Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Of Prazek and Dathenar, Silchas had your blessing, milord?’

  ‘My brother’s mind is his own. In my absence, he is free to judge on matters of necessity.’

  ‘And Andarist? Milord, did you know he had found us?’

  ‘Not as such, Gripp, but then, who took him into her arms in his bleakest moment? Hish Tulla … ah, Gripp Galas, what have you done in leaving her side?’

  ‘You are needed, milord. Unless we would see uncontested Urusander’s occupation of Kharkanas.’

  ‘The blade is denied me, Gripp, by Mother Dark herself.’

  ‘Milord? Then you will surrender?’

  Anomander’s steps slowed, and he tilted his head back, studying the span of stars in the sky above. ‘Captain Ivis begs me to assume command of his Houseblades. His own lord is less than a ghost, yet one whose shadow seems to haunt every one of us. Urusander’s triumph will see Draconus deposed, perhaps even outlawed. At the very least, a self-imposed banishment.’

  ‘You seek to deliver Ivis to his master, milord? Unto seeing Dracons Keep utterly abandoned?’

  ‘Draconus is a friend,’ Anomander replied.

  ‘My wife fears his allegiance.’

  ‘She fears the treachery of her highborn kin.’

  ‘Just so, milord.’

  ‘Tell me, Gripp Galas, do you think, should I request it of him, Lord Draconus would hold his forces in reserve?’

  Gripp Galas looked away, south down the road. There was frost in the air itself, glittering like the falling dust of shattered stars. On this night, cold as it now was, he could well imagine the sky cracking with all the sound of thunder, until the darkness descended, a storm to take the world. ‘I’d not jar that man’s pride.’

  Anomander was silent, still studying the stars.

  Gripp Galas cleared his throat. ‘Milord, how is it you know of Kharkanas? Unless you but recently returned there—’

  ‘The High Mason knows the trembles of the frozen earth beneath our feet. More to the point, he is close to Grizzin Farl. These Azathanai walk their own roads of sorcery, it seems. In any case, each question I think to ask is in turn answered.’

  ‘Yet … not the one concerning Andarist?’

  Anomander seemed to grimace. ‘A question I chose not to ask.’

  But … why?

  ‘Gripp Galas, your refutation of my gift to you breaks my heart. But even in this, how can I not see my own wounded pride? The faces of both friend and enemy, it seems, offer us a mirror to our own, each in its time, each in its place. Should we not acknowledge these similarities of accord, and so find humility against our righteousness? How many wars must we fight before we ever draw a blade? The answer, I now think, is beyond count.’

  ‘Mother Dark would not see her lover torn from her arms, milord.’

  ‘No, I would think not, Gripp Galas.’

  ‘Then, shall we stand in Urusander’s way?’

  ‘Gripp Galas, where is your wife?’

  ‘At her western keep, milord, where she gathers the highborn. She vows they will stand with you. And with the Hust Legion—’

  ‘Hold little faith in the Hust,’ Anomander said. ‘Convicts have no reason for loyalty. Were I among them, I would frame a curse for the moment of our need, and for every howl of my sword I would show defiance, until the iron itself shatters. No, old friend, if they are to have an instant, united in their congress, it shall burn with such refusal as to sear our souls.’

  ‘Then, milord, we face a grave battle.’

  They stood, unspeaking. Overhead, the stars cast down their unblinking regard.

  ‘Dracons Keep is a burned ruin,’ Anomander said. ‘Destroyed by magic, at my invitation. Gripp, has this newfound sorcery touched you?’

  ‘No, milord, and I am thankful for that.’

  ‘I fear I must one day search it out and claim it for myself. Yet another shield, another skin of armour.’

  ‘But not yet.’

  Anomander shrugged. ‘Neither propensity nor proclivity finds me, alas.’

  ‘One would think, milord, as a benison befitting the First Son of Darkness, some sorcerous power would be incumbent.’

  ‘When the title proves less a gift than a curse, I am well relieved that nothing attends it.’

  ‘How will we face it? On the field of battle, when Hunn Raal unleashes his magical arts?’

  Anomander glanced across at him. ‘An Azathanai accompanies me. In singular purpose, bound by vow, he has yet to reward me or my patience.’

  A suspicion whispered through Gripp Galas then, and he frowned. ‘What befell Dracons Keep?’

  Anomander drew breath as if to make retort, only to instead return his gaze to the stars, and release a long, weary sigh. ‘Then I will see my first invitation to him as yet another weight of burden upon the High Mason, and his efforts that followed. That said, he did indeed warn me: his magic is anything but subtle, when unleashed in fullest fury.’

  ‘For that reason alone, milord, I am glad to know nothing of the taint.’

  ‘Forbearance mitigates the Azathanai, and with good reason, as you say. But then, by my cajoling, I saw his power awakened.’ He paused, and then continued, ‘If such a thing is within Hunn Raal’s reach, then I fear that in the meeting of our two armies we shall fall like wheat before the scythe.’

  ‘Yet the Azathanai chooses to stand at your side, milord. Bound by vow, you said.’

  ‘He offers me an end to this civil war.’

  ‘By wise words, milord, or wilful destruction?’

  ‘It is my thought that he is undecided.’

  The chill of the night had reached Gripp’s bones now. Shivering, he drew his cloak tighter about his shoulders. ‘You keep him within sword’s reach, then.’

  ‘Gripp Galas, you shall not attend this battle.’

  ‘Milord—’

  ‘Must I command you again?’

  ‘My wife will be there, commanding her Houseblades.’

  ‘Convince her otherwise.’

  At a loss for words, Gripp said nothing.

  ‘Her uncle is a fine commander,’ Anomander said. ‘Take her away, Gripp. Take both of you away.’

  ‘She would never forgive you,’ Gripp whispered. Nor would I. After a moment, while Anomander remained silent, Gripp cursed himself for a fool. Of course he knows that. And accepts the bargain, to see us live.

  Neither speaking, both men turned about, to retrace their way back to the camp.

  * * *

  Pelk watched the Azathanai move away, presumably heading for his bedrolls. She glanced at Ivis a moment, before crouching to hold her hands closer to the fire.

  ‘You chose not to return to the Legion,’ Ivis observed after a moment.

  ‘So it seems,’ she replied.

  ‘Spared yourself this pogrom against the Deniers.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘The Deniers have begun to fight back.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Pelk.’

  ‘It’s done with, Ivis. It was a fine season, with misery on all sides, while our private island gave us refuge. Any storm can sweep the sand away. As it did to our blessed idyll. I have no regrets.’

  He slowly settled on to a felled tree trunk that had been dragged close to the hearth, positioning himself upon her left. ‘I do,’ he said in a low voice. ‘That I ever turned away. That I was foolish enough to think it meant little. A time away from the fighting and the madness. Those damned Forulkan blathering on about justice, even as they bled out on the ground. When I left you, I left something of me behind.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘When I went back to find it …’ He shook his head. ‘A loss that can never be recovered, never redressed.’

  Pelk studied him, and then said, ‘Broken heart, Ivis. Heal it might, but the scar remains, and what you miss most is how it was before it broke, when that heart was whole. So, yes, you can’t get that back.’

  ‘Then you went and almost died.’

  ‘I got careless. Wounded peo
ple do.’

  Ivis put his hands up to his face.

  She thought to reach out to him, a touch, offering him the gentle weight of her hand on his shoulder. Instead, she edged both hands closer to the flickering flames and the harsh heat. ‘Best forget all of that,’ she said. ‘It was a long time ago. You weren’t the only fool, you know.’

  He looked up with reddened eyes. ‘And now?’

  ‘I’ve found another.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Kellaras.’

  ‘Yes … a good man. Honourable.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No. No one. Well … no. I always look higher than my station. It’s my own private dance with inevitable disappointment. Someone beyond reach remains forever pure, unsullied. There is that, at least.’

  She levelled her gaze on him. ‘You stupid fucking fool, Ivis.’

  He pulled back as if she’d struck him across the face.

  Pelk went on, ‘I ended up in the service of Lady Hish Tulla. I saw her reach down to Gripp Galas, if you must think of it that way. Bloodlines and rank and station and whatnot. All rubbish. If you find someone who fills your heart, fills in all the cracks and stops all the leaking, to the Abyss with station, Ivis. But you see, I understand you all too well. It’s your excuse for doing nothing.’

  ‘I can’t. She’s a hostage in my care!’

  ‘For how much longer? Or, if you can’t wait, then resign your commission with House Dracons.’

  He studied her with bleak eyes.

  Shrugging, she rummaged in her pack and drew out a flask. ‘In the meantime, old lover, let’s drink against the night and remember other nights from long ago, when we had nothing and everything, when we knew it all but didn’t know a fucking thing. Let’s drink, Ivis, to the sunken islands of our youth.’

  He grimaced, and then reached for the flask. His mouth twisted in a mocking grin. ‘I see, looming before us, the shoals of past regrets.’

  ‘Not me. I regret nothing. Not even not dying.’

  ‘I hurt you that bad?’

  ‘As bad as I did you, I wager, though I’m only seeing that now.’

  ‘You thought me indifferent?’

  ‘I thought you a man.’

  ‘I – oh, Abyss take me, Pelk.’

  ‘Drink up.’

  He raised the flask. ‘To fools,’ he said.

  She watched him drink, and then took the flask back and lifted it. ‘To every fool who felt like dying, but didn’t.’

  At that, she saw his smile transformed, revealing the love still alive in it, and for the first time in decades, she felt at peace. Just as I always said, the heart’s never in the place you think it is. But for all that, it’s good at waiting, when waiting is all there is.

  * * *

  ‘I have been pondering,’ said Surgeon Prok, ‘on the nature of sustenance as it relates to the newborn.’

  Wreneck squinted across at the man, his face of sharp angles lit by the firelight, the gauntness of his drawn cheeks, and thought of carvings he had seen in the woods, upon the boles of trees. It was a habit among the Deniers to make faces in trees, often upon the verges of forests, close to the cleared land and planted fields. His mother had told him it was to frighten away strangers, and to warn them against cutting down any more trees. But Wreneck had never been frightened by those visages. And he didn’t think they were warnings. He saw in them nothing but pain.

  ‘Any midwife would speak plain enough,’ Prok continued, his attention seemingly fixed upon Sorca while he avoided the eyes of Lady Sandalath, who held her swaddled babe but otherwise paid the child no attention, her eyes fixed instead upon the flames in the firepit. ‘Mother’s milk above all else, of course. And coddling, and caressing. A child left unhandled withers in the spirit and often dies. Or, later in life, falls into a habit of needs beyond relief, as of a thirst impossible to quench.’

  ‘I hold her,’ Wreneck said. ‘And stroke her hair.’

  Prok nodded. ‘But it is the mother’s touch, young Wreneck, that gives the greatest sustenance.’ He hesitated, and then reached for some wood to add to the fire. Sparks lifted into the night. ‘Lacking these natural things, what other sustenance is possible for a newborn? One would answer: none. This and only this.’

  ‘Take her into your arms, Prok!’ snapped Sandalath. ‘Then you will find no starveling feeble in its cries!’

  ‘No need, milady. A healer’s eyes make the first examination, even before a hand reaches out. Thus, we must broach the mystery. There are unnatural forces here—’

  Sorca snorted. ‘Now there’s a stunning diagnosis.’

  Grimacing, Prok continued. ‘Not just in the conception – we must assume, lacking as we are in any details – but also in the child herself.’

  ‘She has but one purpose,’ Sandalath said. ‘To protect her brother. She cannot do this yet. She knows this. She hastens herself.’

  ‘I doubt there is a will behind—’

  ‘But there is, Prok. Mine!’

  ‘You feed her something unseen, then, milady?’

  Sandalath’s face was glowing in the reflected flames as she studied the fire, and at Prok’s strange question a curious smile drifted to her lips. ‘Mother would have understood. We make them what we need them to be.’

  ‘You speak of words delivered in years to come, milady.’

  ‘I speak of my will, sir. I speak of need as power, which clearly you do not comprehend.’

  ‘Need … as power.’ Prok frowned into the flames. ‘Indeed, your words confound me. The very notion of need hints at weakness, milady. Where in it do you find power?’

  ‘Mother took him away from me. She sent him to Kharkanas. That was wrong. It was wrong, too, to send me to House Dracons, to make me a hostage again.’

  ‘Then I’d question the worth of her advice on matters of parenting.’

  ‘I will find Orfantal. I will make it the way I want it to be. No one can stop me. Not even Korlat.’

  The conversation left Wreneck troubled, but he could find no reason for what he was feeling. Something burned fierce in Lady Sandalath, but he wasn’t sure it was love, or tenderness. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing at all.

  ‘The child is growing too fast,’ said Prok. ‘In unnatural manner. Sorcery feeds Korlat, a most alarming conclusion. Is she but the first such progeny?’

  ‘A demon gave her the child,’ said Sorca. ‘You posit an unlikely trend.’

  ‘Milady,’ Prok persisted, addressing Sandalath, ‘life itself is a burden. Your daughter has her own needs. The brother you would have her protect will not see it as you do. Indeed, he will likely cast a protective eye upon Korlat.’

  ‘He will not. He is the one who matters. The one I chose.’

  ‘Was Korlat given leave to choose you, milady? Or the manner of her conception? The seed of her father? How many burdens must she be made to bear?’

  ‘Only one. She will be my son’s guardian.’

  Wreneck thought of the time in the carriage, when he held the baby and looked down into that perfect face with its shining eyes. He saw no burdens there. No, they’re what the rest of us bring, if we’re to people her world. My mother’s fear of the forest, her fear of being alone, her fear of me dying somewhere with her never knowing. Even her fear of Jinia, and me marrying her and us moving away. We bring those things. Those fears.

  And like Sandalath said, those fears are needs, and together they have power.

  But I turned away. I did what I had to do. I took on a different burden. The one about disappointing people. Needs can pull, or they can push.

  I’ll find Orfantal. I’ll explain things. I’ll make him promise to turn away from his mother. Away from her, and straight to Korlat. Be a brother, I’ll say. The older brother. Take her hand, and don’t let your mother ever pull you two apart.

  I’ll do all that. In the Citadel. And then I’ll go and look for the bad soldiers. I’ll kill them, and then I’ll go home, to Jinia. I’ll take away Mother’s burden
s – not all of them, just the ones I can do something about.

  ‘You all seem to forget,’ Sandalath said. ‘That demon. He chose me. Not you, Sorca, or any other woman. Me.’

  So low were Prok’s words that Wreneck alone heard them: ‘Abyss take me …’

  * * *

  Sukul Ankhadu found Rancept in an antechamber near the servants’ corridor. He had laid out his scale shirt, his greaves and vambraces and his helm, which still bore its bent nose-guard. The weapons were set in a row on the floor: a mace, a shortsword, and a dagger that was more a spike than anything else. A round shield of a style not used in a generation, a buckler, and a hatchet completed his array of equipment.

  His breathing was loud and wet as he crouched, inspecting buckles and straps.

  Leaning against one wall, Sukul studied the man. ‘You’re abandoning me,’ she said. ‘Who will be left? Only Skild because of his game leg, and the maids.’

  ‘Skild will continue your schooling,’ Rancept replied.

  ‘And what schooling did you have?’

  ‘Scant.’

  ‘Precisely. I learn more sniffling underfoot at the meetings than I have from years of Skild’s lessons.’

  He was silent for a time, examining the leather wrap of the mace’s handle. And then he said, ‘It takes a superior mind to achieve cynicism, and I don’t mean superior in a good way.’

  ‘Then how do you mean it?’

  ‘Convinced of its own genius, levitating upon the hot air of its own convictions, many of which are delusional.’

  Grunting, Sukul sipped from the goblet she now carried with her everywhere. ‘The counter to all that, castellan, invariably cites a sense of realism in defence of a cynical outlook.’

  ‘Cynicism is the voice of ill-concealed despair, milady. The reality the cynic hides behind is one of his or her own making. Convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I liked you better when all you did was mumble.’

  ‘And I you when the glow of your cheeks was youth’s blessing.’

  ‘Back to that again, is it? Tell me, did that woman, Sekarrow, ever play that musical instrument – what was it called? That iltre?’

  ‘Thankfully, no.’ He slowly, awkwardly straightened, reaching for the small of his back.