Fall of Light

by Steven Erikson

  Surgeon Prok stood nearby, watching both the mother and the daughter. He had resumed drinking wine, growing drunker the closer they had come to Kharkanas, and the journey’s end. A clay jug hung loosely from his right hand, and he was swaying slightly. ‘Milady, the child needs to walk.’

  Frowning, Sandalath glanced across at the man, and it seemed a moment before she recognized him. ‘She walks already,’ she replied. ‘In realms not seen by you. Realms you cannot even imagine. Her spirit explores the night, the place of all endings, the place moments from rebirth. She walks in the world that exists before the first breath is drawn, and the one that comes when the last breath falls away. They are one and the same. Did you know that? A single world.’ Sandalath straightened, adjusting her cradling arm, and smiled at Prok. ‘She will be ready.’

  Wreneck now looked to the city. He saw its low wall, the crowds lining it. He saw the wide street awaiting them, the broad double gate with its massive blackwood doors swung open and tied in place. He saw more people than he’d thought existed, and all were facing him. They see Lord Anomander. They wonder at his hesitation.

  But now comes the white-skinned brother with the eyes of blood – that must be him. He looks … terrifying.

  Retrieving his spear and his small bundle of possessions from a side-rack on the carriage, Wreneck moved forward. He wanted to be close enough to hear the brothers greet one another. He wanted to know when the battle would start, so he could take up his spear and be ready for it. He saw Captain Ivis approaching. ‘Sir? When do we ride into the city? I must visit the Citadel and speak to Orfantal. It is important.’

  Distracted, Ivis moved past, but then said, ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  Wreneck stared after the man, and saw now that the Houseblades were making up an encampment.

  No, I cannot wait that long. I need to talk to Orfantal before his mother does. I need to explain things.

  Wreneck continued forward, in time to arrive close to Lord Anomander even as Silchas Ruin and another man reined in.

  To one side, Gripp Galas turned to Pelk and Wreneck heard him say, ‘Lady Hish Tulla is in the city. Find her, Pelk—’

  ‘In a moment,’ Pelk replied, her gaze fixed on the man beside Silchas Ruin, and Wreneck saw that he studied her in return.

  As Pelk moved forward, the man dismounted, and an instant later they were in each other’s arms.

  All this before either brother had spoken, and both lords now looked on, startled perhaps, while Pelk and the man embraced.

  From where Wreneck stood, he saw the man’s eyes shut, his lips moving as he whispered to her, and she held him all the tighter.

  Silchas Ruin broke the moment. ‘Brother, did you find Andarist?’

  ‘I have set that aside, Silchas,’ replied Anomander. ‘The sword at my hip retains its name, forged in the heat of my outrage. And yet, had I imagined our Mother’s staying hand, I might have set Vengeance upon the blade of my dagger instead. Of all the myriad scenes in the tumult of possibility awaiting us, I would not shy from striking from darkness and shadow. A blow between the shoulder blades no longer seems so crass.’

  Anomander’s words drew round all who stood near enough to hear them. When Pelk and Kellaras pulled apart, Pelk stepped back and then, with a nod towards Gripp Galas, set off for the city gate. Wreneck watched her go with an ache in his chest. Jinia sent me away, because of all the broken things inside her. But one day I will return to her, and my love will mend every broken thing inside both of us. Even the stables that caught fire, which is when everything awful first began. Milady said that I was to blame. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was my fault after all. I can’t remember. Could be I killed all those horses. I need to fix that hurt – because it still hurts, if I was the one who did it, and if it wasn’t Sandalath who met her man there and the lantern they’d lit so they could see each other getting drunk on the wine he’d brought with his one arm. If it wasn’t that after all, but me, spying on them and watching what they did when they put their hips together and moved like dancing on the straw, and the horses shuffled and nickered and the lantern light was steady, but the straw stalks were pushed up against the lantern by their feet, up against the hot glaze. I should have seen that, instead of watching them.

  It began there, all the hurts. Began with the screams of dying horses, and two shadowy figures running out before the flames got them, and there was Lady Nerys with her cane and she shrieked at me since I was standing right there, watching the fire and listening to the horses, and those blows came down and they hurt so bad but then I got hit on the head and things went numb and strange and that’s why I don’t remember anything any more about that night.

  Except what I maybe made up. Her and that one-armed man.

  But it was you who cared for me after that, Jinia. And I didn’t forget. I can’t forget. And that’s why I’ll fix everything. Soon. I just need to kill some people first.

  ‘A dagger from the shadows. You describe betrayal, my brother.’

  ‘Array before me all manner of obstacles, vengeance finds its own path.’

  With a grunt, Gripp Galas said, ‘Just ask Hunn Raal. About betrayal. See how he weighs it in his own mind, Lord Silchas. If need be, I will be the hand and the knife both—’

  At that Anomander swung to face his old friend. ‘No. I forbid it, Gripp Galas. Too often have you struck in my stead. Your time as my quiet justice is done. Have we not spoken? Return to your wife. I am past all need for you.’

  The harsh words seemed to batter at Gripp Galas, and all the fire of his own rage died in his old man’s eyes. With a single bow, he turned away and walked, unsteadily to Wreneck’s eyes, towards Kharkanas, trailing in Pelk’s wake.

  ‘We await word on the disposition of the Hust Legion,’ Silchas said to Anomander.

  The First Son spoke to Kellaras. ‘Captain, are our Houseblades assembled?’

  ‘Yes, milord. And the highborn have indeed answered the call. The Greater Houses are all here.’

  Silchas Ruin made to speak then, but his brother spoke first. ‘Silchas, I thank you for all that you have done. I know you were reluctant, and yet you indulged me in my efforts to reconcile with Andarist.’ He hesitated, and then continued. ‘It may be that the blood of family, so quick to turn sour on the tongue, had misguided me. In the name of one family, I neglected the other. We three brothers matter less than the Tiste Andii – is this not the burden of command?’

  Silchas Ruin’s voice was flat. ‘There have been developments, Anomander. Of those, in a moment. What do you now intend?’

  ‘I must defy our Mother, in the name of her sons and daughters. Silchas, I will draw my sword. I will take command.’

  Silchas was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded. ‘I thank you for that, brother. Give me command of our Houseblades and I will be more than content. Of the more grave demands awaiting us, I leave them to you.’

  Anomander sighed and nodded. ‘And these developments?’

  Silchas made a gesture for patience before turning to Kellaras. ‘Captain, return to our company. I will be inspecting them shortly.’

  Kellaras glanced at Anomander, who remained expressionless, and then the captain saluted Lord Silchas Ruin, wheeled his horse, and set off.

  To Wreneck’s eyes, the world seemed to acquire a glow, as of golden light trembling on water. He could smell the old gods of the forest, closing in, crowding around him. But they said nothing, as if they were, one and all, holding their breath.

  Silchas Ruin resumed. ‘We have sorcery at our disposal. The priest, Cedorpul, who will stand against Hunn Raal. By this, we may indeed negate the threat of magic. Accordingly, we return to the privilege of mere flesh and the will behind it. To the blade, brother, the clash that drowns all words.’

  Wreneck studied Silchas Ruin, wondering what the lord had been wanting to say, instead of what he did say. It was strange to him, as the moment passed unremarked, that Anomander had not seen what he had seen. And, of those figu
res lining the berm, now numbering thousands, he saw how many of them looked peculiar, almost ghostly. He had no idea so many people lived in Kharkanas. But then, as he watched, he saw yet more appearing, rising from the earth of the berm.

  The gods of the forest are back. But they don’t speak in my head. They but show me what no one else here can see.

  The Tiste are attending. From every age. Since the very beginning. Come to witness.

  Why?

  ‘Very well,’ Anomander said. ‘Now, shall we ride to the Citadel?’

  Wreneck’s gaze was drawn away from the ghostly multitude, so crowding the living that many stood half inside mortal bodies. A flicker of colour had caught his eye: a flag rising above the highest tower of the Citadel. He pointed and said, ‘Milords! What is that?’

  Both men lifted their heads.

  ‘That, young Wreneck,’ said Anomander, ‘announces the approach of the Hust Legion.’

  ‘We must send a rider to them,’ said Silchas Ruin, his tone suddenly bridling with pleasure. ‘They can march directly to the south flats on the edge of the Valley of Tarns.’

  ‘The place of battle. Yes, we will do that.’

  ‘Brother, would you ride with me to the place of battle? There are details to discuss regarding our disposition. Urusander is barely half a day away, after all, and indeed, should he seek haste, we could well greet the dusk with the clamour of iron.’

  Anomander seemed momentarily disconcerted. His gaze shifted back to the Citadel. ‘It was my thought that I meet with Mother Dark and her Consort. If only to explain my defiance of her will in this matter. Lord Draconus will understand, perhaps, before she does. I would seek his alliance.’

  ‘Draconus knows enough to stay away from the battle,’ said Silchas.

  That drew Anomander’s attention. ‘You have spoken to him? There have been tragedies I must share with him, for which I am responsible—’

  ‘Brother,’ said Silchas levelly, ‘Draconus prepares to flee.’

  Hurt and confusion marred Lord Anomander’s face. And, whispered a dull voice in Wreneck’s head, disappointment.

  ‘Ivis and his company,’ said Silchas, ‘are at your disposal. Perhaps, brother, Ivis should ride with us to Tarns?’

  Anomander passed a hand over his eyes, and then nodded. ‘That would delight him.’

  ‘Allow me to deliver the invitation,’ Silchas said, gathering up his reins, then kicking his mount forward, passing Anomander and then Wreneck, who now moved up to just slightly ahead of the Son of Darkness.

  ‘Milord, I must go to the Citadel.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘To speak to someone.’

  Anomander said, ‘Proceed in my name, and at the palace gate deliver the news that I ride with my brother to Tarns, and, depending on Urusander’s patience, I may or may not return to the Citadel before the battle.’ He studied Wreneck for a moment, and then removed a thin silver torc from his left arm. ‘This bears my sigil, but even this may prove a dubious escort – the city is crowded and its mood is pensive. Hide my gift, Wreneck, whilst you traverse the streets.’

  Wreneck moved up to take the torc.

  ‘You wouldn’t rather wait for hostage Sandalath and the others?’

  ‘No, sir. I want to go now.’

  ‘I envy your vision, so clear of eye, so sharp in its desire.’

  Wreneck glanced over at the ghosts massed along the berm, and then back to where Ivis had settled the camp, and there he saw many other ghosts, as many as the trees in the forest, or perhaps more. ‘Milord,’ he said, ‘I don’t always see what I desire. Sometimes, what I see, I don’t understand at all.’

  ‘You have left childhood behind, then. Should you mourn its passing in the years to come, remember this day.’

  I will, whether I want to or not. ‘Thank you, milord, for saving my life. When I’m done at the Citadel, I’ll go to Tarns, too, with my spear in hand, and I’ll fight beside you.’

  His vow was meant to please the lord, and yet Anomander’s face seemed to fold in on itself, as if retreating from the promise of grief instead of glory. Wreneck straightened. ‘You have your vengeance, milord, and I have mine.’

  ‘Then,’ the man said, ‘how is it possible for me to deny you? Until then, Wreneck.’

  Nodding, Wreneck bowed, and then he leaned the spear over one shoulder and stepped on to the cobbled road leading into Kharkanas.

  The ghosts watched him, but like all the gathered spirits and gods, they too remained silent.

  Maybe that’s what death is. The place you find yourself when there’s nothing left to say.

  * * *

  ‘Envy has many teeth,’ said Prazek as he rode alongside Dathenar, near the head of the train. ‘For men such as you and myself, for whom love can deliver the promise of downy cheeks, soft lips and the sweetest nest of delight; or, through the opposite door, a bristled chin and manly tenderness … such as it is.’ He paused to mull, and then resumed, ‘Is it any wonder others look on and feel the gnaw and nip of outrage? Envy, say I, Dathenar.’

  ‘I am minded, friend Prazek, of the many artful expostulations of love, by decidedly lesser poets and bards of our age, and ages past. Shall I plumb this wretched trench? Ah, know you this one? “Love is a dog rolling on a dead fish.” ’

  ‘Strapala of the South Fork. Guess this one: “I wallow in my love, and you the heart of a sow …”’

  ‘Vask, dead now a hundred years!’

  ‘And still mired in mediocrity, no blow to his fame, no mar to his name, no challenge to all that is lame—’

  ‘Barring what you peddle, Prazek.’

  ‘I yield the floor, step lightly over the chalk defining my place, and call an end to toeing the line.’

  ‘Consider this one, then. So heartbroken this poet he spent four years and a hundred bottles of ink defending his suicide, only to break his neck upon a bar of soap—’

  ‘Lye to die, dead by suds, quick to the slick and slip away no time for a quip.’

  ‘“Forsaken this love, my tongue doth probe, to touch – but touch! – the excretion of the snail’s slime, and now all atingle at exquisite poison, my heart dances like a rat on a griddle, but still she stands with but a faint smile ’pon her sweet lips, tending the fire and tending, tending, and tending the fire!” ’

  ‘There is a delicacy to that anguish, urging me to admiration.’

  ‘His talent was all accidental. And yet, not.’

  ‘Stumbling panged into genius – this does seem a rare talent. By nature of suffering, indulged with passion, to make something sticky of excess, and yet the lure of honey in the flower’s budding mouth, drawing one in, and, as he might say, in.’

  ‘And in,’ Dathenar added, nodding. ‘Have I confounded you?’

  ‘No, a moment longer. I am on fertile ground and must only sharpen the plough. Was it Liftera?’

  ‘Of the Isle? No. Her railing was ever too sour to do aught but crush the petals in desperate grip.’

  ‘Teroth?’

  ‘That alley cur? You insult the name of the accidental suicide. One more effort and then I must proclaim my triumph.’

  ‘Still it echoes oh so familiar …’

  ‘Well it might.’

  Before them, the city’s south wall – dismantled here and there, slumping elsewhere – drew closer, the buildings beyond it dark as smoke-stained stone. The gates were open and unattended. Not even a guard was visible.

  ‘Four years of wallowing?’

  ‘’Til the soap upon the tiles.’

  ‘Such an ironic death should have made him famous.’

  ‘His body of work put paid to that.’

  ‘Quoth me another line or three!’

  ‘ “Too dark this dawn! Too bright this sunset! Too gloomy this day, too starlit this wretched night!”’

  ‘Too miserable this fool who sees nothing good in anything.’

  ‘He was suicidal, as I said. Four years the span of his career, as he unleashed all that was
within him, broken of heart, blind to the insipid self and all its false confessions – broken of heart, said I? Empty of heart, too obsessed with the trappings of rejection to focus upon the object itself. She said no and before her breath left the word he was off, epic visions filling his head, the ordeal stretched out like a welcoming lover. Hark well the willing martyr and make jaded your eye upon his thrashing agony – this is a game played out to its gory end, with an audience evermost in mind.’

  ‘In the offing a bronze, I should think. Or a painting, broader than high, a swept vista—’

  ‘Done, and done, too, the bronze.’

  ‘What? Varanaxa? Gallan’s mocked hero? But that man was an invention! A fiction! Gallan’s public snipe at his fawners!’

  ‘I posited no distinctions.’

  Prazek sniffed. ‘The broken heart of a poet gets pumped dry fortnightly.’

  ‘From a healthy one, nothing worthwhile bleeds. So some would claim. But it is these appetites of which we should steer well wide, yet not canted too cynical. Instead, invite a curiosity as to the self-made victim and his self-wounded self. What urge spurs the cut? What hunger invites the bite upon one’s own flesh? This is death turned inward, the maw and the wound made one, like lovers.’

  ‘Varanaxa,’ sighed Prazek. ‘For that epic farce, Gallan was vilified.’

  ‘He cares not.’

  ‘More to the fury of his enemies, that!’

  ‘And herein hangs a lesson, should we dare pluck it.’

  Prazek squinted ahead, to the train’s foremost riders: Commander Toras Redone and at her side Captain Faror Hend. ‘Suicidal indifference?’

  Dathenar shrugged, and then said, ‘I am wary.’

  Galar Baras had ridden back along the column, driven to distraction no doubt by three thousand soldiers marching in silence. There were no stragglers, few conversations, the weapons and armour mute. The sound of the Hust Legion was a dull drum roll that brooked no pause, a slow thunder drawing ever closer to Kharkanas.

  The thaw that had been whispered on the south wind the past few days was now dying away, and the snow crunched beneath boot and hoof, a growing bite to the air as the morning lengthened.