed by trained soldiers who knew how to fight a blademaster. Do you all take Lord Anomander for a fool?’

‘He is but one man,’ said Hallyd Bahann, who had made use of the momentary inattention to regain his bluster. ‘The plan was ill-conceived, but we all know how propriety is surrendered in the midst of bloodlust, Scara. It was regrettable, but there will be other crimes committed before this is done, by both sides, and you are a fool if you think otherwise.’

‘Oh, I am a fool to be sure,’ Scara replied. He returned to his horse and swung into the saddle. ‘I am done with this,’ he said. Twisting in his seat, he looked upon those soldiers who had accompanied him from Kharkanas. ‘Stay here and fight with your comrades, if you will. I yield command and reject my commission in Urusander’s Legion.’

Tathe Lorat laughed. ‘Flee back to Sedis Hold, then, and take whatever cowards would ride with you. Did I not warn you, Scara, against your friendship with Anomander’s brother? Be sure that white-skinned freak is upon your trail now, with vengeance in his heart.’ She shook her head. ‘Stand aside, will you? That choice no longer exists, Scara. Not for anyone, and especially not for you.’

Narad saw a few of his companions gathering their gear, clearly intent on joining their now outlawed captain. He hesitated, and then began collecting his own kit.

Tathe Lorat then went on, raising her voice. ‘And should Silchas Ruin not find you, then one day Urusander’s Legion will. That I promise, and you all know what Commander Urusander does to deserters.’

More than half of the soldiers readying their gear stopped then, and Narad saw many setting their packs back down.

Scara Bandaris led his troop away from the camp, riding west to return to the river road. A thin line of additional soldiers fell in behind it. Narad was among them, and he saw, just ahead, Corporal Bursa. Sergeant Radas had remained behind, but he still had her face in his memory. It was dead, and never again would those lips twist, or make the shape of words. Never again would she say ‘ Still hanging limp, Waft? ’ and never again would she rant on in the smoke and fire about all the wrongs done to her and her comrades in the Legion.

It was a dead face he saw, there in his mind, and when he drew back, to hover over her as would a gleeful ghost, he saw how she was sprawled on the stones, her legs spread wide, and blood pooling down there.

The vision should have made him recoil, but instead he felt nothing.

Not by my hand, sergeant.

Scara Bandaris’s words in the camp reverberated through him still. Their scorn comforted him. Their indignation carried the echoes of rightful condemnation, and if Narad himself stung to the lash, well, did he not deserve it?

A short time later, the captain drew up and he and his fellow riders waited for the newcomers. The road was at their backs, the river just beyond.

Scara said, ‘We will rest here for a time. But not as long as I’d like. It may be best if you simply scattered, finding for yourself remote places in which to hide. I will wait in Sedis Hold, and if Silchas Ruin finds me, I will not fight him. I will, in truth, bow to one knee and await his sword upon my neck. By these words I have given you, I trust that you understand that it will not be safe for any of you, should you remain in my company.’

At that, a number of riders swung round to retrace their route.

The scene felt sordid, pathetic.

Then the captain’s eyes fell upon Narad and the man frowned. ‘You I do not know.’

‘This then,’ said Narad, ‘is my only reason for hope.’

Corporal Bursa cleared his throat. ‘We collected him up in the forest, sir.’

‘You vouch for him, corporal?’

Narad felt his spirits plummet. He felt once more that woman lying under him, and heard the laughter making a ring around his clumsy motions, and how it rained down like stinging sleet.

Bursa said, ‘He obeyed orders, sir, and was accepted as one of us.’

‘Very well,’ said Scara Bandaris, his gaze shifting away. ‘The ascent to Sedis Gate is a long climb, and any who approach will be seen from half a day away, thus giving all of you time to flee into the north, on the Jheleck Trail. I am content to meet my fate alone.’

A soldier spoke. ‘We would ride with you, sir.’

‘Until Sedis Hold?’

‘Yes sir.’

Scara Bandaris offered them all a wry, bitter smile. ‘Fools delight in company, my friends.’

‘ High Priestess, make of your worship an unflinching recognition of the unknown, and indeed, the unknowable. By devotion and acceptance of mystery, the chaos that haunts us all is made calm, until the sea itself becomes a mirror content with a placid reflection.’

As the words of her goddess they marked scant scripture, and Emral Lanear felt lost as she sat in her private chamber. She had sent the priestesses away, and was alone with her blurred reflection, sitting so motionless in the mirror. As befitted any adherent, she had pledged her devotion in the frail hope of gifts in return, and while this notion, so crassly expressed, laid bare the one-sided bargaining that was faith, she was no longer in any mood for dissembling. All that was indistinct and imprecise could well remain in the mirror, where every smudge was a blessing, and she would leave it at that.

Still, this face she saw before her was no placid reflection.

There was no end to the irony, if what Anomander had said about Syntara was true. Youthful beauty could bear the revelation of light, while its ageing loss welcomed the darkness; and so these two High Priestesses were indeed well positioned, and if Emral knew bitterness at finding which side she inhabited, there was nothing to be done for it. At least the darkness was eternal in its disguising gifts. In the centuries to come, Syntara might well come to curse what her light revealed.

But now they stood opposite one another, poised to attend a clash neither side could truly win. In the death of one, the meaning of the other is lost. Shall I add this truth to our modest scripture? Perhaps as a note upon the margin, less elegantly inscribed, a thing made in haste, or perhaps regret.

If holy words could not offer up an answer to despair, then what good were they? If the truths so revealed did not invite restitution, then their utterance was no more than a curse. And if the restitution is found not in the mortal realm, then we are invited to inaction, and indifference. Will you promise to a soul a reward buried in supposition? Are we to reach throughout our lives but never touch? Are we to dream and to hope, but never know?

‘ High Priestess, make of your worship an unflinching recognition of the unknown, and indeed, the unknowable.’

Such devotion promised no reward. It made every stance abject and solitary. Revelation proclaimed a vacuum, where faith was doomed to flounder. Then again, perhaps she intends by her prescription just such a revelation: that while we are light inside, there is nothing but darkness upon the outside.

Syntara, we face one another as enemies. But I wonder if even that is a profane conceit.

Frowning, she drew out her writing materials. It was time, she decided, for overtures.

The sound of rushing feet and then a rapid knocking upon the door startled her. She rose and adjusted her robes. ‘Enter.’

To her surprise, it was not a priestess who appeared, but the historian, Rise Herat.

‘High Priestess, I beg you, accompany me.’

‘Where?’

‘To the courtyard,’ he replied. ‘A conjuration is under way.’

‘A what?’

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Emral, there is darkness there, impenetrable darkness, and…’ he hesitated, ‘High Priestess, this darkness bleeds.’

As they strode towards the front doors, Emral could hear faint screams, through which cut shouts as some sought to quell the panic in the courtyard. ‘Historian,’ she said, ‘this may well be Mother Dark’s sorcery, and so nothing anyone need fear.’

‘Your arrival and subsequent comportment might well invite that thought, High Priestess,’ Rise replied, ‘which is why I sought you out.’

‘But you do not believe it belongs to Mother Dark, do you?’

He glanced at her, his lined face pale. ‘As I arrived at your door, I admit, I longed for a calming response from you at the news I delivered.’

‘But in its absence?’

He shook his head.

They arrived outside. Figures had retreated from the manifestation, which dominated the centre of the courtyard, and from the entrance to the Citadel the gates themselves were no longer visible, blighted by the immense darkness. The stain filled the air, black and roiling, with tendrils spilling down to writhe like tentacles upon the cobbles. As Emral stared, she saw it grow larger, bleeding out to hide the gate’s towers, and the platforms where stood transfixed Houseblades.

The clamour of voices had begun to die away, and Emral’s outwardly calm appearance seemed to seal the silence.

The emanation itself made no sound, but cold drifted out from it — the same cold as was found in the Chamber of Night. Emral stared, wondering if indeed Mother Dark had begun this conjuration. But for what purpose?

In that moment, when doubts crowded her, a mounted figure rode out from the darkness, arriving at a canter. The huge, armoured man drew hard on the reins of his warhorse, and sparks danced out from the beast’s hoofs. He halted directly before Emral Lanear and Rise Herat.

She struggled to breathe for a moment. The emanation was fast dwindling behind the rider.

At her side, the historian bowed. ‘Consort,’ he said, ‘welcome back.’

Lord Draconus dismounted. Cold drifted from his shoulders, and there was frost glistening on his riding boots, and his armour. He drew off his gauntlets. ‘High Priestess,’ he said, ‘I need you.’

‘Consort?’

He gestured to the building behind her. ‘She knows I have returned. I promised her a gift, and for that, you must attend me.’

‘In what manner?’ she asked.

‘As the First Daughter of Night.’

‘I hold no such title.’

He approached. ‘You do now,’ he said, moving past her and entering the Citadel. Emral followed, trailed by Rise Herat.

Lord Draconus strode into the Grand Hall, and halted in the centre of the vast chamber. ‘Clear the hall!’ he commanded.

The quiet, brooding man Emral had known before now stood as if transformed. The power around him was palpable. His heavy gaze found her. ‘High Priestess, seek the emptiness within you. Surrender the will of your eyes to Mother Dark, so that she may witness my gift.’

‘Consort, I know not how to do that.’

‘Only because you have never tried. Look well upon me now, and within your soul, kick open the door of faith.’

All at once, Emral felt a presence flow into her body, shifting as if finding itself in ill-fitting flesh, and as she looked upon Lord Draconus there was a sudden surge of discordant emotions. She felt Mother Dark’s pleasure at seeing her lover again, and her relief, and in the midst of that, there was profound trepidation. Emral struggled to give herself over to her goddess, so that Mother Dark might speak through her, but something defied her efforts. She felt Mother Dark’s desire to address Draconus, blunt and heavy as a fist, pounding upon some inner door — a door that remained locked — and as her goddess pushed against it from one side, so too Emral pulled against it from the other. Their efforts failed, leaving to Mother Dark only the vision of her Consort.

He had thrown off his cloak now, and there was something in his hands, cupped like a precious flower, but all that Emral — and Mother Dark — could see was what looked like a fragment of forest floor, a flattened layer of humus. Draconus looked into Emral Lanear’s eyes, and then spoke. ‘Beloved, in this gift, I offer you the consecration of this Citadel, and so make of it a temple in truth. You have embraced the Night, yet hold but a modest fragment of its power.’ He paused, and then said, ‘There is a war of forces here, waged in the stone walls, the stone floor. It seems my return was timely indeed. By this gift, all challenge is banished from this place. I give to you, and to all the Children of Night, this Terondai.’

With these words, he let fall the object in his hands.

It landed softly, like folded parchment, and for a moment sat motionless upon the tiled floor. And then it began to unfold, sending out angled projections upon the surface of the tiles, and these projections were black as onyx, and the pattern they formed seemed to sink into the worn marble, indelibly staining it.

Emral felt a growing horror within her, coming from Mother Dark.

The pattern continued to unfold, spreading across the entire floor. It bore twenty-eight arms, like the points of a black star. In the centre was a multi-angled circle. Draconus stood within it. The expression on his face was one of pride, yet there was something fragile in his eyes. ‘Beloved,’ he said, ‘from the lands of the Azathanai, I returned to you upon the Road of Night. I rode through the realm of Darkness.’ He gestured to the pattern, which now spanned the entire chamber. ‘You need reach no longer, beloved. I have brought Night here and offer you, once more, its perfect embrace. It is a gift borne on love. By what other means do we consecrate?’

Emral could feel her goddess, a presence recoiling in fear.

‘Beloved,’ said Draconus, ‘I give you the Gate of Kurald Galain.’

The pattern ignited. Darkness blossomed.

And the goddess fled.

In the Chamber of Night, Grizzin Farl stood before Mother Dark, watching as she grew ever more insubstantial. The unfolding of Night was fast encompassing the Citadel, pouring out from the Terondai to take every room, spreading like blight down every corridor. It swallowed the light from lamps, candles and lanterns. It stole the brightness from flames and embers in every hearth.

He felt it when the darkness spilled out past the walls of the Citadel, rushed like a flood across the courtyard. When it flowed down to the surface of the river, Grizzin winced at the shock that trembled through the water, and he heard in his mind the wretched howl of the river god as the darkness broke the barrier and rushed down into the depths. That howl became a death-cry, and then it was gone. And the river flowed with Night.

The darkness spread rapidly through all of Kharkanas.

‘You wondered at my presence here,’ he said to the goddess seated on her throne. ‘You wondered at my role. I could not let you speak. The silence needed… protecting. Forgive me.’ He then raised a hand towards her. ‘You will recover,’ he said. ‘You will find the strength to resist its pull. That strength will come from worship, and from love. But most of all, it will come from the balance that awaits us all. Alas, the achievement of such balance, so long overdue, will be difficult.’

‘What balance?’ she asked, her voice left hoarse by the denials she had screamed, the helpless cries against what her lover was doing; against what he had done.

‘All forces are arrayed in opposition, Mother Dark. It is this tension that weaves the threads of existence. Even the Abyss stands, and exists, in answer to something — to us. To you, me, and every other sentient creature upon this and every other realm. Will I speak of gods, then, and their dominion over lesser beings? I will not. Such hierarchy signifies little. We must all stand upon this side of the Abyss, and make what we can of words and dreams, of desires and ambitions. The gods are only elevated in the boldness of their arguments.’

‘The river god is slain.’ She brought her hands up to cover her face.

‘An argument lost,’ Grizzin Farl replied. ‘And yes, I do grieve.’

Behind her hands she asked, ‘What will come of the Deniers?’

‘I cannot say, Mother. Perhaps they will walk the shore, in eternal longing for the world they have lost.’

Mother Dark visibly trembled, and then slowly lowered her hands. They stole out along the arms of the throne to grip the elegantly curved ends. She drew a deep breath. ‘And now?’

‘Lord Draconus brought to you his gift, his power. He is the first Azathanai to have done this solely for those who dwell in his domain.’ Grizzin Farl hesitated, and then said, ‘I did not know that your children were ignorant of your Consort’s true nature.’

Her eyes went flat. ‘Mothers have secrets.’

After a long moment, he nodded. ‘Do not blame Draconus. All that comes was begun by another Azathanai.’ Then he shook his head. ‘My apologies. I dissemble. We all have had a hand in this. The one you name T’riss, who walked into, and then out of, the Sea of Vitr. My own children… but most of all, this belongs to K’rul, who answered worship with generosity. Who, assailed by prayers written in spilled blood, gave answer to them. But the power he surrendered was not intended only for those who worshipped him. He has given it freely, to everyone. By this, new sorceries are born, Mother Dark. By this, the forces in opposition are given names, and aspects. They are given realms of influence. A storm awaits us all, Mother Dark. To save you… to save your children who worship you, Draconus has done only what was necessary. The Gate of Kurald Galain now belongs to you, and over Night you now have dominion.’

‘And my lover will just step aside?’ There was venom in that question.

‘The giving of gifts is a fraught enterprise, Mother Dark. I am sure I was not alone in warning him. Stem this tide of fury in your heart, I beg you. He has done what he has done out of love.’

‘As did this K’rul, too, surely.’

Grizzin Farl nodded.

‘And what has it cost him, Azathanai?’

‘The tale of that is not yet complete, Mother.’

‘Then the blood still flows.’

Grizzin Farl started, and then he sighed. ‘A most apt description.’

‘He comes to me now. Will you remain to witness our reunion?’

‘Mother Dark, I fear there is nothing left here to protect.’

Her gesture of dismissal was perfunctory. Grizzin Farl bowed, and then strode from the Chamber of Night.

Outside the chamber he paused in the corridor. I forgot to warn her. With the birth of one gate, there will be others.

Their horses labouring in the acidic air, Spinnock Durav and his commander rode down to the shores of the Sea of Vitr. They had heard a thunderous reverberation, as of the air itself splitting open, and hastily saddling their mounts they had left the camp among the boulders well above the shoreline, and ridden out to discover the source of that terrible sound.

For three days, Spinnock and the others in the troop had explored the strand, moving among scores of dead and dying monstrosities, no two alike. If born of the Vitr, each had been nurtured on foul milk, and the sea in which they found their home had set upon them with frenzied hunger. The creatures crawled free of the silver waters torn apart, bleeding, their flanks hanging loose, bones exposed and many ruptured by unbearable pressures. Even then, they took a long time to die.

The horror of these births assailed the Wardens. There was no sense to be made of this failed invasion, and for all the violence borne in the arrival of the demons, nothing but pity could attend their death throes. As Calat Hustain had observed only the day before, any entity, beast or otherwise, could not but lash out in the midst of such agony.

They knew well to keep their distance, and the veracity of Finarra Stone’s report was evinced time and again, when creatures little more than exploded carcasses somehow found the strength to thrash and fight on, seeking to drag themselves out from the Vitr.

This horror was a weight upon the Wardens, and Spinnock Durav felt a dulling of the pleasures he took in life. Each morning he awoke enervated, feeling helpless, and dreading the next journey down to the shoreline.

As the thunderclap seemed to shiver on through the caustic air, they rode clear of the final boulders above the strand, and could see at last the source of that event.

A wall of fire hovered in the air above the Sea of Vitr, as if a new sun had been born. Yet it was not so bright as to blind them. The flames writhing about its edge seemed to erupt, flying outward in strands and threads, like molten gold escaping the edge of a spinning wheel. These fires vanished like sparks, and none curved in flight or arced downward to the surface of the silver sea.

The emanation was stationary, hovering in the sky. It was difficult to determine its size, but the reflection it cast upon the sea was immense.

The troop reined in on the strand, forming a row. Their horses trembled under them, and glancing to his right and left Spinnock was struck by the audacity of this conceit: that he and his fellow Wardens — that the Tiste of Kurald Galain and even Mother Dark — could somehow stand firm against such forces of nature.

A sudden conviction took hold in him: this sea would never be defeated. It would continue to grow, devouring land as it did behemoths, poisoning the air, stealing the life from all that it touched. Sorcery would fail against it, and will alone proved frail defiance.

‘There are shapes within it!’ one of the Wardens cried.

Spinnock looked back up at the blazing conjuration.

The air cracked anew, with a force that staggered the horses and flung men and women from their saddles. Spinnock managed to remain mounted, fighting to keep his balance. A rush of sweet wind rushed out, lashing across the surface of the Vitr, revealing at last something of the distance out from the shoreline of this raging sun. The power of that gale, as it poured out from the emanation, lifted waves upon the sea.

It seemed that Spinnock was the first to comprehend the portent of that. ‘We must flee!’ he shouted. ‘Commander! We must retreat!’

He saw Calat Hustain, who had also managed to remain on his horse, swing round to stare at him, and then the commander began shouting. ‘Withdraw! Hurry!’

The horses that had unseated their riders had already fled the onslaught. Those Wardens now on foot were quickly gathered up by their comrades. The beasts were shrilling in terror, and the surface of the strand itself was shivering.

A third eruption sounded.

Spinnock glanced back.

Abyss take me. Abyss take us all!

Dragons emerged from the emanation, wings outstretched, their tails scything the air in their wake. One after another, Eleint were rushing out to lift on the air, like birds freed from a cage. Faintly, through the howling wind, came their piercing cries.

Upon the sea, a succession of monumental waves advanced towards the shore.

There was no need for further exhortations from Calat Hustain. The troop rode up from the strand in frantic retreat. Even the boulders did not seem proof to what was coming.

Plunging into the rotted tumble of crags and rock, Spinnock left his mount to find its own way. A massive shadow swept over him and he looked up to see the belly and translucent wings of a dragon sailing above them. The Eleint’s long neck curled and the head came into view, almost upside down as the creature flew on, and Spinnock saw how its eyes seemed to blaze as they looked down on him. Then that wedge-shaped head tilted, as the beast scanned the other riders who were just breaking clear of the boulders and beginning to cross the dead ground, towards the black grasses of Glimmer Fate.

The dragon’s talons spread wide, and then closed again.

Moments later, with savage beats of its wings, the creature lifted higher into the sky. One of its companions swung close and then, as the first dragon’s jaws snapped the air in warning, away again.

A rider came alongside Spinnock, and he saw that it was Sergeant Bered. He shot Spinnock a wide-eyed look. ‘Nine!’ he shouted.

‘What?’

‘Nine of them! And then it closed!’

Spinnock twisted round, but at that moment his horse reached the high grasses and plunged into the mouth of the nearest trail. The tall, razor-edged stalks whipped and slashed at him. Spinnock was forced to drop his visor and keep his head down as his mount galloped deeper into the Fate.

The ground shook to a succession of concussions, and the wind redoubled, flattening the grasses on all sides.

Glancing back, he saw the first and largest of the waves pounding over the boulders, knocking many aside as if they were but pebbles.

The silver walls rushed across the dead ground, and struck the edge of the grasses.

A flash lit the air, blinding him. He heard shouts and then screams, and then his horse was tumbling, and he was spinning through the air, landing hard on the flattened mat of the grasses. Skidding, feeling countless blades slicing through his leather armour as if they were sharp iron, Spinnock kept his forearms against his face. He rolled and came to a stop.

He was facing the way he had come, and he stared in disbelief.

The Vitr thrashed against an invisible wall, delineated by the edge of Glimmer Fate, and there the silver water climbed and lunged, only to be flung back. Wave after wave hammered against this unseen barrier, and each spent its power in raging futility. In moments the sea began its foaming, churning retreat.

Spinnock sat up, surprised that no bones had broken. But he was slick with blood. He saw his horse stagger upright a dozen paces away, to stand trembling and streaming red from its wounds. On either side other Wardens were appearing, stumbling over the flattened grasses. He saw Calat Hustain, cradling an arm that was clearly broken between shoulder and elbow, his face cut open as if by talons.

Dazed, Spinnock looked skyward. He saw a distant spot, far to the south now, marking the last dragon visible in the sky.

Nine. He counted nine.

Hearing a horse upon the road behind him, Endest Silann moved to the shallow ditch to let the rider past. He drew his cloak tighter about him and pulled up the hood to send a veil of shadow over his eyes. Three days past, he had awakened alone in the historian’s room to find his hands bound with bandages, to take up the blood that had wept from them.

There had been a faint sense of betrayal in this, given Rise Herat’s promise to abide, but upon leaving the chamber and finding himself in a corridor crowded with half-panicked denizens, and learning of the frightening manifestation of darkness in the courtyard, Endest pushed away his disappointment.

The Consort’s dramatic return had reverberated throughout the Citadel, and it seemed that the conjurations of that day were far from done. He had felt Night’s awakening, and then had fled, like a child, the flood of darkness that took first the Citadel, and then all of Kharkanas.

Carrying nothing, he had set out upon the river road, sleeping in whatever remaining hovels he could find amidst the grim wreckage of the pogrom. He saw no one for long stretches at a time, and those he did come upon shied from his attention. Nor was he inclined to accost any of them, hungry as he was. They had the furtiveness of wild dogs and looked half starved themselves. It was difficult to comprehend how quickly Kurald Galain had surrendered to dissolution. Time and again, as he walked, he had felt tears streaming down his cheeks.

The bandages still wrapped about his hands had become filthy, freshly soaked through with blood each night, drying black in the course of the day. But he now walked clear of the sorcerous darkness, and still as the forest was, with its burnt stretches and scorched clearings, he had found a kind of exhausted peace in his solitude. The river upon his left marked a current that he felt himself pushing against on this road. He had begun this journey knowing nothing of his destination, but he had realized that that ignorance had been a conceit.

There was but one place for him now, and he was drawing ever closer to it.

The rider came up from behind and Endest heard the animal’s pace slowing, until the stranger appeared alongside him. Endest desired no conversation and cared nothing for the rider’s identity, but when the newcomer spoke it was in a voice that the priest knew well.

‘If we are to adopt the habit of pilgrimage, surely you are walking the wrong way.’

Endest halted and faced the man. He bowed. ‘Milord, I cannot say if this path belongs to the goddess. But it seems that I am indeed on pilgrimage, though until you spoke I knew it not.’

‘You are weathered by your journey, priest,’ said Lord Anomander.

‘If I fast, milord, it is not by choice.’

‘I’ll not impede your journey,’ Anomander said. He reached down and drew out from a saddle bag a leather satchel, which he threw over to Endest. ‘Break your fast, priest. You can do so while you walk.’

‘Thank you, milord.’ In the satchel, there was some bread, cheese and dried meat. Endest partook of this modest offering with trembling fingers.

It seemed Anomander was content, for the moment, to keep pace with Endest. ‘I have scoured this forest,’ he said, ‘and have found nothing to salve my conscience. No birdsong finds me, and not even the small animals spared by our indifference remain to rustle the leaves at night.’

‘The meek of the realm, milord, have but one recourse to all manner of threat, and that is to flee.’

Anomander grunted, and then said, ‘I’d not thought to include the forest animals, or the birds for that matter, as subjects of the realm. It is not as if we can command them.’

‘But their small lives, milord, tremble atop our altars none the less. If we do not command with the snare and the arrow, then we speak eloquently enough with fire and smoke.’

‘Will you lift back your hood, priest, so that I may see you?’

‘Forgive me, milord, but I beg your indulgence. I do not know if penance awaits me, but this journey is a difficult one, and I would not share it for fear of selfish motives.’

‘You choose, then, to walk alone, and to remain unknown.’ Lord Anomander sighed. ‘I envy your privilege, priest. Do you know your destination?’

‘I believe I do, milord.’

‘Upon this road?’

‘Just off it.’

Something changed in the First Son’s voice then, as he said, ‘And not far, priest?’

‘Not far, milord.’

‘If I made a spiral of my search,’ said Anomander, ‘I now close upon a place where I believe it ends. I think, priest, that we will attend the same altar. Will you make of it a shrine?’

Endest started at the notion. He fumbled to close the satchel, and then made his way over to Anomander to hand the leather bag back. ‘Such a thing had not occurred to me, milord.’

‘Your hands are wounded?’

‘No more than my soul, milord.’

‘You are young. An acolyte?’

‘Yes.’ Bowing his thanks for the food, Endest returned to the side of the road.

They continued on in silence for a time. Ahead, the track leading to the estate of Andarist appeared, flanked by burnt grasses and the skeletal remnant of a fire-scorched tree.

‘I do not think,’ said Anomander, ‘that I would welcome a consecration in that place, acolyte, even could you give it. Which you cannot. The only holy object in the ruin before us is an Azathanai hearthstone, and I fear to come upon it now, and see it broken.’

‘Broken, milord?’

‘I also fear,’ Anomander continued, ‘that my brother is not there, when I can think of no other refuge he might seek. I was told he chose the wilderness for his grief, and can think of no greater wilderness than the house where his love died.’

Endest hesitated, and then drew a deep breath. They were but a dozen paces from the track. ‘Lord Anomander,’ he said, halting but keeping his head down. ‘Mother Dark has blessed her.’

‘Her? Who?’

‘The maiden, Enesdia of House Enes, milord. In the eyes of our goddess, that child is now a High Priestess.’

Anomander’s voice was suddenly hard as iron. ‘She has blessed a corpse?’

‘Milord, may I ask, where were her remains buried?’

‘Beneath the stones of the floor, priest, upon the threshold to the house. My brother insisted and would have torn those stones from the ground with his bare hands, if we had not restrained him. Regrettably, there was some haste in that excavation. Her father lies beneath the ground at the entrance, and at his side is the body of the hostage, Cryl Durav. The Houseblades lie encircling the house. Priest, Mother Dark has never made claim to the souls of the dead.’

‘I cannot say, milord, that she does so now.’

‘What has brought you here?’

‘Visions,’ Endest said. ‘Dreams.’ He then lifted his hands. ‘I–I bear her blood.’

To utter those words was to unleash the torment within Endest, and with a cry he fell to his knees. Anguish rushed through him in waves black as midnight, and he heard his own voice emerging, broken and torn.

And then Lord Anomander was beside him, kneeling to draw an arm around him. When he spoke it seemed that it was not to the priest. ‘Why does she do this? How many wounds will she make us carry? I’ll not have it. Mother, if you would so share your guilt, look only to me. I will take it upon myself, and know it as familiar company. Instead, you make all your children carry the burden of your legacy.’ He barked a harsh laugh. ‘And what a wretched family we are.’

Then he was helping Endest to his feet. ‘Give me your weight, priest. We take these last steps together, then. Set hands upon the blank stones that mark her grave, and leave the stain of her blood. High Priestess she will be. Mother knows, she was used as one.’

The bitterness of those last words reached through to Endest, and perversely he took from it strength and renewed fortitude.

Together and on foot, lord and priest made their way up the track.

Through blurred eyes, Endest saw the half-ring of low mounds of freshly turned earth. He saw the front of the house, its doorway still bereft of a door. He saw the larger mound that marked the barrows of Lord Jaen and Cryl Durav. He had seen it all before, in his dreams. They drew closer, neither speaking.

Blood flowed anew from Endest’s hands, dripping steadily now as they came to the entrance to the house.

Lord Anomander paused. ‘Someone waits within.’

The stones of the floor just within the entrance were tilted, uneven now, and stained here and there with dirt, many of them in the patterns of handprints. Seeing this, Endest halted once more. ‘In my dreams,’ he said, ‘she is still dying.’

‘I fear the truth of that is in us all, priest,’ said Anomander. Then he moved past and stepped within. ‘Andarist? I come to set aside vengeance-’

But the figure that rose from its seat upon the hearthstone, in the heavy gloom of the unlit chamber, was not Andarist. This man was huge, with fur upon his shoulders.

Endest stood, watching, the blood from his hands dripping down on to the stones of Enesdia’s grave, and Lord Anomander strode forward to stand before the stranger.

‘The hearthstone?’ the First Son asked.

‘Beleaguered,’ the man replied in a deep voice. ‘Trust is strained, and the stains of blood cannot be washed from all that has befallen this place.’

Lord Anomander seemed at a loss. ‘Then… why have you come?’

‘We are bound, First Son. I have been awaiting you.’

‘Why?’

‘To defend my gift.’

‘Defend? From me? I will not breach this trust — for all that Andarist now denies me. I will find him. I will make this right.’

‘I fear you cannot, Anomander. But I know this: you will try.’

‘Then stand here, Azathanai, until the death of the last day! Defend this mockery of blessing so perfectly shaped by your hands!’

‘We are bound,’ the Azathanai said again, unperturbed by Anomander’s outburst. ‘In your journey now, you will find me at your side.’

‘I wish it not.’

The huge figure shrugged. ‘Already we share something.’

Anomander shook his head. ‘You are no friend, Caladan Brood. Nor will you ever be. I cannot even be certain that your gift was not the curse at the heart of all that has happened here.’

‘Nor can I, Anomander. Another thing we share.’

The First Son set a hand upon his sword’s grip.

But the Azathanai shook his head. ‘This is not the time, Anomander, to draw that weapon in this place. I see behind you a priest. I see in his hands the power of Mother Dark, and the blood she now bleeds, and so the bargain of faith is made.’

‘I do not understand-’

‘Lord Anomander, she has now the power of an Azathanai. This power is born of blood, and in the birth of a god, or goddess, it is that entity that must first surrender it. And you who are to be her children, you will surrender your own in answer. And by this, Darkness is forged.’

But Anomander backed away. ‘I made no such bargain,’ he said.

‘Faith cares nothing for bargains, First Son.’

‘She has left me nothing!’

‘She has left you alone. Make of your freedom what you will, Anomander. Do with it what you must.’

‘I would end this civil war!’

‘Then end it.’ Caladan Brood stepped forward. ‘If you ask, Lord Anomander, I will show you how.’

Anomander visibly hesitated. He glanced back at Endest, but the priest quickly looked down, and saw the grave stones crimson beneath him. He felt suddenly weak and sank down to his knees, sliding upon the tilted cairn.

He then heard, as if from a great distance, Lord Anomander speaking. ‘Caladan, if I ask this of you, that you show me how… will there be peace?’

And the Azathanai answered, ‘There will be peace.’

Arathan stood at the window of the highest tower next to the one named the Tower of Hate. The morning sun’s light swept in around him, filled him with heat.

Behind him, he heard Korya sit up on the bed. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘to have so disturbed your sleep.’

She grunted. ‘This is a first, Arathan. A young man rushing into my chambers without even a scratch at the door, but does he take note of my naked self? He does not. Instead, he rushes to the window and there he stands.’

He glanced back at her.

‘What lies beyond?’ she asked. ‘The view is nothing but a vast plain and the hovels of fallen towers. Look at us,’ she added, rising from the bed with the blankets wrapped about her slim form, ‘we dwell in a wasteland with miserable Jaghut for company, and on all sides the view is bleak. Do you not even find me attractive?’

He studied her. ‘I find you very attractive,’ he said. ‘But I do not trust you. Please, that was not meant to offend.’

‘Really? You have a lot to learn.’

He turned back to the window.

‘What so fascinates you with that view?’ she asked.

‘When Gothos woke me this morning, it was with mysterious words.’

‘Nothing new there, surely?’

Arathan shrugged. ‘The mystery is answered.’

He heard her move across the room, and then she came up alongside him. Looking out upon the plain, she gasped.

After a long moment, she said, ‘What did the Lord of Hate say to you, Arathan?’

‘“He is such a fool I fear my heart will burst.”’

‘Just that?’

Arathan nodded.

‘Haut tells me… there is a gate now.’

‘A way into the realm of the dead, yes. Hood means to take it.’

‘To wage his impossible war.’ Then she sighed. ‘Oh, Arathan, how can the heart not break at seeing this?’

They stood side by side, looking down upon a plain where thousands had gathered, in answer to Hood’s call. No, not thousands. Tens of thousands. Jaghut, Thel Akai, Dog-Runners… lost souls, grieving souls, one and all. And still more come.

Oh, Hood, did you know? Could you have even imagined such an answer?

‘And Gothos said nothing more?’

Arathan shook his head. But when I found him again, seated in his chair, I saw that he wept. Children come easy to tears. But the tears of an old man are different. They can break a child’s world like no other thing can. And this morning, I am a child again. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Nothing.’

I did not walk among them, Fisher kel Tath. Would that I had. He raised a banner of grief, and this detail waves my intent, but Lord Anomander, at this juncture, was not ready to see it. They were too far away. They were caught in their own lives. Too much and too fierce the necessities hounding them.

But think on this. Beneath such a banner, there is no end to those drawn to it, not from the weight of failure, but from the curse of surviving. Against death itself, the only legion who make of it an enemy belongs to the living.

Behold this army. It is doomed.

Still, even a blind man, in this moment, could not but see the shine in your eyes, my friend. You blaze with the poet’s heat, as you imagine this assembly, so silent and so determined, so hopeless and so

… brilliant.

Let us rest for now in this tale.

Time enough, I say, for two old men to weep.