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

by Ian Irvine

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said automatically. ‘I’m used to the cold.’ She shivered. ‘Let’s finish the job we came so far to do.’

  As she went by the obelisk, she stumbled over the top part, which must have been broken off long ago and now lay half buried in the sodden ground, so thickly coated with moss that the memorial glyphs were as unreadable as the memories of those long-dead souls who had erected it. Thinking such melancholy thoughts, she followed Nish and Zham through the barrier pools and they went on with quartering the plateau.

  They found nothing. Nish became more downcast as the hours passed and finally, around three in the afternoon, tossed his sword clanging onto a large sloping rock. Something had eaten the moss off it in large, lobed patches, exposing black stone beneath. Nish threw himself down on one of the bare areas, staring morosely into a nearby pool.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said. ‘My vision must have been a lie put into the Pit of Possibilities to mock me. Father is playing games again.’ He sprang up, and Maelys couldn’t bear to see the torment on his face. ‘It’s all a lie!’ he shouted up into the whirling fog. ‘There is no future save the God-Emperor’s unending rule, and I was a fool for daring to think otherwise.’ His voice cracked. ‘A bigger fool for daring to hope.’

  He stalked away without either sword or staff, splashing blindly through the bogs and mosses, falling in and heedlessly pulling himself out again. Maelys rose to follow him but Zham laid a hand on her arm. ‘Let him go. After coming all this way, you can’t blame him.’

  ‘But what if he …?’ She couldn’t say the words in case Nish acted them out. This might push him over the edge.

  ‘He won’t harm himself,’ said Zham. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I do worry,’ Maelys said softly, but didn’t go after him.

  After walking for ages, and stumbling into many a bog and pothole, Nish’s anguish gave way to a melancholy misery. He was soaked, and so cold and exhausted that he couldn’t find the energy for stronger feelings. He just couldn’t take it any more.

  Coming to a rock that sloped down in a shelf on the lee side, providing shelter from the wind, he lay on it and tried to make sense of what had been done to him. Did the God-Emperor control the whole world, including the Defiance, Monkshart, and the Pit of Possibilities? Could everything that had happened since he’d been freed from Mazurhize really be part of a malicious game, to demonstrate how absolute his father’s power was? Nish recoiled from the idea, which smacked of paranoia and allowed no room for hope, but what other explanation was there?

  He rubbed the itching spine scar. He could draw no other conclusion. If there truly was no hope, if Father did control the world and they were mere players in his game, why be a pawn? He couldn’t fight any more. He felt exhausted; physically, mentally and most of all, morally. The burden was too much for him to bear.

  The moment he allowed himself that thought, the long-suppressed temptation grew until it was almost irresistible. Nish could feel himself weakening every second. He wanted what his father offered, more than anything. He always had, though he’d never allowed himself to think about it. But now he did, and why shouldn’t he have it? And perhaps …

  Perhaps there was another way. After all, if anyone could sway his father, curb his excesses and turn him aside from evil, his only surviving son had the best chance of doing it. Yes, it was the only way. Some people, even his friends, might see it as a betrayal, but if he could stand at the right hand of the God-Emperor, and do good at the same time, it would be worth all it had cost him to get there.

  Even me, Nish?

  It was as if Irisis had spoken in his mind. Nish jumped up, looking around guiltily, longingly, but there was no one in sight.

  Use your clearsight, Nish. Is this what you really want?

  It had hardly ever worked after he’d come out of the maze, but perhaps he needed to try harder. Nish closed his eyes and was attempting to see with his inner vision, while her voice was still echoing in his mind, when a small rectangular shape appeared out of the fog not far away, near the rim of the southern lobe of the plateau. He began to move towards it, arms out like a sleepwalker. It had to be an illusion, because he’d been back and forth across the area and couldn’t have missed anything that big.

  It didn’t recede as he approached, and when he was close enough he opened his eyes. It was still there, and grew ever clearer, as any real object would. It was an ancient, crumbling wooden hut, listing to the left and looking as though the next puff of wind would blow it over. He caught the faintest spicy whiff but couldn’t place it.

  Going with trembling steps to the door, Nish rapped on it. There was no answer and his heart sank again, but he pushed it open on its cracked and sagging leather hinges. The floor of the hut was formed from packed earth which the bottom of the door scraped semicircular grooves across as it opened. He stepped inside but it was so dark he couldn’t see a thing. He waited until his eyes adjusted. There didn’t appear to be anything in the hut but a rude table and chair, and a bed covered in rags.

  Until the rags stirred and an acerbic voice he’d never expected to hear again said, ‘You took your bloody time, Nish! I expected you nine years ago.’

  FORTY-ONE

  Nish leapt backwards as if he’d been scalded, and shivers broke out across his body. The crusty voice, though rendered hoarse by age and shortness of breath, was unmistakable.

  ‘Xervish? Surr? Is it really you?’

  The rags fell away as the figure sat up, slowly and stiffly. ‘You always were one for asking stupid questions,’ said his old mentor and friend, the former Scrutator Xervish Flydd. ‘Of course it’s me. Where the devil have you been all this time? On holidays?’

  Had anyone else spoken to him that way, Nish would have been mortally offended, but Flydd’s acerbity was legendary, and not intended to hurt. Well, not all of the time. When he was angry, Flydd’s tongue could flay the hide off a nylatl.

  Nish managed a smile. ‘I’m afraid I was rather tied up.’ He went forwards. Flydd swung his feet onto the floor, the smell of mouldy bedding rising with him.

  ‘Cursed damp place,’ said Flydd, coughing. ‘Nothing ever dries out. Give me your hand.’

  Nish extended his hand. Flydd took it and heaved himself up. ‘Let’s go outside where I can look at you. The light in here is too dim for my old eyes.’

  Outside, the fog had closed in again and visibility was down to a few paces, but it was bright enough to see that the old man had aged shockingly. At the end of the war Flydd had been a vigorous man of sixty-odd years. Yes, he’d been small and skinny, horribly scarred and incredibly ugly, but with such strength, courage and, when he cared to use it, charm, that he’d seemed the best of men. But now …

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Flydd snapped.

  ‘You’ve … aged, surr,’ Nish said softly. Flydd looked positively ancient and was even thinner, if that were possible. His skin was pallid, blotched with age marks and sagging off his bones.

  ‘Of course I’ve aged. Time doesn’t stop just because you want it to. You don’t look so fresh yourself.’

  Flydd peered at him from eyes that lacked their old sparkle because their centres were clouded by cataracts. Yet he was alive, and sounding just as tough as ever, and a sudden hope surged through Nish. His father had said that all Nish’s old friends and allies were dead and, since he’d lied about that, he might have lied about all manner of other things. Why would the all-powerful God-Emperor need to lie … unless he wasn’t as powerful or secure as he made out? Nish couldn’t believe that he’d succumbed to the lie and had nearly given way to what, he saw clearly now, was another of his father’s temptations.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ said Flydd. ‘If there’s a new joke I’d love to hear it. It’s been damned lonely up here these past years.’

  Overcome by his feelings, Nish rushed forwards and threw his arms around his old friend. ‘Surr,’ he said, squeezing him tightly, ‘I’m so glad to see you.’ />
  ‘I’m pleased to see you, too,’ said Flydd, pushing him away, ‘but you won’t see me carrying on about it in such an unseemly fashion. Oh, all right!’ He embraced Nish briefly then pulled away. ‘Let me go, idiot, before you crush my chalky old bones.’

  Nish stood back, aware that he was grinning like a loon and not caring. Everything was going to be all right. Flydd never gave up, no matter how hopeless things became; whatever the problem, he always came up with a solution.

  Flydd tottered backwards, favouring his right leg, and sank onto a bench against the crumbling wall of the hut. ‘You’ve aged too, Nish. I’ve never seen you so scrawny. And can your hair be thinning at the front?’

  Nish raked it over his forehead with his fingers, then abruptly thrust it back. Surely he wasn’t so vain that he cared what this ugly old coot thought?

  ‘What have you been up to all this time?’ said Flydd, smiling as if he’d read the thought.

  ‘You don’t know?’ It was hard to believe that there existed a corner of the world where his father’s propaganda had not penetrated.

  ‘I reached this bolthole a little over nine years ago, with all my preparations made –’

  ‘What preparations?’ said Nish.

  ‘To overthrow your father, of course! To crack you out of prison and begin the revolution. You must have heard – I sent secret messengers so you’d be ready.’

  ‘They must have been caught; I didn’t hear a whisper about it. The one thing I heard was that all my old allies were taken or dead, and that my father was all-powerful.’

  ‘But – why did it take so long to get here? I left hints all over the place, ones only you would recognise. You must have found them when my allies finally broke you out …’

  Nish sat beside him on the bench, which creaked and tilted sideways under his slight weight. ‘Xervish, I wasn’t freed and Father didn’t let me out. I served the whole ten years in the deepest dungeon of Mazurhize, his special prison near Morrelune Palace. You must have heard about that, and how he killed –’

  Flydd’s gnarled hand came down on his shoulder. ‘I heard that Irisis gave up her life to try and save you, and of your promise to the world. And your sentence. But I thought …’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘It was all planned so carefully.’

  ‘What was, surr?’

  ‘My scheme to free you. It was foolproof, and I couldn’t work out why no one came here. Everyone must have been taken, betrayed. And Jal-Nish has kept it secret all this time, hoping that the prize he wanted most of all – me – would come to find out what had gone wrong. Are you saying that he made you serve the full ten years?’

  ‘With not a moment’s remission. Father keeps his promises. Ten agonising years, and I could have been free after the first.’ Nish let out a heavy sigh. ‘But I’m free now and you’re alive. That’s all that matters.’

  They sat together, staring into the fog with the wind howling in the eaves of the hut. Nish smelt that elusive, spicy scent again.

  ‘Why didn’t you go and find out what had gone wrong, Xervish?’

  ‘I waited and waited, but none of my spies or messengers turned up. After a couple of months I knew something had gone wrong, and I was starting down the chasm when I fell and broke my ankle, very badly.’ He thrust out his right foot. Its knobbly, blue-veined ankle was much thicker than the other. ‘It wouldn’t heal properly, and even with all my Arts I couldn’t repair it. On bad days I can’t put any weight on my ankle, and I couldn’t climb down the cleft for any price. I nearly killed myself trying, but I was trapped here, as much a prisoner as you were. I’ve had no news in all that time.’ He looked hopefully at Nish.

  ‘There was no news – no good news, anyway. Even after ten years, Father wouldn’t relent.’ Nish told Flydd about the confrontation in Morrelune, but didn’t mention Irisis in the crystal coffin; he couldn’t bear to relive that again. ‘Then, a few weeks later I was freed in such an odd way that, even now, I can scarcely believe it happened.’ He told the story of his rescue by Fyllis and Maelys.

  Flydd gave him a quizzical glance. ‘Odd indeed; downright extraordinary. Yet sometimes the desires and deeds of the utterly insignificant can change the course of the future. Are you alone?’

  ‘Maelys is here too, and two others, as I’m sure you know, though I doubt they’ll come looking for me in a while. I … stormed off.’

  Flydd chuckled. ‘Ten years older, but no more mature – excellent! Your tantrum will give us the chance to catch up on things.’ He rose painfully. ‘Stay put, rest your bones. I’ve a little something inside I’ve been saving.’

  Nish could have sworn he heard the old man’s joints creak, though perhaps it was the bench. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, unaccountably weary. No, more than weary, he felt drained to the marrow of his bones, as if the drive that had sustained him all this time had dwindled. That didn’t matter now. Flydd would have a solution to all his problems – he always did.

  The old man returned carrying a small, squat flask whose pottery bung had been sealed with wax, and two small goblets hand-carved from a golden wood so thin that it glowed translucently even in this murky light. Handing the goblets to Nish, Flydd ran the tip of a knife around the wax, cracked it off and drew the bung, then poured a tot into each goblet.

  Nish’s eyes watered from the rising fumes. ‘I haven’t drunk spirits since … I don’t know when.’ He wiped his eyes.

  ‘Then you’ll enjoy this. It’s a hundred and ninety years old and made by the master himself – Old Shand – or so my vintner told me. Mind you, I never met a wine-seller who wasn’t a rogue, no matter how charming they appeared. The first mug goes straight down the spout!’ Flydd raised the goblet and poured its contents down his throat without seeming to swallow. ‘Ahh! That reminds me of better days.’

  Nish sniffed his liqueur; the vapour went up his nose like hot mustard and he also caught a faint, elusive fragrance coming from the wood of the goblet. He tossed the drink down his throat and it burned all the way, then lay in the pit of his empty stomach, seething like soup in a saucepan. It was far stronger than the liqueur Monkshart had given him in Tifferfyte.

  ‘You’ll have another, of course,’ said Flydd, raising the flask.

  Nish scratched the scar from the nylatl’s spine, which had become irritatingly itchy lately. ‘In a minute. It’s very strong.’

  ‘Really?’ Flydd gave him a sideways glance. ‘I recall you being a legendary drinker, once. After the dreadful homemade grog I pour down my throat each night, this tastes like cordial.’

  ‘You make grog up here? What from?’

  ‘The sweet mucilage from the stink-snapper, mainly, and devilish tricky it is to gather.’ Flydd rubbed a long purple scar down his right arm, one of many. ‘But when a man must drink, he’ll go to any lengths to get it.’ He poured himself another goblet, then filled Nish’s as well. ‘Let’s hear the full tale, Nish, and anything else you care to tell me. I’m starved for news. And company.’

  The next hour or two passed companionably, assisted by most of the flask of liqueur. ‘Monkshart?’ said Flydd midway through the tale. ‘I’ve not heard that name before.’

  ‘He served my father during the war. Monkshart saved Father’s life, and rescued the tears after the debacle of Gumby Marth, though they crisped his skin like a roast chicken.’

  Flydd appeared to be searching his memory. ‘It must be Vivimord. He was tall and dark-haired, with a mesmerising charm even then, though abominably ill-disciplined. I never liked the man; never thought he’d amount to anything either. But great suffering changes one – things that once seemed important become irrelevant, while paths that were confused now seem crystal clear.’

  Flydd reflected for a while, and Nish felt that his old friend was thinking about his own life. Few had suffered more than he had, and survived. ‘Enough of him,’ said Flydd. ‘Go on.’

  Flydd toasted Nish with a goblet when he told of first joining the Defiance, a
nd again after the victorious battle. It felt almost like old times as they sat together and Nish related his tale, up to the point where the nylatl attacked. He choked and couldn’t go on.

  ‘What is it, Nish?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what happened ever since, and I can only reach one conclusion. Who would risk Father’s wrath to harm me? No one! Therefore only one man could have sent the assassins – Father himself ! And that doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  Flydd looked grave. ‘I can scarcely credit it. What, you think you’ve become too great a danger and he’s ordered you killed?’

  Nish nodded stiffly.

  ‘I can’t see it. Not even Jal-Nish would kill his only surviving son. You’re all he has. Go on with the tale.’

  Nish told the last of it.

  ‘You’ve done better than I have,’ Flydd said. ‘My plans have come to nought and now it’s too late.’

  It shocked Nish out of his merry state. ‘Surely not, surr. Together –’

  ‘I don’t have anything left, Nish,’ Flydd said gently. ‘Look at me. Take a good hard look and tell me what you see.’

  Nish turned to his old friend. He looked as if he were reaching for the handle of death’s door, and Nish couldn’t face it. ‘We’ve both aged, Xervish.’

  ‘But you’re still a young man with your best years ahead of you, while I’ve come to the end of my life and I’m fading fast. I’m going blind, my knees are giving out and my ankle won’t support me for more than ten minutes at a time. I haven’t been off this peak in nine years and I couldn’t climb down now if the greatest prize in the world – a crate of this liqueur – waited at the bottom. Nish, you’ve got to face the truth, as I have. Every man has his time and I’ve used mine. I’m sorry that you’ve come all this way with such expectations, but I can’t help you.’

  ‘Then it’ll soon be over. We saw flappeters in the west a few days ago.’

  ‘You’re safe here, for a while anyway,’ said Flydd. ‘My hut is built entirely from red amber-wood and I doubt that even the tears could see it without my consent. If a flappeter flew straight over it would see nothing but mire.’