Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Tutor? Is something wrong? Come, lie here upon your cot, and invite again my caress. Your ghost limb desires it still, yes?’

  But I feel nothing. It was a game. It brought you close, within reach of my hand. And I could touch what I dare not desire. It was enough, my own small need, and each night you spend here, with me, is another night away from your whore of a mother, from her endless vengeance upon her own daughter. Nothing cruel in this bargain – but now … ‘It is difficult this night,’ he said, his voice thin and weak, sounding piteous even to his own ears. ‘The ghost is insensate to all but its own pain.’

  ‘We shall see,’ Sheltatha said.

  After a moment, Sagander brought his lone leg under him and used a single crutch to push himself upright. He hobbled the two steps over to his cot, twisted and slumped down upon the canvas, making the legs creak. ‘Well then,’ he gasped. ‘Here I am—’

  The tent flap was suddenly yanked aside, and an armoured figure ducked in, straightening with a harsh sigh.

  Infayen Menand. Heavy and indolent where Sheltatha was supple and sweet; harsh and cold where Tathe’s daughter was kind and warm.

  Sagander scowled. ‘What are you doing here, unannounced, uninvited? Leave us, captain, unless Tathe now owns you as well—’

  ‘Tathe doesn’t even own herself,’ Infayen said, her eyes flat as they fixed upon Sheltatha Lore, who returned the stare with a closed expression belonging to a much older woman. ‘I have come at the command of Mortal Sword Hunn Raal. The child Sheltatha Lore is to be escorted to the keep. Her care is now the responsibility of the Temple of Light. Get off those cushions, girl.’

  ‘I am her tutor—’

  ‘As you please,’ Infayen cut in. ‘If the temple deems lessons proper, they will undertake them from now on. Of course,’ she added, finally levelling her gaze on Sagander, ‘you may well find for yourself a role in that, but you will teach your lessons at the temple, not here in your tent.’

  After a moment, Sagander nodded sharply. ‘Yes, of course. In fact, I believe that I approve.’

  ‘Well, that relieves us all. On your feet, Sheltatha.’

  Sagander set a hand upon the girl’s shoulder and said, ‘Go on. It is indeed for the best.’

  In silence, Sheltatha Lore stood. At a gesture from Infayen, the girl strode from the tent. As Infayen moved to follow, she paused at the tent entrance and glanced back at Sagander. ‘It may be,’ she said, ‘that you do not number among those who have damaged her. I saw not enough here to decide either way. But I will nonetheless insist upon an end to privacy when it comes to your tutoring the girl.’

  ‘You impugn my honour!’

  ‘How often that proclamation from those who have none.’

  ‘Said the woman who has slaughtered children in the forest!’

  She said nothing for a long moment, her flat eyes fixed upon him, and for an instant Sagander believed he saw what those children and elders must have seen, even as the sword swung down to take their lives. Suddenly chilled by terror, he stared up at the captain.

  ‘In the name of duty,’ Infayen said, ‘one must, at times, set honour aside. Were you not once tutor to a bastard whelp?’

  ‘The duty of which saw my honour betrayed,’ Sagander replied shakily. He shook his head. ‘I never abused her trust, captain. Ask her. I sought to save her from her mother.’

  ‘You would have failed.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Even the temple will fail,’ Infayen said.

  ‘Then you deem this pointless?’

  ‘It is not the coin in hand that makes the whore, tutor. It is making a commodity of one’s own body that makes a woman a whore. The flaw lies in the spirit. Sheltatha and her mother are the same in this regard, no different from Renarr. If you believe salvation is possible, then why in the next breath speak against the elevation of us soldiers?’

  ‘By your argument, captain, you oppose Hunn Raal’s desire, and indeed that of Urusander himself.’ Sagander leaned forward. ‘Is that a wise admission?’

  ‘In the name of duty one must at times set aside honour,’ Infayen repeated.

  A moment later she was gone, the flap settling back down. Much of the brazier’s heat had been lost, and Sagander shivered, reaching for his furs. He settled on to the bed. The ghost moaned out its ache. These soldiers, he was coming to understand, were not all alike. Their uniforms deceived with the illusion of conformity, and as time stretched on – as this miserable winter persisted – the inherent weaknesses of the military system began to show.

  Put a sword in every person’s hand, and they discover an edge to their opinions, but such opinions, no matter how inane and ignorant, twist to ambition, until each wielder draws blood upon every side. There can be no congress among the witless and the avaricious. Betrayal waits in the wings, and all that is won must then be carved into pieces, and should inequity appear, the slaying begins anew.

  The creation of an army invites poison into the realm. I am well placed to observe this, and I will make it central to the thesis of my last great work. The stations of society are natural creations, governed by natural laws. This civil war, it is nothing but hubris.

  Only from the temples will we find salvation. Syntara must be made to understand this. The balance of faiths she espouses must give guidance to the balance of classes in Kurald Galain. A few to rule, and many to follow.

  Urusander is useless. But perhaps he will serve as a figurehead. No, we who possess the necessary intelligence, and talents, we shall be the true rulers of this realm. Let the god and goddess drift away into their private worlds. One step down from the dais is where real power is worked, and there is where you will find me.

  I must write to Rise Herat. An overture would not be amiss. He surely understands the necessity of our respective roles in what is to come. But I will address him as an equal, to make certain that he understands our new relationship. Meted in wisdom, we shall conspire to save Kurald Galain.

  An end to soldiers. The rise of scholars. I see a renaissance in the offing.

  The plain woman who fed the brazier now returned, eyes averted, a bucket of dung in each hand.

  He watched as she knelt at the iron brazier and began feeding chips into it. An all too modest skill, maintaining such a fire, requiring little more than small measures of brawn, discipline, and a few sparks of wit. It was well that she possessed a task to suit her, he reflected. This is civilization’s gift. Finding a task to match the capability of each and every citizen of the realm. But make it plain that limits exist, for the good of all. And, if necessary, a mailed fist to prove the point.

  The highborn have it right. Houseblades to police their holdings. A city constabulary. An army? Disband it, and put an end to its unruly nest, lest the vermin breed discontent.

  ‘When you’re done there,’ Sagander croaked to the servant, ‘attend me here. The night is cold, and I have need of your warmth.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ the woman replied, dusting her hands.

  Syntara was generous, and generosity among the powerful was truly a virtue.

  * * *

  ‘She would gather the whores into a single room,’ Renarr said, smiling, ‘and name it a temple of disrepute, no doubt.’

  Sheltatha Lore stood before her, still heavily cloaked from her march up from the camp. She seemed neither discomfited nor confused by the new arrangements.

  ‘So, it was Syntara who sent you to me?’

  Shrugging, Sheltatha said, ‘Hunn Raal decided this. Infayen delivered me. Syntara thought to interpose her will, but in the end she rejected me for the temple, noting my misused flesh and so on.’ She paused and looked around. ‘Have you the use of an adjoining room? My needs are modest. Presumably, my clothes and the rest will be sent up from the camp, eventually. I assume the food is better here, to make up for the duller company.’

  Renarr held her smile. ‘First, you will need to cultivate your contempt, Sheltatha Lore. If your words would cut, sharpen your guile,
and above all be selective in choosing your target. I am not one you can wound.’

  Sheltatha shrugged off her cloak, leaving it to fall to the floor. ‘The soldiers talked about you,’ she said. ‘You are missed, or, rather, were. A soldier killing himself in your tent has somewhat stained your reputation.’

  ‘I have high expectations,’ Renarr replied, still seated, still studying the daughter of Tathe Lorat.

  Sheltatha’s brows lifted, and then she laughed. ‘This – I know what this is, you know.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. This is an attack upon my mother. They tell me it’s for my own good, but they never really understood any of it. When she realizes she can no longer abuse me, she will find comfort in my absence. You see, I was better at it than her.’

  ‘Better at what?’

  ‘I learned the sensual arts at a very young age. I have not begun to sag, or waste with drink or smoke. My youth was her enemy and she well knew it. She made her own habits her instruments of abuse, and having given them to me, she desired to watch them deliver to me their ruin.’

  ‘You are perceptive. Do you deem this wisdom? It is not.’

  Smiling, Sheltatha Lore raised her hands, and from both white fire suddenly flared into life. ‘The flame purges, as required. My flesh knows no taint. My habits deliver no stain. Well, not for long, anyway.’

  ‘Clever,’ Renarr said. ‘So, you are now separated from your mother. Tell me, what do you seek for yourself?’

  Sheltatha lowered her hands, and the fires dwindled and then vanished. Her eyes scanned the chamber. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I am surrounded by ambition. It makes every visage ugly to behold.’

  ‘Ah. Then what of my visage?’

  Sheltatha glanced over at Renarr, and after a moment she frowned. ‘No, you remain pretty enough.’

  ‘And is that something to admire, even aspire to? Shall I teach you the art of my own immunity? You see, I have no need to purge anything from me.’

  ‘I doubt the fires would find you in any case.’

  ‘I agree. I therefore elect more mundane means, which might serve you should the sorcery one day fail.’

  ‘Fail? Why should it fail?’

  ‘Everything,’ Renarr said, ‘comes with a cost. A debt is already begun, although you do not yet know it, or feel its weight upon you. Be assured, it exists.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘You see ugliness in the faces of the ambitious. That is their debt, writ plain enough to your eyes. When I look upon you, here, now, I too see what the magic demands of you.’

  Sheltatha cocked her head. ‘What, then? What do you see?’

  ‘The wasteland in your eyes.’

  After a moment, Sheltatha blinked, and then turned away. ‘Which room will be mine, then?’

  ‘Do you invite my instruction?’

  ‘Do you name yourself wise?’

  ‘No. Just more experienced.’

  Sheltatha sighed. ‘I had a tutor already. He touched me for pleasure – oh, nothing crass or bold. The very opposite, in fact. A hand upon mine, briefly. A brush of a shoulder, or a tap upon my knee. It was charming in its pathos, to be honest. He too wanted to steal me away from my mother and her ways. But his lessons were worthless. Why should yours be any better?’

  ‘What did he try to teach you?’

  ‘I have no idea. Perhaps he was working up to it. Oh, and he had me massage the leg he lost. The ghost, he calls it. But I could see it plain enough. Remnant energy would best describe the emanation. The body sees itself as whole, no matter the reality of its state. That’s curious, is it not?’

  ‘Do you see this energy upon hale limbs and bodies, Sheltatha?’

  ‘Yes. It shows strong among some, weak in others. It comes in many hues. Yours, at this moment, is the colour of a clear sky, close to dawn. Blue, with something hinting at slate beneath it. Dawn, or on the edge of dusk. This tells me, Renarr, that you hide a secret.’

  ‘We can then make this your study, to begin with,’ said Renarr.

  ‘How so, when you reveal no such talent?’

  ‘Never mind the sorcery itself. Indulge in your own explorations with that. Rather, work with me upon the proper reading of those emanations. Let’s discover what you can glean from those you meet, or are able to see.’

  ‘High Priestess Syntara was proof against my abilities.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. What of Infayen?’

  ‘She can kill without feeling. But that numbness makes her dull and insensitive. She cannot grasp subtlety and so fears it. When sensing its proximity, her energy darkens with suspicion, hate, and the desire to destroy all that she cannot understand.’

  Grunting, Renarr stood. ‘Good. Useful. So long as no one else knows about your hidden talents.’

  ‘None but you.’

  ‘Then why reveal yourself to me? We hardly know each other.’

  ‘Your energy did not change in my presence,’ Sheltatha replied. ‘That means you want nothing from me, and mean me no harm. You’re just curious. And,’ she added, ‘my magic didn’t change anything in you. No fear, no wonder, no envy. The secret you hold, Renarr, has nothing to do with me, but it’s the strongest thing I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘Come, then, and I will show you your room.’

  Nodding, Sheltatha followed Renarr.

  ‘The strongest thing I’ve ever seen.’ Beneath it, the colour of slate.

  The High Priestess had been too quick in her dismissal of this girl, and that was fortunate, as far as Renarr was concerned. Secrets are what they are. Is it fear that makes one keep them? Not always. No, for me, there is no fear. For me, there is only patience.

  The sky at dusk. Waiting for the night to come.

  TWELVE

  ‘YOU FEAR DESIRE,’ SAID LASA ROOK, HER EYES LURID IN THE fire’s light. ‘Hanako of the Scars, I fold back my furs for you, that we may partake in senseless rutting, followed by tender cuddles. Which one pays for the other, I wonder? No matter, choose one as the oyster and the other as the shell, and should I paint in gold its opposite, well, such are the risks of love.’

  Hanako pulled his gaze from hers with an effort and glared into the flames. ‘Is this your flimsy veil of grief, Lasa Rook, so quickly flung away at the first heat?’

  ‘My husbands are no more! What am I to do?’ She swept her hair back with both hands, a gesture that thrust out her chest and, as Hanako mused on the curse of anatomy, the breasts upon it. ‘A vast emptiness has devoured my soul, dear boy, and it is in need of filling.’

  ‘More husbands?’

  ‘No! I am done with that! Do you not see me running light as a butterfly through the meadows of my liberated mind? Look well into my eyes, Hanako, slayer of the Lord of Temper. In these pools awaits all manner of lascivious curiosity, forward and back, sideways and upside down. You need only find the courage to look.’

  But that he would not do. Instead, he twisted slightly upon the fallen tree trunk where he sat, and frowned at the wrapped form of Erelan Kreed. The warrior was muttering in his sleep, an endless litany of strange names, punctuated by vile hissing and bone-chilling curses. The madness had not abated, and it had been three days now. Even the mosquitoes and biting flies avoided him.

  The valley and the dread lake where Kreed had slain the dragon was far behind them, and yet it seemed that the world was reluctant to yield the pattern, as they now sat beside yet another lake, at the base of yet another thickly forested valley. For two days Hanako had carried the warrior, his armour and his weapons, and on both nights, with dusk’s sudden arrival, he had sunk down to the ground on trembling legs, too weary to even eat.

  Lasa Rook had taken to cooking their meals, although Hanako was the one to force food into the mouth of Erelan Kreed, fighting the warrior’s delirium and wild, batting hands, his fierce eyes and teeth bared like fangs.

  In consideration of that, Hanako wondered, tenuously, if Erelan was perhaps saner than
he appeared. Lasa Rook cooks food to make even the dead fast. I must warn this Jaghut lord. Lead her to no kitchen beneath the rock-piles, lest you unleash the undead in frenzy and madness, spill them fleeing into the mortal realms!

  ‘Oh, bless me, Hanako,’ Lasa sighed, ‘do reach out a pawing hand at the very least? Here, I yield you these lobes, my oft-plucked fruit, so well handled and tender, whose very nipples cry out with the memory of tweaks and twists. They have the taste of honey, I’m told, and the scent of flowers.’

  ‘I’ve seen you dab them every morning,’ Hanako said.

  ‘A secret revealed! And yet you still speak of marriage? Hanako, this journey of ours is almost as bad, with all the shattered privacy of making toilet and other things. Imagine this intimacy, young sir, with no end in sight! Shall I pluck importunate hairs from alarming locales upon your person, while you squeeze blackheads upon mine? Shall we take turns wiping the drool from our chins with every dawn, for years on end? Tell me, what other details of marriage can I offer you, to disavow all your notions of romantic bliss?’

  ‘Please, Lasa. My thoughts are for Erelan Kreed. He does not improve. There was madness in that dragon’s blood.’

  ‘It’s said that there are celibate monks among the south-dwellers. Pray rush to their cold company, Hanako.’

  ‘Lasa Rook, I beg you, we must discuss what to do with our friend here!’

  ‘We bring him down to the Jaghut, of course. And whatever Azathanai might be lounging about. They can examine our blathering warrior here, and decide if he is fit to live or die. This matter, you must see, Hanako, lies beyond us. Now, where was I? Ah, these protrudinous fruit, so swollen and inviting—’

  With a low growl, Hanako rose to his feet. He stepped away from the fire, moving past Lasa, and made his way down to the pebbled shoreline.

  The stars were strewn upon the still surface of the lake. Cool air rose from the water, lifting to Hanako the faintly pungent smell of decay where detritus made a cluttered rim of the shoreline. He walked along that verge, his steps slow. Rock and water … the world had a way of making borderlands the repository of the discarded, as if in the collision of smaller worlds things did not merge, only break.