So tell me, dear poet, at evening’s end, the story told, the ashes drifting from the cold hearth, does the blood still drip from your hands? More to the point, does it ever stop?
Her hands, upon his flesh, were hard with calluses. The harsh soap scraped him with grit, and he could feel the weight of her, and her heat, and when she moved round to settle over him, guiding him inside, he pushed from his mind the memory of heroes, and reached instead for the reality of this moment shared, between two veterans of too many battles.
Here, then, were feelings. Beyond the tactile, beyond the sensual. Here, then, was the language that spoke against tyranny in all its guises. But the world he found, in her arms, was a world for adults, not children.
Though she had spoken of her hidden heart, he found his own easily enough, and gave it to her that night. Unexpectedly, wrapped in his own sense of wonder. He knew not what she would do with it, or even that she understood what he had done. There was the risk, so very real, that she would cast it aside, mocking him with harsh laughter, as a child lacking understanding discards the important things which, when offered, so often prove troubling.
He whispered no words, as the gift he gave seemed, for that moment, beyond language. And yet, in his mind, he reached out to close his hand about the throat of the nearest poet. Dragged the fool close, and hissed, ‘This, you bastard, is where you grow up. Now, sing to me of love, like one who knows it, and at last I will hear from you a true tale of heroes.’
Love lost, love denied, love misunderstood. Woman or man, few could claim a life lived without regrets. But such regrets dwelt in the realm of the adult, not the child. They were, in truth, the essential difference between the two.
Sing to us of true heroes, so that we may weep, for something no child will ever understand.
* * *
‘My uncle, Venes,’ said Hish Tulla, ‘commands my Houseblades. They wait in Kharkanas.’ Her eyes, so startling in their beauty, were now cold as coins. ‘But no word comes from the Citadel.’
Kellaras nodded, reaching for his wine. He paused when Pelk, leaning in to collect up his plate, brushed close. He could smell the soap on her still, sweet and soft as a kiss. Momentarily discomfited, he sipped the wine, and then said, ‘Silchas readies the Hust Legion, milady.’
‘He is with them, then?’
‘No. Following Commander Toras Redone’s incapacitation, Galar Baras now conducts the assembling and training of the new recruits.’ He glanced briefly at Gripp Galas, who was still picking at his meal. ‘I have made acquaintance with Galar Baras. We travelled together on a journey out to Henarald’s forge. Should Toras remain … sheltered, he will serve in her place, with honour and distinction.’
Hish Tulla leaned back slightly, her gaze remaining fixed and predatory as she studied Kellaras. ‘A messenger from Venes brought the tale. Prisoners from the mines? What manner of army does Silchas imagine from such a dubious harvest? Loyalty to Mother Dark? Filial duty towards those who happily and righteously imprisoned them? What of the victims of their crimes, those who mourn the ones lost?’ She collected a jug from the table and poured herself another goblet’s worth of the strong, tart wine. ‘Captain, Hust weapons in the hands of such men and women invites a third front to this wretched war.’
‘Prazek and Dathenar have been sent to assist Galar Baras,’ Kellaras said.
Gripp Galas pushed his plate aside, the food upon it barely touched. ‘He had no right, captain. Anomander’s Houseblades! What was so wrong with the officers of his own Houseblades?’
Hish Tulla set the goblet down and rubbed at her eyes, then looked up, blinking, and said, ‘I was there, upon the Estellian Field.’
Kellaras slowly nodded. ‘Would that I had seen it, milady—’
‘Oh, Gallan made decent shape of it, and to hear him tell the tale you would swear he was there, in the midst of that battle. And saw what I saw, what Kagamandra saw, and Scara Bandaris, too. Those two chattering fools, Prazek and Dathenar—’ She shook her head. ‘If ever legend’s heroes walked among us, then we can name them here and now.’
‘Silchas had no right,’ Gripp said again, and Kellaras saw the fists the man had made of his hands, heavy as stones on the table.
‘One hopes,’ Hish added, ‘Galar Baras sees to their proper use. Sees past their prattle, that is. When I think on them, captain, an image comes to my mind. The Dorssan Ryl in winter, so heavily sheathed in ice, and upon the ice the blandest snow from nights of gentle falling. Where, in this scene I describe, will we find Prazek and Dathenar? Why, they are the black current beneath, strong as iron, that courses on, hidden away from all our eyes. But listen well and you will hear …’ she suddenly smiled, ‘that prattle.’
‘By my order,’ Kellaras said, ‘did I send them from Kharkanas.’
‘You?’ Gripp demanded.
‘My order, but Silchas Ruin’s command. Lord Anomander is gone, Gripp, and if his shadow alone remains, it is white, not black.’
‘What of Draconus?’ Hish demanded. ‘If any should assume overall command in Anomander’s absence, it is the Consort.’
Kellaras eyed her, bemused. ‘Milady, he attends Mother Dark, and makes no appearance.’
‘Still? What madness indulgence has become! Upon your return, captain, pray pound upon that door. Awaken the warrior and, if need be, physically drag him from Mother Dark’s arms! He is needed!’
Now Gripp too was looking at Hish, as if in wonder.
Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘Milady, it seems your confidence in Lord Draconus arises from deeds of which I am not aware. Certainly, he fought well in the wars, and even turned a battle’s tide—’
‘Lisken Draw, that was,’ Gripp cut in. ‘The Jhelarkan’s second season. With my own eyes, I saw him meet the charge of a wolf that was as big as a pony. Bare-handed, he took hold of its neck, lifted it high – I was close enough to hear the bones of the beast’s throat crunch, like a sparrow’s wing. It was dead long before he drove it into the ground.’ He glanced up at Kellaras. ‘A clan’s war-master, that wolf. Broke the enemy’s will there and then. The rest of the season was one long pursuit into the north.’
None spoke for a time. Kellaras replayed in his mind the scene Gripp Galas had just described. He barely fought off a shiver. And then, once again, he looked across to Hish Tulla. ‘Few would welcome Lord Draconus as commander, milady. Indeed, I cannot think of a single highborn who would acknowledge his authority.’
‘I would,’ she snapped. ‘And not hesitate.’
‘Then you see beyond his advantage, milady, which the others cannot.’
‘Base envy – such fools! The choice was Mother Dark’s! Think any of them the better suitor? Then by all means present the case to her, and dare her mockery. But no, this desire of theirs paces behind the curtain – we but witness the shuffling feet and bulges in the fabric.’
‘What they cannot hope to possess, milady, makes all the more savage their jealousy. Resentment is an acid upon every blade, but as you say, they dare not confront the woman for the choice she made. So who remains for their ire? Why, Draconus, of course. And now, with the battle against the Borderswords—’
‘Oh indeed,’ Hish snarled, ‘such a paltry deceit!’
‘Some remain unconvinced.’
‘So they choose to, feeding an already fatted pig.’ She then waved a hand, as if to push away the subject, and collected her goblet again. ‘We were host to Captain Sharenas, a week or so ago. The word she brought to us from Neret Sorr, and Vatha Urusander, made no sense. He asserts his innocence in all things – the pogrom, the slaughter of House Enes, even the annihilation of the Wardens – none by his doing!’
Kellaras sighed. ‘This baffles me, milady. It is difficult to imagine Hunn Raal given so free a rein. Vatha Urusander—’
‘Is a broken and bowed man, captain. There is no other explanation. Even Sharenas was at a loss to explain … well, much of anything. Still, she sought assurances, none of which I would give.’
Kellaras glanced away. ‘This holding of yours, milady, proves not as isolated as I had imagined.’
‘You are not alone in that,’ she answered bitterly. ‘Still, I have issued an order to my western estate. That fortress is to hold, if only to protect young Sukul Ankhadu. I have faith in Rancept and will keep him where he is. Still, tell me, how fares young Orfantal?’
‘He remains a child finding his place, milady. It is unfortunate that Silchas is now his lone guardian among the Purake. Still, I have from Orfantal this message: he misses you terribly.’
There was a soft grunt from Gripp. ‘He saw too much of me upon that escape from the hills. It was a foul thing that he witnessed the blood on my hands. I expect him to hold me at a distance from now on, and perhaps that is just as well.’
‘His words and sentiment, Gripp, were for you and Lady Hish Tulla both.’
‘A fair effort, captain, but beware that your generosity here may risk impugning him.’
Kellaras fell silent. He well recalled the flash of fear in Orfantal’s face upon mention of Gripp Galas.
‘Abyss take us, Pelk,’ said Gripp in a low growl, ‘do find a cup and join us, will you?’
‘Only because I am done,’ the veteran replied, coming forward to drag out the chair beside Kellaras’s own. Sitting down, she accepted from Hish a goblet.
‘Tell us your thoughts, Pelk,’ Hish said.
‘Not much worth the telling, milady. Vatha fights clouds of confusion, and half of them have been stirred up by those surrounding him. On the field, you’ll recall, he ever demanded the high ground, to give him a clear sight of things. Mayhap,’ she added, ‘he imagined that his keep over Neret Sorr would give him the same. Of course, it couldn’t, not when the battlefield is all of Kurald Galain.’ She drank, and then shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s Silchas who’s the problem, and that’s why Kellaras is here, I’d wager.’ And she turned to him. ‘Time, I’d say, to spit it out, captain.’
‘I suppose it is,’ he replied. ‘Very well. Lest the tone here harden in casting Silchas Ruin in the poorest light, he well recognizes his … extremity. More, he alone remains of the brothers, and so must weather the fear, the currents of accusation, and the general sense of malaise that now fills not just the Citadel, but all of Kharkanas. Much of the anger rightly belongs not upon Silchas, but upon Anomander.’
Gripp hissed and thumped the table, rattling what remained of cutlery. ‘Would he be anywhere but in the Citadel, if not for Andarist?’
‘You judge too harshly a grieving man, husband,’ said Hish.
‘There are many flavours to grief,’ he replied.
Pelk said, ‘Do go on, Captain Kellaras.’
Though he had known her but one day, he already comprehended her relentless streak. ‘Silchas pleads for Anomander’s return. He seeks only to step to one side. Accordingly, he asks that his brother be found, and returned to Kharkanas. He understands, of course, that such a task will be difficult, for Anomander is not a man easily swayed. He may well need convincing.’
Gripp said, ‘I shall set out tomorrow.’
‘No!’ Hish Tulla shouted. ‘He promised! Husband! You are free of him! Deny Kellaras – oh, forgive me, captain, I know it is not you – Gripp, listen! Deny Silchas. He has no right! Have you not already said so?’
‘I do this, wife, not for Silchas, but for Anomander.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ she demanded, leaning towards him. ‘He freed you. By solemn vow! Gripp, if you hunt him down, if you do what Silchas asks of you, he will be furious. He is no longer your master, and you no more his servant. The word given was Anomander’s – and that is the only one that will matter to him. Husband, please, I beg you. He is a man of honour—’
‘Who else can hope to find him and, more to the point, bring him back?’ Gripp asked her.
‘Husband, he freed you – he freed us – because that was what he wanted. It was his gift, to me and to you. Will you set it aside? Will you return it to his hands?’
‘Hish, you don’t understand—’
‘What is it that I do not understand, husband? I know these men—’
‘In many ways, yes, and better than any of us. I do not deny any of that, beloved. But it is also now clear to me that you don’t understand them in the ways that I do.’
She leaned back, expression tight, arms crossing. ‘Explain, then.’
‘Anomander will understand, Hish. Why I came, why I found him. He’ll understand, too, the words that I bring, and the necessity behind them.’
‘Why? He has no reason to!’
‘He has. Beloved, listen to me. Anomander …’ Gripp hesitated, his gaze faltering. A moment later, he seemed to tremble, and then, with a deep breath, he continued. ‘Beloved, Anomander does not trust Silchas.’
There was silence at the table. Kellaras slowly closed his eyes. Yes. Of course. And yet…
‘Then why,’ Hish asked, her voice rasping, ‘did he ever leave?’
‘For Andarist,’ Gripp replied without hesitation. ‘They are three, yes, with Anomander upon one point, Silchas the other. But the one who binds them, who maintains the balance – that one is Andarist. Anomander is facing more than one schism.’
‘Then,’ said Hish Tulla, suddenly rising, ‘you will bring him here first.’
‘I will,’ Gripp said.
‘Your pardons,’ Kellaras said, looking to them both, and ignoring Pelk’s sudden hand upon his left arm, ‘but no. He must return to the Citadel—’
‘Captain,’ said Hish in something like a snarl, ‘we have another guest.’
‘Andarist,’ said Gripp, slumping back in his chair.
‘Then … then, Abyss below, summon him! Here!’
‘No point,’ said Gripp. ‘He would refuse you. He has claimed a wing here in the house, barricaded, the doors locked. His flight into the wilderness, away from the scene of slaughter, brought him, eventually, to us. Well,’ he amended, ‘to Hish Tulla. Who, in his moment of greatest need, had taken him into her arms, when none other dared.’ After a moment, the old man shrugged. ‘We sent him our servants. None returned to us. Presumably, they feed him, keep the chambers clean …’
Kellaras slowly sat back, dumbfounded, appalled.
‘That is why,’ said Gripp, ‘when I find Anomander, it will be here that we come. Before Kharkanas.’
Kellaras nodded. ‘Yes, Gripp Galas. Yes. Of course.’
Pelk pulled at his arm, angled him on to his feet. Confused, he swung to her.
‘He leaves tomorrow, does Gripp,’ she said, trying to hold him with her eyes.
Kellaras glanced across at Hish Tulla, and saw in her face such desolation as to blur his vision. See me now, Oh Prazek and Dathenar? You are not alone in grieving over the discord I bring. This task of mine … I did not choose it. It finds me. Alas, it finds me.
* * *
Flanked by Rebble and Listar, Wareth made his way towards the small crowd that had gathered at an intersection between the rows of tents. Peatsmoke hung in wreaths over the enormous encampment, motionless in the still, bitter cold air. Just to the south, the makeshift army’s refuse heap and cesspits were marked by a thicker, darker column of smoke, towering high and tilted like a spear driven into the ground. Ravens wheeled around that column, as if eager to roost. Their distant cries held the timbre of frustration.
‘Step aside, all of you,’ Rebble said in a growl as they reached the score or so recruits, and Wareth saw faces turn towards them, and belligerent scowls quickly vanish behind masks of studied caution when they saw who had challenged them. Men and women backed away to clear a path.
The body sprawled face-down on the frozen ground was naked from the waist up. A dozen or more knife wounds spotted the pallid back. A few had bled freely, crusting the incision made by the blade, but many others were virtually bloodless.
‘Give us room,’ Rebble ordered, and then, frowning down at the corpse, he sighed, his breath pluming. ‘Who’s this one, then?’
It didn’t seem likely that he would find any. This murderer was in the habit of dropping the bodies far away from the tent in which each killing had taken place, though how that was managed without anyone’s taking note remained a mystery. In any case, it was now part of the pattern, as were the successive knife wounds driven into a body from which life had fled.
‘Anyone know him?’ Wareth asked, straightening to scan the circle of faces.
There was no immediate reply. Wareth studied the expressions surrounding him, seeing, not for the first time, the ill-disguised contempt and disdain in which he was generally held. Officers had to earn respect, but the labours required lay somewhere in the future, if at all. And in this miserable company of reluctant recruits, rank alone was a flimsy framework, weakened still further by an almost institutional hatred for authority. When it came to Wareth, his reputation made the entire conceit totter, moments from violent collapse. He had warned Galar Baras often enough, to no avail.
But these were his own thoughts, his own internal pacing to and fro, upon which attended every fear, real and imagined. The voices of those fears ran the gamut of whisper to frenzied roar, and in all cacophony, they made a chorus of terror. Most urgent music, the kind to fill the skull of a running man, a fleeing man. But all these frantic steps take me nowhere.
‘From which pit?’ Rebble demanded. ‘Anyone?’
A woman spoke. ‘He was named Ginial, I think. From White Crag Pit, same as me.’
‘Hated or liked?’
The woman snorted. ‘I was a cat. Never paid much attention to what the dogs were up to.’
Wareth eyed her. ‘But you knew his name.’
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