by Ian Irvine
His father’s forces had withdrawn to Rancidore and had not been seen since, nor had any flappeters approached the mountain. Monkshart took that as a good sign but Nish did not. He didn’t believe that his father had given up, nor that he couldn’t take Tifferfyte if he chose to.
Maybe Monkshart’s Arts could slay a few soldiers from afar, or even a few hundred, but no renegade mancer could hold off an army determined to fight through despite the cost. His father wouldn’t hesitate to lose most of an army storming the mountain if their deaths allowed the rest to get through. As they must.
Besides, Nish had spent years working with the greatest mancers in the world, and knew that all Arts were painful and exhausting to use, and caused debilitating aftersickness. If Monkshart tried to fight his father’s army, alone, after-sickness would soon cripple him.
No, Father had withdrawn because he had a better plan. Why attack too soon, and risk a morale-damaging defeat, when he could build up his forces to ensure an overwhelming victory at a time of his choosing?
Nish’s other problem was that, even here, he could feel his father reaching out to him when he was half-asleep, trying to find a way past the halo of protection. Despite Monkshart’s assertions, Nish didn’t feel safe from Jal-Nish in Tifferfyte. Safer, perhaps, but not safe.
On the night before the attack on Rancidore was due to take place, Nish and Maelys were drinking tea in the pavilion with Monkshart, prior to retiring to their separate chambers, when a young messenger came bolting down the glassy path from the top of the crater. A strip of paper fluttered in his right hand and he was gasping as if he’d run all the way from Rancidore.
‘Master?’ he croaked. ‘Master – the most dreadful news!’
He skidded to a stop at the entrance to the pavilion, but did not speak. Monkshart’s head jerked but he continued to peruse the map in his hand, the picture of self-control apart from a tap-tap-tapping of his left foot on the floor. After a minute he looked up. ‘Well?’
‘Master, a skeet has just come from –’ Catching sight of Maelys and Nish sitting in the shadows, he broke off.
Monkshart glanced at Maelys, frowned, and motioned her to leave. She began to rise, fuming, but Nish put a hand on her arm. ‘She stays. What is it, messenger?’
The messenger, a slender youth no older than the servant girl, Jil, looked at Nish, paled, then turned away, confused.
‘Yes, it’s him!’ thundered Monkshart, rising to his feet to tower over the lad. ‘This is Cryl-Nish Hlar the Deliverer, and he’s just as great and terrible as his father the God-Emperor. Read the message, cur, or he’ll deal with you the way he does to all who oppose him.’
Nish scowled. ‘I’m not like my father!’ he snapped, ‘and don’t make me out to be.’
‘The message, boy,’ growled Monkshart, ignoring Nish.
The youth raised the strip of paper and began to read. His hand shook. ‘These tidings come from the hand of Byalmon, Under-Steward of Hulipont.’ He glanced at Monkshart but couldn’t meet his fierce gaze. He licked his lips and read on, the words tumbling out in a rush.
‘Sire, dreadful news. Hulipont has been captured and razed, and Ousther, the Chief Steward of the Defiance in the east, taken and tortured to death.’
Monkshart let out an inarticulate cry, swiftly bitten off, then motioned with a clawed hand for the youth to continue.
The youth’s eyes were darting this way and that, like a rat in a trap, but he read on. ‘But there – there is worse. As you know, the leaders of all our eastern Defiance outposts were at Hulipont when it was attacked, developing your campaign strategy now that the Deliverer is at large.’ The youth’s eyes slid towards Nish, then darted away. ‘They – they’ve all been captured and, under torture, must reveal the names of the other rebels. Jal-Nish will take their outposts one by one, if he hasn’t done so by the time you receive this.’
The youth gulped at the air like a stranded fish, before reading on. ‘I, Byalmon, Under-Steward, take full responsibility for this disaster and now die by my own hand.’
Monkshart reeled, his eyes darted wildly around the pavilion, and then his jaw hardened.
‘How dare you bring us such evil tidings, idiot boy!’
He sprang forwards, caught the youth by the front of his coat and raised him so high that his bare feet kicked helplessly a third of a span above the floor. ‘The blasphemous God-Emperor must be toppled, and all who serve him, wittingly or unwittingly, must die. In the name of the Deliverer you shall suffer the penalty set down for all those who undermine the irresistible march of the Defiance.’
The youth began to wail. ‘Please, Master. I only brought you the message that came from the skeet. My crippled mother –’
Nish leapt to his feet but before he could take a step, Monkshart, roaring like an enraged bull, threw the lad high out over the brink. He tumbled in the air, emitting a hair-raising shriek that had Phrune screwing up his face and blocking his ears, then fell towards the centre of the pit far below. His cry tailed off to nothing well before the ghastly pulpy thud came echoing up.
Maelys was so shocked that she couldn’t say a word. How could Monkshart be so indifferent to the life of an innocent boy? And how could it have happened so quickly, and so finally? Abruptly, she doubled over and vomited her dinner onto the gleaming floor.
‘This is the end of us, Monkshart!’ Nish was choking on his rage. ‘How dare you murder that innocent lad for telling you the truth. And in my name!’
TWENTY-ONE
Phrune stood in the opening, licking his bloated lips. ‘That was a waste, Master,’ he said, though Nish didn’t think he meant the waste of a human life.
Monkshart was staring at his hands, which were held out in front of him, fingers hooked. The left glove had torn apart under the strain, exposing ruined skin which was red, flaking and weeping from hundreds of cracks. He turned towards Nish, his dark complexion as grey and waxy as a dead man’s.
‘Master, Master,’ said Phrune, like a mother to a distressed child. ‘It’s over now. Come with me. I’ll look after you.’ He took the zealot’s hand.
Without saying a word, Monkshart stumbled through the circular opening, Phrune padding beside him.
Maelys was swaying on her feet, staring sightlessly into the pit. Nish caught her arm. ‘Come on.’
She pulled free, took a gasping swig from the water jug and rinsed her mouth with it. She dashed water into her face, wiped it with her sleeve and nodded. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know.’ His voice cracked. Leaving here was madness, but there was no choice. ‘I won’t stay to be manipulated by this monster. Have you got anything better to wear?’
She picked at the flimsy gown. ‘The serving girl took away my boy’s clothes but I still have my coat and boots.’
‘Get them. You can’t go mountain climbing barefoot. And a hat. What about a weapon?’
‘Only a dinner knife.’
‘It’s better than I’ve got. Meet me back here in two minutes. There’s no time to waste. Try not to look suspicious.’
She nodded and hurried away. Nish headed to his own quarters, pulled on socks, boots and coat, and returned to the pavilion, meeting no one on the way. Maelys was waiting there. The knife was thrust through her belt and her eyes were staring. They were back to where they’d started but she was with him all the way: leaving was the one honourable course left.
They started up the winding path, which was lit only by faint reflections from the walls, for it was after midnight now and the moon was veiled by cloud. Maelys went first, staring rigidly ahead. Nish felt an irresistible urge to look down into the pit, then wished he hadn’t, for steam swirling around the cylindrical walls left a clear tunnel through the centre, like the eye of a hurricane. It was lighter down there; he could see the youth’s broken body on a knob of rock. Nish’s eyes veered away to a haloed glow in the depths, though he could not distinguish its source.
His stomach knotted and he hurried up after Mae
lys, knowing that he was acting like a fool. The messenger was dead; nothing could bring him back, and once they fled Tifferfyte they would quickly be taken by Vomix. Maelys would die and he, Nish, would be returned to his father, so what was the point?
Yes, Monkshart was a monster, but a strong one, and it would take the greatest strength to overthrow his father. Nish stopped. Was it really worth losing everything just to maintain his reputation? One or two people might praise his noble gesture, but the suffering masses of Santhenar would curse him for the fool who had offered them hope, then robbed them of it.
He was wavering when Maelys looked over her shoulder and came back, treading carefully on the mist-damp surface. ‘Better a fool than a knave,’ she said quietly, as if she could read his thoughts. ‘Come on.’
She gave him her hand and at her touch his doubts vanished. Choices that were so tortuous to him always seemed clear to her. ‘A pair of fools! We’ll find a way, somehow,’ and such a wave of relief washed over him that he felt his eyes moisten. Never compromise your principles, he told himself. You’re nothing like the God-Emperor, so don’t fall into the trap of acting like him.
Maelys was a few steps below the rim when a triangle of moon peeped between the clouds, its single ray lighting her up like a princess ascending to her throne. She stopped abruptly, one arm outstretched as if she were posing for a sculptor.
‘Go on,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We must be well away before –’
Her shoulders slumped. He climbed the next few steps then stopped, for a pair of burly guards, armed with clubs, blocked the path up. ‘I’m Cryl-Nish Hlar, the son of the God-Emperor. Move aside.’
‘Go back, surr,’ said the leading guard.
‘I’m the Deliverer,’ Nish said furiously, ‘and I’m ordering you to move.’
The guard took a step backwards but the fellow behind him clapped him on the shoulder and his resolve firmed. ‘The Deliverer would not run like a dog at the first setback,’ he sneered.
‘Don’t give in to them,’ said Maelys.
Her faith in his abilities was touching, in the circumstances. Nish briefly considered rushing the soldiers, though she was blocking his way on the narrow path. Besides, the edge of a precipice was no place to launch an attack on two armed men.
‘It’s over,’ he said dully. ‘There’s no way out.’ He turned and stumbled back down the path again.
There was no sign of Monkshart, but Phrune was waiting for them in the pavilion with that sickening plump-lipped smile. ‘It’s the only way,’ he said silkily. ‘Steel can only be fought with steel.’
‘You want to turn me into my father,’ Nish said as they were led inside.
They spent the next day confined to their chambers, with guards stationed outside, but the morning after that Maelys and Nish were summoned to the pavilion. Monkshart was already in his chair, his eyes dull blobs the colour of black olives in deeply sunken sockets. He wore a new set of tissue-thin leather gloves, a fish-belly white this time. He gestured Nish and Maelys to the other chairs.
‘Hulipont was the Defiance’s most important bastion,’ began Monkshart in a flat voice that lacked any of his earlier fire. ‘It held most of our weapons as well as our entire store of banned uncanny devices, carefully shielded and husbanded over the past decade.’ He broke off, staring into the pit, and a shudder rocked his long form.
‘And without them the Defiance is impotent,’ said Nish.
Monkshart turned those blackened eyes on him. ‘It’s a setback, but we believers always knew there would be obstacles on the road. With faith and determination we can overcome them. You can still become the Deliverer. Indeed, the need is greater than ever.’
‘I wouldn’t give you the time of day.’
‘You will,’ said Monkshart in a tone that made Maelys shiver.
‘In any case,’ said Nish, ‘I can’t begin an uprising on my own, trapped here. Even if Father is unwilling to approach Tifferfyte, which I doubt, he can simply encircle the mountain with troops and wisp-watchers, and wait until starvation forces us out. You may be able to knock down a soldier or two with your Arts, but there’s no power in the world, uncanny or military, that can be used against the tears when he wields them.’
‘I’ve already abandoned that plan,’ said Monkshart. ‘Besides, there’s a power in the world which Jal-Nish cannot defeat, for every attack on it will make it grow stronger: the power of faith, the power of belief, that people can have a better life under the Deliverer.’
Maelys stirred uneasily beside Nish, but did not speak.
‘After you murdered that poor boy the other night, no one will believe in the Deliverer either,’ Nish said coldly.
‘I acted rashly, it’s true. I was too focussed on the ultimate goal. But Cryl-Nish,’ Monkshart leaned forwards and the light swelled until his eyes were ablaze, ‘you can only triumph by being as ruthless and iron-hard as your father. Can’t you see that?’
‘So to beat his father,’ said Maelys, ‘Nish has to become him? Then what’s the point?’
Monkshart ignored her. ‘You’re not your father, Cryl-Nish, and never will be. Nonetheless, the people of Santhenar have been led by ruthless leaders since the Council of Scrutators was formed a century and more ago. It’s all they know; all they can respect. You can be just as ruthless as your father. Indeed, you must, for there is no other way now. You must drive all the way to victory.’
‘Or ruin,’ said Nish bitterly.
‘Or ruin,’ echoed Monkshart. ‘It’s a hard road and we may well fail, though with faith, belief and determination –’
Nish was thoroughly sick of Monkshart’s exhortations. He always spoke as if he were trying to sway a mob. The zealot genuinely wanted to overthrow the God-Emperor, but what did he intend to put in his place? ‘I won’t do it.’
Monkshart leaned back in his chair, staring at Nish, then crossed his arms. ‘You will.’
‘You can’t force me. I’m the Deliverer, remember – the one who made the promise.’
‘Your willing cooperation will certainly make things easier, for the people will listen to you and your oratory can inspire them. But if you force me, Cryl-Nish, I have Arts of illusion and coercion that can make you walk and talk, yet leave your mind a blank.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Nish. ‘I know plenty about the Secret Art.’
‘As it used to be, before the tears, perhaps,’ Monkshart said, smiling blandly. ‘And some Arts were more secret than others. My master taught me things about coercion that you can’t even imagine.’
‘I don’t believe that any such Art can make me a credible Deliverer if I refuse to do it.’
‘It will be difficult, certainly.’ Monkshart rubbed his square chin. ‘On the other hand, the people desperately want to believe in you, Cryl-Nish, and when I tell them how cruelly you’ve suffered at the hands of your father, and how he damaged you, I’m sure they’ll make allowances for your incapacity.’
‘You may turn me into a puppet, but I’ll be fighting you all the way, and sooner or later I’ll tear you down and feed you to the mob.’ If only Nish could believe it himself, but he knew it was the hollowest of boasts.
Monkshart’s fingers clenched and his eyes flashed, but this time he controlled himself, steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes, remaining that way for several minutes. Then his eyes sprang open.
‘Very well, I’ll put that alternative aside for an emergency. Besides, I’d much rather you served me willingly.’ He gave Nish a chilling smile.
‘I won’t.’
‘Not under any circumstances?’
‘None that I can think of.’
Monkshart’s eyes roved around the pavilion, though Nish got the impression that it was just a gesture designed to draw out the tension between them. ‘Not even to protect Maelys?’ said the zealot softly.
Nish started. From the corner of his eye he saw her knuckles whitening on the arm of the chair. ‘I –’
�
�Unless you serve me willingly,’ Monkshart rode over the top of him, enunciating each word with care, ‘I will give her up to Seneschal Vomix.’
Maelys let out a muffled cry, then straightened her back and lifted her chin. ‘Don’t do it, Nish,’ she said, her voice fluttering. ‘If it’s my doom to be given to Vomix, I must be strong and suffer it. I ask only one thing of you. That whether you overthrow your father, or whether you go back to him, you do everything in your power to save my little sister.’
Nish turned an anguished face to Maelys. ‘I can’t let you –’
‘You must, Nish.’
‘I’ll give you the night to think about it,’ said Monkshart, ‘but in the morning I will have an answer, one way or the other. Phrune!’ he called, ‘take them to their chambers and set the guards at the top of the path again.’
Nish sat in his chamber in the dark. Jil had come with his dinner earlier but he’d waved it away without a glance. He couldn’t have swallowed it anyway, for there was a lump in his belly the size of a brick.
This time there was no honourable alternative. If he agreed to work with Monkshart he would be betraying everything he stood for, and he could only imagine the contempt Irisis would have felt for such a spineless capitulation. But if he refused, he would be betraying his only friend, who had given her all for him, to say nothing of his promise to Irisis and the world. He was trapped either way and he couldn’t bear it any longer.
Besides, taking on the mantle of the Deliverer was pointless now that the other Defiance outposts had been destroyed. The struggle was hopeless; his father could never be beaten and it was futile to try. Even if, by some miracle, he could escape from here to fight again, he’d lost the will for it. After ten years of self-analysis Nish knew his own character intimately, but he couldn’t do anything about his biggest failing, despair.
That left only one way out, the coward’s way, and he despised himself for taking it, but he couldn’t summon the strength to fight on.