‘Ah.’
‘Orfantal, what’s happened to you?’
‘I escaped,’ he replied. ‘Only now I’m going to be dragged back, and not even the High Priestess can help me. I mean, she won’t, because it isn’t her place and anyway she doesn’t understand. Mother’s here. She’s on her way.’
‘She wants Korlat to protect you.’
Orfantal laughed. At the sound, Ribs awoke, lifted his head to study Orfantal, and then looked to Wreneck. Wagging his tail, he rose and approached the boy.
Frowning, Wreneck patted the dog’s head. ‘I like this one the best,’ he said. ‘The ghosts scare me a bit.’
‘What’s that spear for?’
‘For the ones who attacked us, who burned down the estate and killed Lady Nerys and hurt Jinia. They’re in Urusander’s Legion.’
‘You’d better hurry,’ Orfantal said, unsurprised at any of the news Wreneck delivered, unsurprised and, he realized, unaffected. Perhaps he’d heard it all before. He couldn’t remember. The Citadel’s wise stone filled his head, but the wisdom was lost, confused, wandering the corridors.
‘I will. But I needed to warn you first. About your mother.’
Orfantal held out a hand to forestall Wreneck’s explaining any further. ‘Yes. Don’t worry, I see her. All of her. Thank you. Wreneck, were you my friend once?’
The boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded.
‘Are we still friends?’
‘I am,’ Wreneck replied. ‘To you, I mean.’
‘I think you’re a hero now, Wreneck. Remember how we played? All those battles? The last two to fall, you and me. Remember that?’
‘It isn’t like that, though,’ Wreneck said. ‘It’s about not being strong enough, or fast enough. It’s about enemies with empty eyes, stabbing you with their sword. It’s about you lying there, bleeding and hurting, while soldiers make an innocent girl bleed between the legs, and there’s nothing you can do, because you weren’t good enough to stop them.’
‘The heroes always die,’ whispered Orfantal.
‘I’ve got people to kill,’ Wreneck said, backing towards the door.
‘And I’ve got to be a big brother, just like you were once, to me.’
‘Be good to her?’
‘I will, Wreneck.’
‘Better than I was to you.’
Orfantal smiled. ‘Look at us now. We’re all grown up.’
* * *
Lord Draconus was sitting in the dark, motionless in a high-backed chair near the unlit hearth. The air was cold, lifeless, yet the chamber felt suffocating as Kellaras stepped inside and closed the door behind him. ‘Milord.’
It may have been that Draconus had been asleep, for he now started and straightened slightly. ‘Captain.’
‘I was to come here, milord, to tell you of your impending audience with Lord Anomander.’
‘Yes. I will speak to him. There is much to discuss.’
‘Instead,’ Kellaras resumed, ‘I must inform you that Anomander has ridden out with Silchas Ruin, to the Valley of Tarns. Urusander’s Legion draws close. There will be a battle before the sun has set.’
Draconus was motionless, and he said nothing for a long moment, and then he rose from the chair. ‘Where are my Houseblades?’
‘They ride to the battle, milord.’
‘This was not what was agreed.’
Kellaras said nothing.
‘Who has taken command of them, captain?’
‘Lord Anomander has chosen to set aside Mother Dark’s prohibition. He commands the forces of the Tiste Andii.’
‘And the highborn?’
‘They too assemble for the battle, milord. All are in attendance, with their Houseblades. Also, the Hust Legion returns to us, not as it once was, but nonetheless …’
Draconus moved past the captain, swinging open the door. When he set out down the corridor, Kellaras followed.
A damned pup again, rushing to someone else’s pace. Would I could take any door, to either side of this passage, and simply step out of this mess. Find myself in an empty room, a place of silence, big enough to swallow the echoes of my raging mind. Instead, he said, ‘Milord, will you ride after them?’
‘I will have what is mine,’ Draconus said.
‘In the Chamber of Night, milord, you acceded to Silchas Ruin’s request—’
‘He has deceived me, and I will know if his brother was part of that.’
‘Sir, your presence—’
Reaching the door leading into the hall, Draconus halted and turned to Kellaras. ‘Anomander understands honour. At least, he once did.’
‘He will yield to you your Houseblades, milord. I am certain of it.’
‘And see us withdraw from this farce?’
Kellaras nodded. ‘So I believe of my master, milord.’
Draconus bared his teeth. ‘If only to keep the loyalty of the highborn.’
‘Sir, will you make him choose?’
Draconus swung round again and moments later they were crossing the hall, the Consort indifferent to the Terondai beneath his boots.
They were not alone in the vast chamber. The High Priestess and the historian stood nearby, still in their outdoor garb, halted now by the abrupt appearance of Draconus. Kellaras saw in both faces a sudden, misplaced unease, and he wondered at that, even as both bowed to the Consort.
‘Milord,’ said Emral Lanear. ‘Does Mother Dark stir at last? Will she advise me on what must be done next?’
Draconus strode past her without replying.
Kellaras saw the shock on Lanear’s drawn face, followed swiftly by indignation. Beside her, the historian smiled without much humour, and rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder.
‘High Priestess, is it not clear? He rides to the Valley now.’
She spun to face him, but said nothing – and then Kellaras too was past, stepping swiftly to catch up to Draconus.
This farce spills out. It mocks its way through the Citadel, dancing down the corridors. Soon, it will howl.
Once outside, they headed for the stables, Kellaras trailing Draconus like a man on a leash.
* * *
The streets were clear when the companies of Houseblades set out, each from their highborn’s respective holding in the city. Most were on foot, ordered into a slow jog as they headed first eastward and then, once beyond the outer gates, on to the northeast road, where company upon company linked up to form a column.
At the very head and forming a vanguard rode the highborn themselves. Vanut Degalla, Venes Turayd, Aegis, Manalle, Baesk, Drethdenan, Trevok and Raelle. Immediately behind them, also mounted, the masters- and mistresses-at-arms, along with a score of lesser officers, aides, signallers and message-bearers.
Riding a massive, broad-backed horse, Rancept found himself in the company of Captain Horult Chiv and Sekarrow. In their martial accoutrements, the night in the kitchen at Tulla Keep seemed long ago and impossibly far away.
Sekarrow, her iltre stored inside a leather case strapped to her saddle, her gloved hands resting on the horn, reins loosely wrapped about them, leaned companionably close to the castellan and said, ‘Has Lady Hish preceded us, then?’
The jostling from the trotting horse sent stabs of pain through Rancept’s bent frame, forcing his breath out in sharp gasps. It was a moment before he managed to speak. ‘She leaves this to her uncle.’
Sekarrow uttered a surprised grunt, and said, ‘That seems … unlikely. Something must have happened—’
‘Yes, something did.’
Riding up on to Rancept’s other side, Horult Chiv rapped his gauntleted knuckles against the wooden scabbard of his sword. ‘Castellan, know this: my lord Drethdenan is resolved. If it comes to calling out cowards, he will not hesitate!’
Rancept nodded, although he was far from convinced. It seemed that Horult elevated his beloved far beyond the opinions most might hold of the man’s fortitude. That said, Rancept hoped the captain was right.
Venes Tu
rayd was not a man to be trusted, not on this day. Pelk, riding at Turayd’s side, had made clear her opinion in this matter, conveyed with a simple glance instead of words. Rancept had been already resolved to follow orders, as expected, until such time as a command threatened his honour, at which moment he would do what needed doing.
He’d lived long enough to find the weight of a crime – even one of murder – a burden he would willingly carry. There was little that could be done to him that would not, in truth, prove a salvation. His bones ached incessantly. Drawing breath was like drinking draughts of pain, without surcease. He’d seen enough of life to know he wouldn’t miss it much. His only regret was the grief his death would level upon those who cared for him.
Venes Turayd was a man inclined to abuse the honour of others, as if needing to despoil what he himself lacked. But he would not have Rancept’s last surviving virtue, and in the moment of its challenge the castellan would give answer. And Pelk would guard his back.
Deep in his twisted body, he knew that betrayal was coming.
The heavy, long-handled axe at his hip was a comforting weight. The armour wrapped tight about his shoulders clattered as he rocked in the saddle. The surrounding gloom did little to diminish the acuity of his eyes as he looked out upon stubbled fields, and, glancing back over his sloped shoulder, upon the ranks of Houseblades, each House bearing its proud standard.
Sleeping Goddess, hear my prayer. Your earth will drink deep this day. Nothing will change this. But this surface here, these shallow thoughts and quick deceits, they are where I will find myself. Grant me a clear path, and I will leave you the severed head of Venes Turayd, raper of children, betrayer of the Sons and Daughters of Mother Dark.
Today is our day of accounting. Sleeping Goddess, walk with me and dream of death.
Sukul Ankhadu, forgive me.
‘One day,’ said Sekarrow, ‘I will learn to play the damned thing.’
Her brother snorted. ‘But not today.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ she replied. ‘I am told, however, it makes a sorrowful sound.’
‘Not today,’ Horult Chiv repeated in a growl.
‘No, not today.’
* * *
The afternoon was drawing to a close. They were late readying horses, and Endest Silann stood watching as Cedorpul harangued the grooms. In a few moments, the two of them would set out again, upon the track they had but just traversed, well in the wake of the Houseblades and the Hust Legion. Should they then return to Kharkanas, one more time, everything would have changed.
His hands were cold, but not numb. This was something that made his blood into ice, and that ice burned as it leaked out from the wounds in his palms. He thought, idly, that it might be an indication of Mother Dark’s fury.
Moments earlier they had seen Lord Draconus and Captain Kellaras ride out, their horses’ hoofs hammering the stones of the courtyard and then the bridge, the sound discordant, as if some madman was working an anvil. Haste and anger, hurts ill disguised. Iron and stone made for bitter music.
The pilgrim makes a path. But no longer is he followed. Miracles pall in the disapproval of authority, and what was once a gift is now suspect. And so, yet again, we crush the blossom in our hand, lift our gaze from the tumbling petals, and ask the world, ‘Where, then, is this beauty you promised?’
But beauty could be a terrible thing, a force to cut the eye and leave wounded the witness. Even perfection, if such a thing could be said to exist, could arrive like an affront. Endest Silann lifted his gaze to the sky, studied its fierce contradiction of afternoon light and enervating gloom, and wondered if, on this day, dragons would take to the air, with eyes eager to feast on the slaughter below.
There is this, you see. They are drawn to sorcery. Reasons unknown, my knowledge itself a mystery. I know what I know, but know not how I know it.
Cedorpul shouted him over to where he waited with the two now saddled horses. Nodding, Endest Silann joined him, and a short time later they rode out across the first bridge, leaving the looming hulk of the Citadel in their wake.
With renewed energy, Cedorpul grinned across at him. ‘Today, my friend, we shall see the power of magic! The power to withstand, to defy, to refuse!’
‘We will do what we can,’ Endest replied.
‘We shall prevail,’ Cedorpul said, his face flushed. ‘I feel it in my heart.’
‘We need only hold.’
‘Sorcery will see an end to armies and battles,’ Cedorpul said. ‘Perhaps even an end to war itself. Together, the two of us, we can lead our realm into a new era of peace. Mark my words.’
The sound of the hoofs beneath them was a cacophony, rattling Endest Silann’s thoughts, and he could think of no reply to Cedorpul’s assertions. They rode on at a quick canter, the road before them strangely empty this close to the city, though the air itself seemed turgid. If there were refugees fleeing Kharkanas, they were on the south road, although in truth Endest did not believe the city’s inhabitants were fleeing. Mother Dark, your children have nowhere to go.
Even if Urusander’s Legion proved victorious, the notion of his soldiers looting Kharkanas was too heinous to consider. No, this will be decided in the Valley of Tarns. Nothing else is required. The Wise City will survive this.
‘We will drive this Liosan from our world!’ Cedorpul said. ‘What say you?’
Endest Silann nodded, but could manage nothing more. His hands wept with the anguish of a goddess, and yet the tears of blood burned, making him think of rage.
* * *
All the soldiers were gone. Wreneck hurried through a city emptied of almost everyone except ghosts, and they too had begun a march, eastward, in a silent progression of damaged and diseased figures. He saw children with bloated faces, bruised by the pillows that had stilled their last breath. Others, much younger than Wreneck himself, bore broken limbs, from beatings, he imagined, as he recalled the cane coming down upon his own body, and all this made him rush through the city of Kharkanas, barely seeing the magnificent buildings on either side of the street. He drew his spear around so that he could find strength in its solid shaft of dark wood, gripping it with both hands. As if, with this weapon, he could fend off his own memories.
There were so many ghosts who had been hurt somehow. He wondered at that, fighting a chill that burgeoned from somewhere deep inside him. He wondered at all the broken people, and all their secret histories, and at how none seemed able to hide their hurts now that they were dead. Yet none wept. They walked, instead, with eyes like dusty stones plucked from a dry riverbed. They were too pathetic to frighten him, too hopeless to make him think he could in any way help them.
The world was a big place, bigger than he’d ever imagined. And it was old, too, impossibly old. The dead never went away, he knew now, and they crowded him, moving in a noiseless mass, spilling out through the gate in the outer wall, and on to the road. He didn’t want to be seeing any of this, and he wondered at the curse that now afflicted him. I must have done something wrong. All those times I failed. All the times I proved too weak, and because of my weakness people got hurt. This is where it comes from. It must be. I was never good enough.
His breaths harsh, he ran through the ghosts, striving to win free of them all, to find a clear space on the track. A few turned to follow him with their dull eyes. One or two reached out as if to take hold of him, but he evaded their grasp even though he knew their efforts were useless – their flailing hands simply slipped through him, no different from the last of the bodies he pushed through as he finally outraced them and found himself alone on the cobbled road.
Some distance ahead, he saw another lone figure, tall, dressed in heavy robes, hobbling like a man with broken feet. It did not take long before Wreneck caught up and came alongside the man.
A narrow, deeply lined face, an iron-grey beard snarled and seemingly stained with rust. Seeing Wreneck, the old man smiled. ‘Late to the battle, soldier! As am I, as am I. Shall we hasten? I have no H
ouseblades. They must have left without me – no, wait, that’s not right. My Houseblades bear the swords I forged, my armour, too. I made them into a legion. I left them somewhere. I’ll remember where, I’m sure, sooner or later. Ah!’ He took a few quick steps forward, leaned down to collect a rock, and showed it to Wreneck. ‘Slag,’ he said, his face twitching. ‘You find it everywhere. Our legacy – my son’s wife, you know her? When they were but betrothed, I happened upon her in a room and saw that she had a small blade in one hand, and she was using it to cut the insides of her thighs. She was hurting herself, you see. I could make no sense of it. Can you?’
Wreneck wanted to hurry on, leave the strange old man behind. Instead, he shrugged. ‘She was trying to feel something. Anything.’
‘But she was loved. We all loved her. Surely she understood that.’
Wreneck glanced back to the mass of ghosts on the road behind them. ‘She didn’t believe you. You loved her because you didn’t really know her. That’s what she believed, I mean. You didn’t know her so whoever you loved wasn’t her, it was someone else, someone who just looked like her. But she knew better.’ Jinia, wait for me. Don’t do anything to hurt yourself. And please, please, don’t let me see you among these ghosts.
The old man still held out the ragged piece of slag, and now he closed his fingers about it, tight enough to break skin and draw blood. It ran down the edge of his palm, down to stain his cuff. He offered Wreneck a ghastly smile. ‘Every pit we carved into the earth. Every hill we tore down. Every tree we burned, the wastelands of poison we left behind. It’s the same, young soldier, exactly the same. Wounding ourselves. And, as you say, wounding ourselves because we’re not who we think we are. We’re far less than that.’ He grunted. ‘I used to play in the murdered places, with my toys, my painted heroes of lead and pewter.’ He reached round and drew out a heavy leather satchel he had been carrying hidden beneath his cloak. ‘I brought them along, you see, because we’re going to have a battle.’
‘It’ll be a real battle, sir, and I need to get there in time, so we have to hurry—’
‘You take one side and I’ll take the other. I have ones painted in green livery, others in blue. Upon either side of the ditch here, we line them up, you see?’ He reached out and grasped Wreneck’s arm, pulling him to the side of the road. ‘I’m green and you’re blue,’ he said, his eyes bright as he spilled out what was in the satchel.
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