Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  ‘Ashes and ruin,’ Gothos replied, with a satisfied smile.

  * * *

  ‘I advise against this,’ Korya said, studying the Azath House with its freshly mangled, sapling-crowded yard. ‘The guardian is a ghost, and a miserable one at that. Truly, Ifayle, nothing of wisdom will come from that thing.’

  ‘And yet,’ said the Dog-Runner, ‘he was once of my kind.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, as I told you.’

  ‘Then I would speak with him.’

  ‘The house may not let us in. It’s stronger now … more potent. Can you not feel it?’

  He glanced at her with his startling blue eyes. ‘I am not a Bonecaster. My sensitivities lie elsewhere.’ His attention sharpened on her. ‘Mahybe. Vessel. Yes, I see that you share something with this house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A similarity of purpose, perhaps.’ Abruptly he turned about to stare northward with narrowed intent. ‘My grieving kin are on the move.’

  ‘How – how do you know that?’

  Shrugging, he said, ‘It is near time, isn’t it?’

  Korya hesitated, unable to meet his gaze when at last he faced her again.

  ‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘you wanted to get me away.’

  ‘Where they’re going is not for you,’ she said. ‘Now, will you speak with Cadig Aval or not? We’ve come all this way, after all.’

  When she walked through the yard’s gate and on to the winding pathway, Ifayle followed.

  ‘You have a devious mind, Korya Delath. But you misapprehended. I am but an escort, a keeper of sorts. My mother forbade me to enter the realm of death.’

  ‘When did she do that?’

  ‘Not long ago. Her pronouncement upset me, but I understand. Grief cannot be borrowed. And yet, with her soon gone from me, it seems that I will come to know my own grief. It is, I think, like a flower passed from one to the next, generation upon generation. A solemn hue, a poignant scent that stings the eyes.’

  They stood before the door. Korya nodded and said, ‘It seemed too easy, persuading you to come with me.’

  ‘Mother knew you for a sly one,’ Ifayle said, with a sad smile. ‘We have made our parting. I do not expect to see her again.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she suddenly offered, her breath catching as the notion took hold in her mind. ‘Come with us, me and Arathan, to Kurald Galain!’

  He frowned. ‘And what awaits me there?’

  ‘No idea. Does it matter?’

  ‘My people—’

  ‘Will still be there, whenever you decide it’s time to go home.’ If you decide to go home at all, that is, she silently added. After all, with you along, fair Ifayle, I can take my time deciding.

  ‘I have seen this Arathan,’ Ifayle said musingly, ‘but we have not spoken. Indeed, it seems he deliberately avoids me.’

  ‘Haut says he is to be my protector,’ Korya said, ‘but to be honest, it’s probably the other way round. He’s led a sheltered life, has seen and experienced little. I see little future for Arathan, to be honest. It may be that our family will have to take him in.’ She sighed. ‘Your company on the journey, Ifayle, would be most welcome. Indeed, a relief.’

  ‘I will consider it,’ he said after a moment.

  Heart thudding, Korya quickly nodded, and then reached for the door’s handle.

  It opened to her.

  ‘He knows we’re here,’ she whispered.

  ‘Good,’ Ifayle replied, stepping past her and entering the Azath House.

  She followed.

  As before, the narrow alcove was dimly lit by some unknown source of light, the air cool and dry. The stone wall opposite glistened with something like frost, and an instant later the apparition of the long-dead Bonecaster stepped out from the roughly cut wall.

  Before it, Ifayle bowed. ‘Ancient one, I am Ifayle, of the—’

  The voice that cut him off was dry and weary. ‘Some tribe, yes, from some plain, or forest, or crag, or perhaps a shoreline, a cave set high above the crashing waves. Where one year blends seamlessly into the next, the sun rising each morning like a new breath, settling each night like a hint of death.’ The ghost of Cadig Aval waved an ethereal hand. ‘From this, to that. Will it ever end? The food is plentiful, the hunt dangerous but fruitful and, of course, exciting. Strangers pass in the distance, revealing new ways of living, but what matter any of that? Still, the winters grow colder, the winds from the north harsher. There are times of hunger, when the animals do not come, or the sea retreats and the bounteous tidal pools disappear. And those strangers, well, more and more of them appear. It seems they breed like maggots. In the meantime, distant kin fall silent, and you sense their absence. Many have left the mortal earth, never to return. A few others now walk among the strangers, who shock the world with mercy. Blood thins. They lose the ways of the earth and the threads of the Sleeping Goddess. They lose the power to see the magic in the hearth-fires. Everything dwindles. You rise one morning and look at your cave, your precious home, and see only its poverty, its exhaustion, and the pale, dirty faces of the few children left to you shatter your heart, because the end is nigh. And then—’

  ‘Oh for crying out loud!’ Korya snapped. ‘Why don’t you just give him the knife to slash open his own throat!’

  Cadig Aval fell silent.

  Turning to Ifayle, Korya said, ‘I tried to warn you. He has nothing of worth to say to the living.’

  ‘Not true,’ the guardian said. ‘To my mortal kin here, I will speak words of dread import. Ifayle, son of whomever, from this tribe or that, dweller of cave or forest or plain, the fate I described will never come to you. The Dog-Runners shall not vanish from the world. When the tyrants come among you, the Strangers in Hiding, look to the dreaming of the Sleeping Goddess. Within, a secret hides.’

  When he paused, Ifayle tilted his head. ‘Ancient one?’

  Korya crossed her arms. ‘He’s just making the most of the moment,’ she said. ‘After all, he’ll have scant few of these.’

  Cadig Aval said, ‘Sadly, the truth of your words, Tiste maiden, is like a knife-thrust into my soul. Then again, I already weary of discourse, and long for the interminable silence of my unending solitude. Thus, the secret. Ifayle, at the core of a dream there is something that cannot be broken. Indeed, it is deathless. Reach into this core, Dog-Runner, to seek the makings of a ritual. Call as well upon Olar Ethil, seeking the spark of Telas – the Eternal Flame – to enliven what remains of you.’ This time, the ghost’s pause was much briefer. ‘But be warned. The deathless gift of the Sleeping Goddess’s dream will end your own dreams. The future loses all relevance and so is made powerless. In escaping death, you must all die, sustained by naught but the spark of Telas.’

  Something trembled through Korya and she shivered. ‘Ifayle,’ she said in a low whisper, ‘none of that sounds good.’

  ‘No,’ Cadig Aval said to her, ‘you are correct, Tiste. A terrible fate awaits Ifayle and his people.’

  ‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe in prophecy.’

  ‘You are wise,’ the guardian replied. ‘Blame Hood. Time has ceased. Past, present and future are, here and in this frozen instant, all one. Those of us of sufficient power can make use of this, reaching far with our vision. Oh, and it helps being dead, too.’

  Ifayle bowed before the guardian. ‘I will remember your words, ancient one.’

  ‘Stop that. I’m not that ancient, you know. Not really. Not in the vast scheme of things. As old as a world? The lifeline of a star? Understand: we exist for the sole purpose of being witness to existence. This and this alone is our collective contribution to all that has been created. We serve to bring existence into being. Without eyes to see, nothing exists.’

  ‘Then indeed we have purpose,’ said Ifayle.

  Cadig Aval shrugged. ‘Assuming all that exists has purpose, an assumption of which I remain unconvinced.’

  ‘What do you need to be convinced?’ Korya demanded.

 
‘Persuasion.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘Yes, that is the frustrating part, isn’t it?’

  With a faint snarl, Korya took Ifayle by the hand, pulling him back towards the door. ‘We’re leaving now.’

  ‘Well,’ said Cadig Aval behind them, ‘it was fun while it lasted. Perhaps,’ the ghost added, ‘that is all the purpose required.’

  Outside, on the pathway once more, Ifayle asked, ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘To collect Arathan, of course,’ she answered, pulling him along. ‘We need to get away from here – away from this gate of death. Can’t you feel this stopping of time reaching for us? It crawls under my skin, trying to burrow deeper. We stay too long, Ifayle, it will indeed kill us.’

  ‘And where shall we find Arathan?’

  ‘With Gothos, I expect.’

  ‘I think,’ Ifayle said after a time, ‘we need a better reason to exist.’

  She considered his words, seeking an argument against his assertion, but could not find one.

  * * *

  Fourteen Jaghut gathered round Hood, Haut among them, waiting. At last and with a sigh, Hood withdrew his hands from the pale flames – none of which flickered, the thin tongues motionless, suspended above the embers – and looked up. After a moment he nodded. ‘It begins.’

  ‘Well that sounds portentous,’ Varandas offered as he adjusted his loincloth. ‘As if summoned by solemn gravity, his vanguard now surrounds their fearless and fearful leader. Hood, grief-shrouded, eye-hollowed, revenant of sorrow. Does he now rise to his feet as his mournful army draws close on all sides? Breaths are held with expectation—’

  ‘No,’ cut in Burrugast. ‘Just held. Your words, Varandas, are more gravid than grave. In any case, it is poor form to speak of graves—’

  ‘But of graven visages,’ interjected Gathras, ‘why, we are legion. Does the dirge now commence, O shrouded hollow Hood? We are the eye of the frozen world, and lo, it does not blink. Let us remember this moment—’

  ‘I see no likelihood of forgetting,’ Haut interrupted.

  Gathras cast a cool look upon him and then nodded. ‘As you say, captain. What does it mean, however, that you hold rank in an army that never was?’

  ‘Potential is to be valued in all things,’ Burrugast pointed out.

  ‘To my sorrow,’ added Senad. ‘Of lovers I have had plenty. ’Twas Haut’s domination of all suitors that earned him his rank. For behold, the army was mine, and while all were fine troopers, only the captain was – and remains – the captain.’

  Grunting sourly, Gathras said, ‘I’d wondered and now you give answer. The wonder drains away like piss on a pile of stones and yet one more bright colour fades with the knowing. Someone point the way into oblivion. I lean upon the threshold, as eager as any despairing woman or man.’

  ‘Despairing of eagerness in anything,’ said Burrugast, ‘I will follow, with dragging steps.’

  Haut glanced over a shoulder. ‘Let death earn the dragged steps, Burrugast. Look, a last tangle of despondent travellers. Toblakai, Thel Akai, Thelomen? They all look the same to me, to be honest.’

  ‘Subtle observation was ever your failing, Haut,’ said Senad. ‘Were it otherwise, you would have achieved much higher rank.’

  ‘Would that be warlord, Senad, or lovelord?’

  ‘Varandas, flailing you began this conversation and flailing you end it.’

  Hood rose in time to greet Gethol, who now pushed into view between Senad and Burrugast.

  ‘I have come to say goodbye, Hood,’ Gethol announced. He paused, and then said, ‘An army such as this I have never seen, and hope never to again. Why would you imagine that these “soldiers” would fight against what they all seek in the first place? Death will impose peace and embrace all who come into its arms.’

  ‘Perhaps Gethol has something there,’ Gathras observed. ‘After all, five centuries staring into death’s leering face might well have earned an inkling or two.’

  ‘Denied all else, inklings were his only sustenance,’ Haut pointed out, frowning at Gethol who still stood facing Hood. ‘Dare I say it under the circumstances, but time is wasting.’

  Varandas was the first to laugh. In moments the others followed. Alas, only the Jaghut found their humour alive and well. Above it all, Burrugast raised his voice. ‘Remember your promise, Hood! You will lead us to the very face of the hoary spectre, the Lord of Rock-Piles, the Red Shroud, Gatherer of Skulls, and whatever other absurd title we devise!’ He raised his arms, spread them wide. ‘And we shall demand then … an answer!’

  A Thel Akai woman, blonde-haired, who had been among the last of the stragglers, now shouted, ‘An answer to what, you tusked oaf?’

  Arms still raised, Burrugast spun round to face her. ‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘Well, we have plenty of time to come up with one or two questions, don’t we?’

  The Thel Akai woman now turned on the rest of her party. ‘Do you hear this? Not for Lasa Rook a host of pathetic entreaties! Now, dear husbands, can we finally go home?’

  As if in reply, the youngest of the Thel Akai warriors stepped away from his fellows. ‘Heed your wife,’ he said to the others.

  One of the husbands snarled. ‘We’ve been heeding her all the way here, Hanako Cuckolder! Now it is up to her to follow us or not! Into death’s realm I say! Husbands, are you with me?’

  The other two Thel Akai both nodded, though fear was writ plain on their faces.

  ‘Tathenal, are you mad?’ Lasa Rook was near tears, her face reddening. ‘It was just a game!’

  ‘But this isn’t!’ Tathenal retorted.

  Haut saw Hood say something to Gethol, who nodded and walked away, out from the press surrounding Hood and his frozen fire.

  And in that moment, he knew the time had indeed arrived. Eyes filling with tears, he looked to Hood. Goodbye, Korya Delathe. Until we meet again, as indeed we shall. Let this moment end. But no ending will find—

  * * *

  ‘Arathan!’

  Drawing his cloak tighter against the chill outside Gothos’s tower, he turned to see Korya approaching with a Dog-Runner youth half a step behind her.

  The night seemed impossibly dark, but a wind had risen, sweeping in from the sea to the west. The acrid bite of salt flats rode each gust. ‘Ah,’ said Arathan, ‘this must be the one with the blue eyes and freckles on his arms.’

  Scowling, Korya said, ‘He is named Ifayle.’

  The Dog-Runner bowed, and then smiled. ‘Arathan, son of Draconus, I have heard much of you.’

  ‘He’s coming with us,’ Korya pronounced.

  ‘Yet another protector,’ Arathan replied, ‘making my presence even more irrelevant.’ He turned from them both. ‘I am going with Hood. Not even Gothos can stop me.’

  ‘Arathan—’

  Waving dismissively behind him, he set out for the camp, the wind slapping at his back, and now he tasted salty rain on its swirling breath. Looking for the moon, he found it gone from the sky, and only a thin swath of stars was visible, above the east horizon, as clouds massed above him.

  A miserable dawn was in the offing, though the paling of the east was still a bell or so away.

  Emerging from the ragged edge of the abandoned city, he looked out upon the vast camp, its huddled hide tents and makeshift shelters, its scattering of cookfires dying now in the depths of the night. For once, it seemed the turning weather had driven everyone into their hovels, for he saw no one.

  He continued on, seeking the singular, isolated pale star that was Hood’s strange fire. There would be Jaghut gathered round that, no matter how foul the weather. And yet, as he drew nearer, he saw no one but a lone standing figure, his back to Arathan.

  Hood?

  Hearing his approach, the figure turned.

  There were streaks upon Gethol’s seamed, hollowed cheeks. Seeing Arathan, he said, ‘They are gone.’

  What? ‘No, they can’t be!’

  ‘You were never meant for this, Arathan. Gotho
s has relinquished you to my care. I will guard you home,’ he said, and then with a nod behind Arathan, ‘and these two, as well.’

  Turning, Arathan saw that Korya and Ifayle had followed. He advanced on her. ‘You knew!’

  ‘I felt them leave, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Leave? Leave where? They left … everything!’

  She shrugged. ‘No point taking it with them, I suppose.’

  Now Ifayle was weeping as well, but this did nothing to soften Arathan’s hard anger, his sense of betrayal.

  ‘They stepped outside time, Arathan,’ said Korya. ‘Omtose Phellack always favoured …’ She paused, searching for the right words.

  Clearing his throat, Gethol said, ‘The lure of stasis, Korya Delath. Very perceptive of you. One day, perhaps, you will see what Jaghut can do with ice.’

  Helpless, Arathan looked around, and then raised his hands. ‘So that’s it? Abandoned again? What of my own desires? Oh, never mind those, Arathan! Just go where you’re told!’

  ‘The path you take in Kurald Galain,’ said Gethol, ‘belongs entirely to you. But let me make this plain enough. Gothos is done with you. He returns his gift.’

  ‘But Father won’t be there, will he?’

  ‘You wish to find him?’

  Arathan hesitated and then scowled. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘It is near dawn,’ resumed Gethol. ‘I will gather provisions. It is my thought that we depart this day.’

  ‘I can’t even say goodbye to him?’ Arathan asked.

  ‘I believe you already have, Arathan. In any case, the Lord of Hate now revels in his renewed solitude. Would you dampen his joy?’

  ‘He never revels.’

  ‘A manner of speech,’ Gethol said, shrugging apologetically. He turned to the others. ‘And a Dog-Runner, it seems. What fun. Shall we all meet at dawn then? At the city’s old east gate? The twin stumps, that is. The ones flanking what used to be a road. Oh, never mind. Come to the city’s edge; I’ll find you.’

  Arathan watched Gethol walk away. Avoiding Korya’s steady gaze, he turned to find the ashes of Hood’s hearth. The first thin blades of grass were growing from it, their bright green colour awaiting birth in the sun’s rise.