Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘When I’m a warrior, I will have pet wolves at my side. Two of them. Trained for war.’

  ‘Ah, you see a long war ahead of us, then.’

  Orfantal sat down on the edge of the hearthstone, with the heat against his left side. ‘Cedorpul says these things never go away. If not one reason, then another. Because we love fighting.’

  ‘It wasn’t always so. There was a time, Orfantal, when we loved hunting. But even then, I will grant you, there was a lust for blood. When the time came that we tamed those beasts we would eat, still the hunters went out. They were like children who refuse to grow up – there is a power there, in that ability to decide life and death. The innocence of the prey is irrelevant to such children. Their need is too selfish to consider the victims of their indulgence.’

  Orfantal reached down to scratch behind Ribs’s ragged ear. The dog sighed in its sleep. ‘Gripp Galas cut a man’s throat open. From ear to ear. Then he hacked the head off, and carved something on the brow.’

  Rise Herat said nothing for a long moment, and then he grunted. ‘Well. We are indeed in a war, Orfantal. Gripp Galas saved your life, did he not?’

  ‘He killed that man for his horse.’

  ‘He saw the need, one must assume. Gripp Galas is an honourable man. You were his responsibility. I would wager what you saw there was Gripp’s anger. We’re in a time when to be upon the other side is itself a crime, with death the punishment.’

  ‘Heroes don’t get angry.’

  ‘Oh but they do, Orfantal. They most certainly do. Often, it’s anger that drives them to heroic acts.’

  ‘What makes them so angry?’

  ‘The unfairness of the world. When it’s made personal, the hero becomes indignant, and filled with refusal. The hero will not abide what it seems must be. These are not thoughts. They are acts. Deeds. Something unutterable made manifest, and in witnessing, our breaths are taken away. We cannot but admire audacity, and the way in which it defies the rules.’

  ‘I don’t think Gripp Galas is a hero,’ said Orfantal. The fire on his left was building, flames wrapping round the cluttered shafts of wood. Soon it would grow too hot for him to sit where he was, but not yet.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ the historian said. ‘He is, I fear, too pragmatic a man for heroism.’

  ‘What are you doing in Grizzin Farl’s chamber?’

  ‘Awaiting his return. And you?’

  ‘Looking for Ribs. He comes here a lot. They’re friends, Ribs and Grizzin Farl.’

  ‘I recall hearing that the Azathanai plucked the beast from the Dorssan Ryl. Saved the dog’s life, in fact. This will forge a bond, I’m sure.’

  ‘Lord Silchas is Grizzin’s friend, too.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  Orfantal nodded. ‘It’s the helplessness they share.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘That’s what Grizzin says. The white shadow to a brother’s dark power. That skin, he says, will undo Silchas, even though it’s unfair. People are driven to do things, says Grizzin, by what they think is lacking in them.’

  ‘The Azathanai has many things to say to you, it seems.’

  ‘It’s because I’m young,’ Orfantal explained. ‘He talks to me because I don’t understand what he’s talking about. That’s what he says. But I understand him better than he thinks. I dreamed once there was a giant hole in the ground behind me, and it kept growing, and I kept running to keep from falling in, and I ran through walls of stone, and mountains, and across the bottom of deep lakes, and then ice and snow. I ran and ran, to keep from falling into the hole. If it wasn’t for that hole, I could never have run through a stone wall, or all the rest.’

  ‘And so people are driven to do by what’s lacking in them.’

  Orfantal nodded. He edged away from the growing flames, but the room beyond was still cold.

  ‘How proceed your studies?’

  Shrugging, Orfantal reached down to stroke Ribs’s flank. ‘Cedorpul’s busy, with all that magic and stuff. I miss my mother.’

  ‘Your aunt, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. My aunt.’

  ‘Orfantal, have you met the other hostage in the Citadel?’

  He nodded. ‘She’s young. And shy. She runs away from me, up into the safe room. Then she locks the door so I can’t get in.’

  ‘You’re chasing her?’

  ‘No, I’m trying to be nice.’

  ‘I suggest trying to be somewhat less … direct. Let her come to you, Orfantal.’

  ‘I miss Sukul Ankhadu, too. She drinks wine and everything. It’s as if she’s already grown up. She knows about all the Great Houses, and the nobles, and who can be trusted and who can’t.’

  ‘She is not aligned, then, with sister Sharenas.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Finally, the heat was too much. Orfantal rose and walked a few paces from the hearth. ‘Cedorpul told me about the sorcery. The Terondai’s gift to all of the Tiste Andii.’

  ‘Oh? And have you explored the magic for yourself, Orfantal? I should warn you of the risks—’

  ‘I can do this,’ Orfantal cut in, raising his arms out to the sides. Darkness suddenly billowed, coalesced, making forms that made the historian recoil in his chair. ‘These are my wolves,’ Orfantal said.

  From before the hearthstone, Ribs bolted, claws clattering and skidding on the flagstones as he pelted for the doorway.

  The conjurations had indeed assumed wolf-like shapes, but tall enough at the shoulder to surpass Orfantal’s own height. Eyes glowed amber.

  ‘I can go into them,’ Orfantal continued. ‘I can jump right out of my body and go into them, both of them, at the same time – but they have to stay together when I do that. If I go into just one of them, I can still make the other one follow me, or do whatever I tell it to do. It feels strange, historian, to walk on four legs. Is this the same as what the Jheleck can do?’

  ‘Orfantal, if you would, send them away again.’

  Shrugging, Orfantal dropped his arms. The blackness swirled, then dispersed like ink in water.

  ‘No,’ Rise Herat said, ‘that was nothing like what the Jheleck do. Theirs is an ancient magic, more … bestial, and wild. To witness it, I’m told, burns the eyes. Your … conjurations … they were subtler. Orfantal, have you shown anyone else this power of yours?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Best you do not.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said that your soul can travel into them, yes? Then, consider them a last recourse. Should you find your life in danger. Should a mortal wound take you, in the body you now own, then, Orfantal, flee to your … friends. Do you understand me?’

  ‘Can I even do that?’

  The historian shook his head. ‘I don’t know for certain, but it seems to be an option – from what you have just described. This secret, Orfantal – hold to it, for, should it become known, then your wolf-friends will be vulnerable. Tell me, must they be close when conjured into being?’

  ‘I don’t know. I could try to raise them in a different room, maybe, and see if that works.’

  ‘Experiment, but privately. Let none see. Let none know.’

  Orfantal shrugged again, and then turned to the door. ‘Ribs ran away again.’

  ‘I begin to comprehend why.’

  At that moment, heavy footsteps announced the return of Grizzin Farl. As the Azathanai entered the chamber, he tilted his head and sniffed the air. ‘Ah, well,’ he murmured, gaze settling on Orfantal. ‘My silent foil – will you join the historian and me in conversation?’

  ‘No, sir. I’m going to look for Ribs.’

  ‘Yes, he blurred past me in yonder corridor. Look for him in the furthest corner of the Citadel, or indeed in the stables outside.’

  Nodding, Orfantal left the two and set out. He recalled Rise Herat’s words about hunters, and hunting, and the child mind that got trapped in all of that. But he wasn’t interested in using his wolves to hunt, and he wasn’t interested in hunting, either. There were no heroes
among hunters, because killing was easy. Unless, of course, the prey decides it’s not innocent any more. And then stops being afraid. And decides that running is useless, because some appetites you can’t run away from, and a big hole behind you can be a mouth, too, getting bigger and bigger.

  Wolves like mine … they aren’t afraid. They can turn. They can hunt the hunters.

  What, I wonder, will that feel like?

  * * *

  ‘She sees through the wounds in his hands,’ Rise Herat said. ‘That tapestry gift to Emral Lanear, it’s meant to show us that none of this is new. It’s happened before. The power in blood. What else, Azathanai, should we know?’

  ‘You fill me with sorrow, historian, with such anger.’

  ‘The gifts of the Azathanai are never what they seem.’

  Belching, Grizzin Farl drew up another chair, and sat. ‘I have drunk too much ale.’

  The historian studied the Azathanai, who was staring into the flames of the hearth. ‘Then indulge in loquaciousness.’

  ‘Indulgence is the sweet drink, yes. There is an Azathanai, a woman of flesh. Her name is Olar Ethil. Have you heard of her? No. Ah, well. Perhaps not by name, but recall your dreams, historian, those troubling ones, when a woman you know and yet do not know comes to you, often from behind. She presses herself against you, and offers a carnal invitation. You would think,’ he said, sighing, ‘that she is but the harbinger of base desires, a play of lust and, indeed, indulgence, particularly of the forbidden – however you might imagine it.’

  ‘Grizzin Farl, you know nothing of my dreams.’

  ‘Historian, I know what all men share. But, very well. Look instead into this fire. There are faces in the flames, or rather one face, offering myriad expressions. The Dog-Runners learned to worship that face, that womanly thing. Olar Ethil was wise. She knew the manner in which she would make herself known to them. Goddess of flames, awakener of heat. Lust, desire, bloodlust. She’ll warm your flesh, but burn your soul.’

  ‘A serpent grows from her hand, yes? She is the one in the tapestry.’

  But the Azathanai shook his head. ‘Yes, and no. The Dog-Runners will speak of their goddess of the earth. They name her Burn, and they hold that she sleeps an eternal sleep. In her dreams, she makes the world of men. But Olar Ethil stands near, sometimes beside the Sleeping Goddess, sometimes barring the way to her. She is jealous of Burn, and steals the heat from her. Every hearth, every lick of flame, is stolen. The serpent is fire, and blood. Life, if you choose. And yet, at its core, it is a force of destruction.’

  ‘You Azathanai play at being gods.’

  ‘Yes. Some of us do. Power is seductive.’

  ‘Even the Dog-Runners deserve better. Is Burn too an Azathanai?’

  ‘I cannot even say if Burn exists, historian. The belief in her does, and that suffices. It will guide the believers, and give shape to their world. You must lean towards the pragmatic, Rise Herat. Motivations are mere ghosts, and if meaning rides in the wake of every deed, indulge it at your leisure.’ Grizzin Farl looked up, met the historian’s eyes. ‘What you choose to do can, without effort, be seen as a betrayal. Though you might name it the purest act of integrity imaginable.’

  Rise Herat felt the blood pool in his gut, chilling his limbs. ‘Do you accuse me of something, Azathanai?’

  Grizzin Farl’s brows lifted. ‘Not at all. I but question the validity of your role in life. The historian will dissect events, counting the ledger’s list of deeds, and seek meaning from invented motives. When you invite indulgence, I see how familiar to you its flavour.’

  ‘Mother Dark is as much a goddess as is this Olar Ethil,’ Rise Heart said. ‘Sorcery in the blood. There, on the throne, her eyes are closed. She might be sleeping. She might be dead. Still, through serpent eyes she sees the world. And, I am told, the blood’s taste is seductive. What has Draconus done?’

  ‘To your liege? Why, he has made her into a goddess. Do you name this love? Between lovers, worship is all sharp edges. Every embrace, no matter how heated, bleeds something. That woman behind you in your dreams, she means you ill. Or, in the next breath, blessing and revelation. The possibilities are endless, until you turn round.’

  It was a wonder, Rise Herat reflected, that no one had as yet killed this Azathanai, so frustrating and infuriating was his conversation. He imagined that facing a sword-master would feel much the same, with every attack anticipated, every move effortlessly countered, and like the sword-master, Grizzin Farl was in no hurry to deliver the fatal wound. He scowled at the Azathanai. ‘Mother Dark is the absence at the centre of our worship. Is this by her choice, Grizzin Farl? Or does the blood – and her thirst – drive her farther and farther from mortal concerns? You say that Burn sleeps – did she choose to, or has she succumbed to some curse? You say that Olar Ethil inhabits the flames of the hearth – is this all that gods do? Simply watch?’

  ‘It may indeed seem that way, yes. But I already warned you against imagining motivations, inventing meanings.’

  ‘But she does nothing! No acts, no deeds! There is nothing to imagine or invent!’

  ‘And so the historian starves. But, soon to grow sated, yes? The enemy to order stirs in a distant camp. An army will march on Kharkanas. What, you wonder, will she do then? Where, you wonder, are those who will fight in her name? And, as for that name … what is the cause it represents? Assemble the beliefs, and paint in gold their many virtues. But that you cannot do, because she does not speak.’

  Rise Herat glared at the Azathanai, who stared back with calm, sorrow-filled eyes.

  After a moment, the historian looked away. ‘The High Priestess has not been given leave to visit the Chamber of Night.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Grizzin Farl replied. ‘She chooses not to, because she has something she wishes to keep hidden from Mother Dark. But now the goddess makes use of poor Endest Silann, and deception grows harder to hide. You, sir, are doubtless in league with the High Priestess. You intend something, in Mother Dark’s name, but whatever it is, she must never know what you have done. Now,’ the Azathanai’s gaze suddenly hardened, ‘bend your deeds into worship.’

  Rise Herat felt sick inside, as if he had fostered an illness of his own invention, to now lodge in his flesh, sour his blood, and bruise his organs. ‘Very well,’ he said in a dry, rasping voice. ‘Join me, Grizzin Farl. Let us go to the Chamber of Night. Let us speak to her.’

  ‘She remains with Draconus.’

  ‘Then we will speak to them both!’

  The Azathanai pushed himself upright. ‘As you wish. Shall we collect up the High Priestess along the way?’

  Rise Herat grimaced. ‘We can at least ask her.’

  They departed the room. Behind them, the flames in the hearth devoured the last of the wood, and knew a time of hunger.

  * * *

  Emral Lanear, High Priestess of Dark, sat lost in a world of smoke. A vision blurred saw few cracks, and the future, laid out so smooth and perfect, proved no different from the present. This was the lure of d’bayang. There had been a time when ritual had surrounded its indulgence, and the dreamscape the smoke offered whispered messages both profound and quickly forgotten. The intent, she supposed, had to do with stepping aside, out of the flesh, outside the strictures of reality. Couched in ritual or not, it was an escape. The distinction, between then and now, belonged to intention.

  Escape as ritual promises a return to the present, when the ritual is done. Escape as ritual is meant to seed the ground between the dreamscape and the real world. But here and now, I seek no return to any present, and I will make of the ground between a wasteland of despair. Mine is not an escape seeking discovery, but one born of flight.

  She had once valued her own sobriety, the keen mind delighting in its wakefulness, its precious acuity. She had been unable to imagine wilfully surrendering such gifts, and had seen enough fools in her life to know, with dismay, the minds of company grown dull on alcohol or smoke. Fleeing without moving. Drowning in on
e’s chair. The bleary gaze, the comfort with confusion, the slow disintegration of time, and the slow losing of one’s place in its eternal stream.

  But look at me now. With a future crowded with crimes, I make an island and clothe it in fog. Let time stream past; I yield no harbour.

  It is delusion. Rise Herat saw well the desire in my eyes, which should have shamed me. But I am past shame, and that too proves an alluring escape.

  Alas, a kind of crystal clarity remained in her mind, something immune to all her efforts at flight and evasion. Its light was guilt, painting her entire inner world. Not the d’bayang. That is too paltry a reason.

  I am High Priestess to Mother Dark. And yet, in place of obeisance, vespers and rituals, I weave a web of spies, each one conducting subterfuge with her legs spread wide. Her mind was trapped in a cage of her own making, wherein every thought was cast into a construct of potential alliances, possible weaknesses, spilled secrets, and the option of coercion into a host of deceptions and machinations. By these efforts – this wretched course she had taken – she was seeing her world remade. She now weighed in terms of cold economy the value of each and every citizen of the realm. Collusion against opposition, strength against weakness, deceit against trust.

  Like the d’bayang, this newly born way of thinking was in truth an inward spiral, with her own needs at the core. It was a world view that she now realized was far from unique, and, personal as it seemed, she but reflected the mien of countless others.

  How many wealthy nobles, I wonder, see the world in the same way? Was it not, indeed, the means by which they acquired their riches, and with them their unshakable belief in their own superiority?

  But, Mother forgive me, it is a cold realm I find.

  The smoke warred against it, but feebly. With slurred words, it whispered lazy invitations into a refuge of ennui, to the sodden bliss of the insensate. Floppy limbs half beckoned in her mind, barely seen amidst the grey cloud. Over here … come … here waits oblivion.

  Hardly a worthy goal for a spymaster. I lust for knowledge, yet refuse to taste it. I gather news and facts and secrets, and do nothing with them. I am like the Protector, Grizzin Farl, who claims to protect nothing. Just as the historian refuses to record history, and the goddess refuses the comforts of worship.