The Commander's voice grew cool as well. "I have already answered that question, Lieutenant. Surely we have more important matters to discuss, such as how to find a way to escape here so that we can once more fight the enemy—"
"I need to know for the sake of my work, sir." Quentin-Andrew's voice was now as cold as a long-buried bone. "Are the Emorians our enemy, sir?"
"Certainly. They started this war by their oppression of the dominions."
"And the Koretians, sir? And the Daxions?"
"They opposed my attempts to bring Koretia under lawful rule once more. Of course," he added quickly, "once we have killed the true enemy – those who oppose me – the peaceful Koretians and Daxions and Emorians will have the opportunity to choose new rulers and to choose a new law. The shapeless gods know I will fully support any men who have the ability to bring about this rebirth, but until such men arrive, I cannot let the Three Lands suffer under the enemy—"
"Is Dolan the enemy, sir?"
The pause lasted very long this time. The colors at the window had grown dim; the Commander's face, which still faced that window, was flung into shadow. Quentin-Andrew could see its outline only by the faint mist emitted from the Commander's mouth.
"That is not a name I wish to discuss." The Commander's voice was flat. "You know my wishes in that regard."
"But sir, I cannot do my work without being certain who I should question. You gave Dolan into my hands—"
"That is in the past." The Commander cut Quentin-Andrew short with a voice like a blade. "Dolan disobeyed orders, and he received the punishment I had promised upon any man who disobeyed me. It was a hard decision for me to make, but a necessary one, for the sake of the Three Lands—"
"The Three Lands that are being destroyed by your soldiers, sir?"
The moment he spoke, Quentin-Andrew knew that he had taken a misstep. It had happened before; he was not a god, and despite his reputation, he had made errors in his work. Always in the past, it had not mattered greatly. He was certain of his success in the end, for no man in the Three Lands could hold out against him.
Except, perhaps, the man who had helped to make him what he was.
"You said that it was a necessary decision," Quentin-Andrew added quickly, trying to retrace his steps. "Could you explain why to me, sir?"
The Commander, though, was not listening. He had turned from the window and was staring at Quentin-Andrew with narrowed eyes, as though seeing him for the first time. He said quietly, "You are not chained."
The Commander's quiet voice had deceived many a man before. Quentin-Andrew, who had heard the Commander use that voice on the night of Dolan's torture, remained silent and waited.
The Commander took a step back and ran his gaze down Quentin-Andrew's untouched uniform and his unmarked body. When his eyes rose again, they glittered like the dark ice surrounding him.
"I see," he said with bitter frigidity. "I should have guessed that the enemy would take this course. You are the only man who has stood beside me through it all, the only man left whom I could trust. Why should the enemy torment you when they could offer me greater torment by taking you from me? What did they give you, Lieutenant, to make you desire to come here and speak their words?"
"Sir—"
"Leave me at peace!" The voice was thunderous, with only a slight break at the end. Iron rattled as the Commander thrust his fists forward, but the chains held him fast. Quentin-Andrew, who had automatically calculated the length of the chains from the moment he first sighted the Commander, remained where he was, unmoved. He noted that the Commander's face was as dark now as the ice in the pit or as the starless sky above.
"Leave me before I kill you." The Commander's final words were spoken in a grim whisper. The chains clanked as the Commander turned his back and made his way to the corner where he had crouched before.
Quentin-Andrew stood awhile, regarding him. The Commander's hunched body was now beyond most of the light that Quentin-Andrew cast. His appearance was like that of dark rock or of a dead beast. After a time, Quentin-Andrew turned and stepped over to the window.
The events had continued to unfold during the period since he had been there last. Darkness had fallen; now he could only catch sight of the figures outside through moonlight and starlight and the occasional flare of a torch. He saw men and women and children falling back under the onslaught of the leaderless troops, and he saw what happened when they failed to escape. He saw the troops, still restless after their bloodlust, turn against each other, while the captains strove without success to keep order. He saw the captains slaughtered. He saw the cities lying in ruins – not only Koretia's capital, but also Daxis's and Emor's – and he saw the gradual abandonment of the towns as trade grew more precarious and it became necessary to live close to the land. He saw the burnt crops of farmers and the strong bands of huntsmen that arose. He saw what they hunted.
Watching the dim scene, Quentin-Andrew felt the coldness encase his legs and make its way up his loins. He wondered how long it would be before the ice chained him to this place. He wondered also how much time had passed in the Land of the Living. Had centuries slipped away while he stood motionless and silent and essentially alone? Or had he been granted the vision of a god, to see the future that would take place? Or was there in fact any time at all in this place?
The cold travelled further; soon it would reach his heart. Reluctantly, Quentin-Andrew stirred himself, turning away from the window. As he did so, he heard a soft sound. It came from the Commander.
Quentin-Andrew could not be sure how much time passed as he remained where he was, watching the quivering rock and listening to the sounds it made. He did not move forward; all of his training told him not to. Yet he felt oddly empty, watching the gradual splitting of the rock's spirit. This moment, which had always brought him great warmth, seemed cold and hard and lifeless.
The sounds stopped finally; only the quivering continued. Quentin-Andrew was shivering as well. He could barely feel his own hands and arms, which were wrapped tight against his chest. It was becoming hard to remember now why he had come here, and the temptation to lie down on the ground was overwhelming. Then his head lifted, sensing a change; and a moment later the rock unfolded and became a man again.
Under the dim light of where he half-crouched, the Commander's face shone like the moon; it was encased with ice. His eyes, dark like winter leaves, stared blankly forward. His lips opened a small gap as he whispered, "Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir." Quentin-Andrew did not move from where he stood. "I am still here."
The Commander shuffled forward, weighted down by the chains and by the frozen mask upon his face. His body glimmered with frigid moisture. In a hollow voice, the Commander asked, "Why did you betray me, Lieutenant?"
"I didn't betray you, sir." Quentin-Andrew spoke in a flat voice. "I died rather than betray you."
"You—"
The Commander stopped. He tilted his head, looking up at the unending blackness above him, and then down at Quentin-Andrew, standing unarmed and glowing softly, like a shining fish in the dark sea. The pit was utterly silent, but for the sound of the two men breathing. Even the wind scything their skin made no noise.
"You are saying that you are dead," said the Commander in a changed voice.
"Yes, sir."
The Commander raised his hands and looked down at them. The ice on them was nearly as thick as the manacles now, but it was clear, and through them it could be seen that the Commander's skin was smooth and unscarred.
"You are saying that we are both dead." The Commander's voice was once more even and quiet. "I was not captured by the enemy; I died in battle."
This time Quentin-Andrew did not bother to reply. The Commander turned slowly in a circle, his gaze taking in the dark ice that shadowed him. He reached out and touched the wall of the pit tentatively, then snatched his hand back.
"And this . . ." he said slowly. "This is one of the ice prisons at the end of the world, whe
re the enemies of the silent gods are punished."
Again Quentin-Andrew did not speak. He could feel the ice beginning to encase his body, and he wondered how long it would be before he was bound in the pit by the coldness, unable to move or think but still able to feel the heavy ice cutting through his skin. He resisted the impulse to take a step backwards. One of the few virtues Quentin-Andrew possessed, as his employers could have attested, was that he had never left a job unfinished, no matter what the cost to him.
"This makes no sense." The Commander's voice wavered. "How could the gods punish me? What I did in the war, I did for their sake, to bring peace. War is evil – I always said that – but I had no choice in my methods. My enemies forced me—"
"Come to the window, sir." For the first time, Quentin-Andrew's voice sharpened. He had reached the stage he knew well, where time was all-important. Not waiting for the Commander to respond, he reached forward, grasped the Commander's icy arm, and thrust him toward the window.
Time, it seemed, was going backward. Quentin-Andrew could now see the scenes he had witnessed before – the wide arc of destruction growing narrow and yet more narrow, until it began to center on its origins: particular places, particular acts, particular men. The Great Peninsula no longer held any trade routes; this was due to the greediness of the Commander's troops, who plundered the goods of merchants. The Great Peninsula no longer possessed ambassadors or peace treaties; this was due to a peace oath that had been broken long ago by one of the Commander's emissaries. The Great Peninsula no longer contained mighty men and women, capable of upholding the law; their graves could be seen, or in some cases simply their bodies, when the Commander had not bothered to order their burial.
For one brief moment, a corpse flashed by: a young man, his head crushed and bloody, his eyes wide and unblinking. Quentin-Andrew felt his breath jerk in. A flame of pain pass through his whole body that melted the ice forming upon his skin. At the same moment, the wind shattered the scene before him, and the pit was once more dark except for the light from Quentin-Andrew's body.
Quentin-Andrew looked over at the Commander. He was on his knees, hiding his eyes; he had not witnessed the final scene. "I had no choice," he whispered.
"No choice, sir?" Quentin-Andrew allowed his voice to take on a note of scorn. "You had no choice but to do what you did – is that what you are saying?"
He waited. With any other man, he would have supplied the answer, but the Commander was capable of doing so on his own.
The Commander's response was a long time in coming. Quentin-Andrew, shivering, wondered how many centuries were passing by. Finally the Commander said in a broken voice, "I could have retreated. I need not have continued the war. But if I had done that – if I had let Koretia exist under rulerless anarchy or if I had let Emor continue under a tyrant . . ."
"They would have been worse off than under your protection."
This time Quentin-Andrew needed do no more than make the statement. No scorn was necessary, nor any hidden irony. For a moment more – how many years the moment encompassed Quentin-Andrew could not tell – the Commander remained motionless.
Then his hands dropped. He stared unseeing at the scene before him, the scales of ice now beginning to travel over his eyes. He whispered, "Dolan."
Quentin-Andrew did not speak. He was waiting for the heat to come that always came at such moments, like a sun warming a ripening field, or a hearth-fire blanketing the room with its light. He waited, and then he realized, with a grief that cut through to his very bones, that the warmth would not come. It was gone forever, the only pleasure that the gods had ever allowed him during his dark life; even that they had taken from him now.
He might have fallen to his knees and joined the Commander in his captivity. What saved him was his professional pride. He had never left a job unfinished, and though the job was finished by his old standards, he knew that his new employer had higher standards. He said in a level voice, as though nothing had passed through his spirit during the past moments, "Sir?"
"I destroyed him," the Commander whispered. Then, rising slowly to his feet, he looked over at Quentin-Andrew with a face like a man who has seen his death-shadow. "I destroyed them all. I destroyed the Three Lands."
"We both did, sir." It was always safest to be sure in these cases that the prisoner had no route of escape left. "We murdered the Three Lands while their people begged for mercy."
It was then that the Commander did what no man in Quentin-Andrew's hands had ever done – and yet what he did was of no surprise to the Lieutenant. The very qualities that had made the Commander hold out so long against Quentin-Andrew were the same qualities that had caused his soldiers to follow him through sixteen years of warfare. It was inevitable that the Commander's strength would break through in the end, no matter what the cost to himself. Though at this stage the Commander should not have been able to think of anything but the inner pain he was undergoing, he instead turned his mind to a greater concern.
The Commander's gaze took in Quentin-Andrew. He said, "You are not chained."
Quentin-Andrew shook his head. The Commander added quietly, "I am glad of that. Your deeds were done under my command – it is right that I should suffer for them rather than you." He let out a breath, and then said steadfastly, "Thank you for visiting me here, Lieutenant. I see that the gods sent you to open my eyes to my crimes, and I truly appreciate your willingness to serve them in that way. Now you must go, however. While I enjoy your company . . ." His voice wavered for only a moment before he regained control of it. "It is not right for you to stay here any longer than you must. I thank you again for coming; farewell."
He tried to turn away immediately. Quentin-Andrew, seeing the shadow of change in his face, knew why, but in any case the Commander's intentions were frustrated by his chains, which wrapped themselves around his body and held him tight. The Commander began to emit a soft plea to the gods and then fell silent as he remembered where he was.
"Allow me, sir." Quentin-Andrew reached out and tried to ignore the piercing pain as he took hold of the Commander's frozen hand. Under the dim light of Quentin-Andrew's body, the ice encasing the Commander's hand melted immediately. The icy manacle around the wrist remained intact a moment more before a crack could be heard, and the shackle fell to the ground, shattered.
"I forgot," said the Commander. "This is your profession."
Quentin-Andrew heard the note in the Commander's voice, glanced at his face, and then turned his attention to the other hand. After a moment, the second manacle fell to the ground, and the Commander's hands were free. Quentin-Andrew knelt by his feet.
"You need not be afraid to tell me, Lieutenant." The Commander's voice was very quiet. "Did the gods send you here to torture me?"
Quentin-Andrew began to speak, and then waited until he had freed both feet, before rising and saying, "The time for breaking is over, Commander; now is the time for mending. I have come to take you from this place."
"No!" The Commander's swift response was filled with passion. "I must remain in this prison. I destroyed the Three Lands; there can be no forgiveness for what I have done—"
"I see." Quentin-Andrew's voice turned dry. "Is that what you wish me to tell the gods, sir?"
After a long while, the Commander said quietly, "You were always skilled at your trade, Lieutenant. I take your meaning; it is not for me to determine the length of my sentence. You are sure that the gods wish this?"
"Yes, sir. I was sent here for that purpose."
The Commander drew a deep breath, allowing the biting air to fill his lungs. He nodded slowly. "Then show me the way from here. I will follow the gods' will."
CHAPTER SEVEN
They travelled over the slick ice cautiously, Quentin-Andrew calling upon his patrol senses to tell him when he and the Commander would reach the stairway. Yet even before the soft glow of his body touched the wall, he knew that the stairs were gone. He tilted his head to look up the side of the pit. The
wall was jagged, and when he put out his hand to touch the cold blackness, the ice that burned under his hand was unyielding.
The Commander was silent behind him, waiting. Quentin-Andrew said, in the same matter-of-fact tone he used when ordering the flaying of prisoners, "We will have to climb from this point, sir. Do you think you can manage that?"
"I'm from Marcadia, Lieutenant." For the first time, a note of humor appeared in the Commander's voice, as unexpected as a crocus breaking through the snow. "The question is rather whether you can climb from here."
"Yes, sir," said Quentin-Andrew as he shrugged out from his cloak and reached up to take hold of a solid spar of ice. "I spent much of my childhood climbing in the black border mountains." He pulled himself up, but not before he heard the indrawn breath of the Commander. Never before had Quentin-Andrew spoken to the Commander of his past.
The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) Page 101