The Fate of the Fallen (The Song of the Tears Book 1)

by Ian Irvine

  The eye moved, and she smiled as she recognised what it was – a man’s face seen in a distorting mirror, like the funny mirrors she’d looked into when a travelling carnival had come to Nifferlin at the end of the war. Probably one of the lying futures, she thought, preparing to disbelieve it and move on to the next.

  But it grew as though the man had drawn the mirror closer to him, trying to see right through it to whatever lay beyond. He pulled the mask away; for an instant his face became clear and Maelys cried, ‘No!’

  ‘Maelys?’ Nish called. ‘Do you want me to come down?’

  ‘No. Yes. No, stay there!’

  It was horrible but she didn’t want to lose a second of it. It wasn’t a distorting mirror, but a man’s face reflected in a shiny drop, like quicksilver – it was Jal-Nish, using one of the tears! Jal-Nish, without the platinum mask that normally concealed the ruined half of his face, was searching for something in the tear.

  She should have withdrawn right away, for he was a foe that not even the strongest mancer could face. But it was one of her possible futures and she needed to know about it. She had to know all of them and there wasn’t much time. By now, Monkshart or Phrune might have realised that she and Nish were missing.

  Maelys clenched the taphloid tighter as Jal-Nish’s eye appeared to rush towards the tear. Its shiny surface blurred and everything went out of focus. He was inside the tear, or had melded himself to it, and for an instant she had a flash of insight into the corrupt mind of the man who controlled the tears.

  Jal-Nish was gloating, for his mastery of Gatherer and Reaper was growing every day and he was close to finding the three secrets that would allow him to become invulnerable for all time: perfect knowledge of the Profane Tears; complete mastery of himself; and a clear understanding of the Art by which he used Gatherer and Reaper. And he believed he was close to gaining all three.

  Maelys, feeling panicky, swayed backwards and the Mistmurk swirled about her legs again. The cooling taphloid grew hot between her breasts, then Jal-Nish, with a gasp, dragged himself out of his melding with the tears and looked around sharply, as if afraid he was being spied upon. Had he seen her? She moved hastily away from the Mistmurk.

  She couldn’t look at his ravaged face, but his eye bore a haunted look. The God-Emperor, despite holding almost all the power in the world, was afraid of something.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Nish had sent Maelys in first so as to delay going down himself. If he was to be robbed of both hope and serenity he wanted to hold it off as long as possible, though the instant she cried out he regretted pressuring her.

  She came up, covered in sweat and clearly shaken. ‘What did you see?’ he asked, helping her off the ladder.

  ‘My first future showed your father’s army attacking the village, and only men and youths with farmyard implements to defend it. They’re going to die, every one of them,’ she said bitterly, ‘and the women too. There was no sign of Monkshart or his precious Arts. Or you. He must have fled with you, concealed by illusions.’

  ‘Assuming it was a true vision,’ said Nish, swallowing. ‘Most of the possibilities in the Pit are not.’

  ‘I know it’s true, and it’s my fault, just as the deaths of all those people in Byre village were. If I hadn’t brought you here …’

  ‘No one who opposes my father is safe, Maelys, and the people of Tifferfyte also knew the risk when they chose to oppose him. Besides, I brought you here. What else did you see?’

  She wiped her sweaty brow. ‘I saw –’ Her voice went hoarse. ‘I saw your father, without his mask, reflected in one of the tears. But then he seemed to go into the tear, to merge his mind with it, and …’

  Nish’s mouth was open. ‘You saw Father? Using the tears?’

  ‘Worse. I saw into his mind; and what he was communing with the tears about.’

  ‘How could you see him, yet he not see you? Why you, anyway? Why not me?’

  Maelys looked slighted. ‘He created your clearsight in the first place, Nish, so he’d hardly leave himself vulnerable to it. But he doesn’t know me at all, and maybe I’ve been touched by Gatherer, distantly, via the link with the flap-peter. And I do have an unusual talent, it seems. Perhaps my taphloid has something to do with it, too. Besides, surely that’s not –’

  ‘Monkshart said the Pit of Possibilities was the one place the tears could not reach, and I felt it as soon as I went down – as if a great weight had been lifted from me. Father couldn’t touch me there.’

  ‘Nish –’

  ‘So how could you see him? I wonder … if the Pit of Possibilities shows our true futures as well as false ones, there can’t be any constraints on it. If Father is in your future, it’s got to show him.’

  ‘But it didn’t have to show him close up. It didn’t have to let me into his mind.’

  ‘I don’t understand it either,’ said Nish.

  ‘Wait – could it be because I was holding my taphloid at the time? A patch of the miasma touched me and the taphloid seemed to … wake.’ She got it out, turning it over in her hands.

  ‘I don’t see how it could, unless there’s a chip of jade from the amulet inside,’ he said doubtfully. ‘If Father’s Art made the amulet in the first place, and he’d actually held it in his hands or empowered it with the tears, it might explain why the Pit of Possibilities was able to see into him.’

  Maelys flipped open the compartment where the amulet had been placed, but there was not even a shard of jade in it.

  ‘Unless it’s the taphloid itself …’ said Nish.

  ‘How could it be? I’ve had it since I was little and it’s never been anywhere near your father.’

  ‘Hmn. What did you see when you looked into his mind?’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask. Nish, he needs only three things to become invulnerable for all time: perfect knowledge of the tears; complete mastery of himself; and a clear understanding of the Art by which he uses Gatherer and Reaper. And he’s close to gaining all three.’

  Nish reeled and nearly fell down the hole; she caught his shoulder to steady him. ‘If he succeeds,’ Maelys hissed, ‘there won’t be anything the Deliverer can do, even with all Santhenar behind you. He’s got to be stopped and there isn’t much time to do it. Go down, Nish.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ he said despairingly. ‘The future Monkshart showed me must have been a lie, and there’s no way out of here anyway.’

  ‘I’ll bet there is. Monkshart looked pretty happy the last time I saw him. Go down.’

  He put one foot on the ladder, but stopped. ‘Wait! I’ve just remembered something.’

  ‘Yes?’ Maelys said dubiously.

  ‘When I attacked Father after he let me out of prison, he hesitated momentarily before attacking back.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘He’s not a hesitating man. Right or wrong, he never wavers.’

  ‘Why is that so important?’

  ‘It means that Father must still have a weakness ... even if it’s just that he cares about me. If I can discover what it is, there may be a chance to beat him after all.’

  ‘For a moment I thought he’d seen me, at the end,’ said Maelys. ‘And for a second he looked afraid.’

  ‘I’m guessing, but this is what I think he’s worried about,’ said Nish. ‘Father has made out that he’s invulnerable and all powerful, but he’s not. At least, not yet. And despite all his power, he’s terrified that he’ll be overthrown and everything he’s done will come to nothing. What he really craves is immortality, for what’s the point of his great and terrible life if someone else will undo all his work once he’s gone? Father wants to make a mark on Santhenar that can’t be undone; one which people will still recognise in a thousand years. That’s the immortality he really craves.’

  ‘If he wants it so desperately, it’s another weakness,’ said Maelys. ‘When it comes to the ultimate test, he’ll do whatever it takes to ensure his work endures.’

  Two weaknesses. I
t did Nish’s heart good to discover them. He climbed down into the Pit of Possibilities and this time, the instant his feet touched the dusty, shard-strewn floor something felt different.

  The maze of futures were foggy in his mind, all save one which was brilliantly clear. On a remote, rain-soaked plateau a long way north in this great mountain chain, something long hidden from his father lay waiting for him. The vision didn’t say what it was, or precisely where it lay, though Nish felt sure he’d recognise the plateau once he saw it. In all his travels he’d never seen a landscape like it.

  Though the scene was shrouded in drifting mist that didn’t allow him to see the whole of the plateau at one time, its shape was clear. It rose out of the rainforest like a needle whose point had been cut off. It was so tall that its flat top lay in the clouds, and its sides were sheer wet black rock that would be a nightmare to climb.

  Unfortunately it didn’t seem that the change in his fortunes extended to Maelys, for she had not appeared in this new future either, nor her own. Nish scrambled up and told her what he’d seen.

  ‘And Monkshart lied!’ he ended, fighting mixed emotions. ‘He manipulated the visions to show me just what he wanted me to believe. Come on!’ He strode across the shard-strewn floor towards the path, and for the first time since escaping from prison he knew exactly what he wanted.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Maelys said wearily.

  She was plodding along behind him, looking as if she could barely stay awake. ‘Find out how close the army is. Hurry!’

  ‘That vision could have been weeks away.’

  ‘I’ve a feeling the army has left Rancidore already and is only days from here.’

  ‘Monkshart isn’t acting as though it’s near.’

  ‘Perhaps all his spies have been rounded up. My fortunes have turned, Maelys,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m going to ride my luck for as long as it lasts. I’m not going to be manipulated by Monkshart again.’ Not by anyone.

  He looked up as they came around the curve towards the pavilion, for a lamp was glowing there, and silhouetted against it at the top of the path stood the lying, manipulating, murdering zealot.

  Nish’s smouldering rage burst into flame, but he tried not to show it. He kept walking, eyes downcast as if caught somewhere he had no right to be, until he came within a few steps of the pavilion. Then, propelling himself forwards like a rock from a catapult, he drove the top of his head into Monkshart’s belly with such force that the zealot was knocked backwards off his feet and cracked his head against the stone floor of the pavilion.

  Diving onto him, Nish whipped the knife from Monkshart’s sheath, tossed it to Maelys and hissed, ‘Get into the shadows!’ He dragged the dazed and winded zealot to the edge of the pavilion so that his head, shoulders and upper back hung over the brink, then raised his feet until he could feel the cloth of Monkshart’s robes bunching against the edge.

  Monkshart cried out, ‘Phrune, help!’

  Nish raised the zealot’s legs higher and pushed him until he reached the teetering point. Something tore under his palms. Monkshart’s legs were also encased in tissue-fine leather and the rents had exposed cracked, weeping skin. Nish took a better grip and tried to ignore the creepy feel of it. ‘Things have changed, Monkshart.’

  Monkshart shuddered violently at Nish’s tight grip on his ravaged skin, but managed to gain control of himself. ‘Deliverer – if you kill me – Defiance must fail.’ His eyes narrowed and Nish heard the pad of plump feet in the corridor. He glanced back, praying that Maelys was ready. If she failed him he would end up at the bottom of the crater with Monkshart, for this time he wasn’t giving in.

  ‘Put him down!’ Phrune cried in a high, anguished voice, advancing through the opening with a little jewelled stiletto in hand. It was a woman’s weapon but deadly enough for all that, and Phrune’s glistening, babyish face was twisted; sick.

  He came on carefully, the knife held low and steady as if he’d gutted people before, licking his swollen lips as if he’d enjoyed it. Nish realised that he’d miscalculated. Phrune was a viper who would enjoy maiming and mutilating, and unfortunately Maelys was on the wrong side of the opening. She couldn’t jump him without Phrune realising she was there, and he’d carve her up without a qualm. Nish had to distract him.

  With a roar of defiance, he heaved Monkshart’s legs as high as he could reach. The bunched cloth began to slide across the edge of the pavilion as the zealot’s weight pulled him down.

  ‘Stop!’ cried Phrune, slitted eyes staring. He took a step then froze, realising that the least wrong move could tip the balance beyond recovery.

  Maelys sprang from the shadows, threw her right arm around his neck and dug the point of her knife in under his ribs. Nish, standing half turned and straining to hold Monkshart’s weight, could see the fury on the acolyte’s face, and the stealthy movement of his knife hand as he prepared to hack into her side.

  ‘Put down the knife,’ Nish said, ‘or I’ll drop your master into the pit. Harm Maelys and he dies, and curse the consequences.’

  Monkshart had gone as rigid as a board, but he’d regained self-control, or perhaps come to an acceptance of his fate. ‘Let it go, Phrune. The Deliverer has mastered me.’

  Phrune could hardly bring himself to do it. It was touch and go whether the lust for violence twisting his chubby features could be overcome, or whether he’d strike anyway. The stiletto was shaking in his hand, inching into striking position.

  ‘Down!’ choked Monkshart.

  With an awful grimace, Phrune tossed the stiletto to the side. Maelys jerked his head backwards then thrust him stumbling the other way. Before he could recover, she snatched up the blade, her breast heaving. She’d gone close to being disembowelled, and knew it.

  ‘Well, Monkshart?’ said Nish. ‘Will you swear to serve the Deliverer this time?’

  ‘I swear it upon my faith and holy purpose,’ Monkshart said thickly, his face a congested purple. The panic was gone, and Nish could not help but admire his strength of will, to say nothing of his resilience.

  Nonetheless, he held Monkshart above the drop for another half minute, reinforcing his dominance and even taking a shameful pleasure in revenge, until his arms began to shake. He hastily drew the zealot back from the edge and allowed his long legs to drop to the floor. ‘I’ll be giving the orders now, Monkshart.’

  ‘Of course, Deliverer.’

  Monkshart sat up, rubbing the back of his head, wincing and inspecting his fingers. He wiped off the threads of blood seeping through his torn gloves. ‘You’re a bold man, as the Deliverer has to be.’ He had so gained control of himself that he revealed neither terror nor anger. He climbed to his feet, indicating the chairs. ‘Bring refreshments, Phrune; the best we have. This is a moment to celebrate.‘

  Phrune, his eyes glittering with malice, jerked his head and went out.

  ‘You don’t believe I can change,’ said Monkshart, sitting down and repeatedly smoothing the torn leathers to cover his inflamed calves. ‘And why should you? But when you came to Tifferfyte, Deliverer, you showed none of the strength or determination needed to take on the mantle bestowed on you. To put it crudely, you weren’t up to it. If the Defiance were to have any hope of success I had to take on the role of puppet master. It was a role I assumed reluctantly, and one which, now you’ve exhibited the qualities required, I’m happy to relinquish.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Maelys, holding the knife out low, blade upwards, in imitation of Phrune’s expert stance. ‘We do find it difficult to believe.’

  ‘But not impossible,’ said Nish, ‘as long as you live up to your words. The balance has changed, Monkshart. We’ll work together to overcome the God-Emperor, and I’ll listen to your advice, but the final decision will always be mine.’

  ‘Master.’ Monkshart bowed his head.

  He seemed genuine this time, but he always had. Monkshart was a consummate actor and a master manipulator. Nish decided to reserve judgement. All tha
t mattered was that they be able to cooperate to bring down his father’s realm.

  ‘Don’t listen to him,’ said Maelys wearily. ‘He’ll say anything to get what he wants. Judge him by his slimy acolyte.’

  Monkshart looked pained, though he said calmly, ‘You’re entitled to think that way, Maelys. I won’t attempt to persuade you.’

  ‘What happened?’ Nish said shortly, looking at Monkshart’s legs. Straw-coloured fluid was now weeping through the ruined tissue-leathers.

  ‘The kiss of the tears,’ said the zealot. ‘Should you ever be in a position to take them, Deliverer, beware!’

  ‘Father thrust my hands into the tears and they didn’t hurt me. Did you try to steal them?’

  Monkshart clenched his fists, then waited until he’d calmed himself before saying, ‘I held to my oath to your father, as I’ve already stated. I – I dare say you’re entitled to know. Jal-Nish would have shielded you from the kiss of the tears but he couldn’t protect me. It was at the end of the battle for Gumby Marth, when he was defeated by the great lyrinx sorcerer, Anabyng, and I carried your half-dead father to safety on my back. He begged me to go back for the tears and, much against my better judgement, I did so. They were still singing with power from the monumental struggle and, in the brief minutes I held them before I gave them up to Jal-Nish, they burned me all over.’

  ‘All over?’

  ‘Inside as well as out.’ Monkshart screwed up his eyes for a moment. ‘Such pain,’ he said in a faint voice. ‘You cannot imagine it, Deliverer, for it was like no kind of burn I’ve ever had. It crisped me like a chicken’s skin in a hot oven, even to the soles of my booted feet, and as you see, all these years later I still suffer from it. Only Phrune’s balms can keep the pain at bay.’