Fall of Light (111 page)

‘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 burdens – 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.

‘I argued for your staying, Rancept. You’re too old for battle. But Lady Hish Tulla said it was your decision to make. I disagree. It was hers. It remains hers. I will speak to her again.’

‘I would rather you didn’t, milady,’ Rancept replied, collecting his quilted shirt and working his way into it, his breaths harsh and loud.

‘They will use sorcery.’

‘I expect so, yes.’

‘Your armour won’t help any of you against that, will it?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You’re going to die.’

‘I will do my best to avoid that, milady. Is it not time for your lessons? Go and lighten Skild’s mood for a change.’

She set her goblet down on a ledge. ‘Here, that needs tying up the back.’

‘Summon a maid.’

‘No, I’m here and I’ll do it.’ He crouched down again and she moved up behind his broad, misshapen back. She tugged at the drawstrings, then released them suddenly and flung herself against him, arms wrapping tight. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleaded, eyes filling with tears.

He touched one of her hands, the gesture tentative. ‘Milady – Sukul, all will be well. I promise this.’

‘You can’t!’

‘I will return.’

‘You don’t know that – I’m not a child! The Houseblades cannot stand long against Urusander’s Legion!’

‘We have the Hust—’

‘No one has the Hust!
’

‘Milady. Something you’ve not considered. Something, it seems, that no one has considered.’

‘What?’

‘The Hust blades. The Hust armour. Against sorcery, what answer will they give?’

He now slowly, tenderly, prised loose her grip around his neck, and then straightened and swung round to face her. His blunt hands settled on her shoulders.

Through tears, she looked up at him. ‘What – what do you mean?’

‘I know only a little of Hust iron, milady, but what I do know is the anger within those swords, and now, perhaps, that armour. It is my belief that the Tiste have possessed sorcery for some time now, much longer than most would believe. There is something elemental in those weapons, in that iron.’

She stepped back, slipping free of his hands and shaking her head. ‘Their rightful owners are all dead, Rancept. Now criminals carry them!’

‘Indeed, and what will come of that?’

‘Your faith is misplaced.’

He shrugged. ‘Milady, I served my own time in the mining pits – a criminal, as you say.’

What?

His smile was a terrible thing to witness. ‘Think you this bent frame was the one I was born with? I was a lead rock-biter. Five years in the tunnels.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I was a thief.’

‘Does Lady Hish Tulla know this?’

‘Of course.’

‘Yet … she made you castellan!’

‘Not at first,’ he said. ‘I needed to earn her trust, of course. Well, her mother’s trust, come to that. It was all long ago.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

He nodded. ‘I know.’

‘I want to say how much I hate you right now.’

‘Aye.’

‘But it’s the opposite of hate.’

‘I suppose it is, milady.’

‘Don’t get killed.’

‘I won’t. Now, can you tie those strings? But not too tightly. My muscles swell with swinging that mace.’

He turned again and crouched down. She looked at his broad back, the massive bulges of strange muscles, so uneven, like knots on a tree trunk. ‘Rancept,’ she asked as she stepped forward, ‘how old were you, when you were in the mines?’

‘Eleven. Left when I was sixteen.’

‘A lead rock-biter – is that what it was called? You were made that at eleven?’

‘No. Had to earn that, too. But I was a big lad even then.’

‘What did you steal?’

‘Food.’

‘Rancept.’ She pulled at the strings, tied a knot.

‘Milady.’

‘Ours is a cruel civilization, isn’t it?’

‘No crueller than most.’

She thought about that and then frowned. ‘That sounds … cynical.’

He said nothing.

They worked together in silence, getting Rancept readied for war. Through it all, Sukul Ankhadu waged a war of her own, against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

But when at last they were done, he reached to rest a finger against her cheek. ‘I think of you, milady, not as a hostage, but as a daughter. I know, I am presumptuous.’

Unable to speak, she shook her head, and felt, in a rush of emotion, the despair swept away, as if before a flood.

TWENTY-ONE

‘T
HE WAYS OF TISTE CONFUSE,’ SAID HATARAS RAZE, SLIPPING
free of the heavy bhederin furs as the sun’s light clawed through the high clouds, leaving her naked from the hips upward.

Fighting his incessant chill, Listar looked away. He was leading all three horses, as the two Bonecasters refused to ride the animals, although they examined them often, running their red-painted hands across the sleek hides. It was, Listar had come to realize, a habit of theirs, this endless touching, caressing, palms resting firm upon flesh. Most nights, the two Dog-Runner women were busy doing that with each other. Even more disconcerting, they seemed indifferent to the cold.

In response to Hataras’s observation, Listar shrugged. ‘Crimes must be punished, Bonecaster.’

‘All that work,’ said the younger of the two women, Vastala Trembler. ‘Build fire in winter. Against the stone. Then cold water. Stone cracks, tools can be made.’

‘But you see these weapons I wear, Vastala? They are iron. The rock must be broken and then melted. I do not know the intricacies. I just hauled the rubble up from the pits.’

‘As punishment,’ said Hataras.

‘Yes.’

‘For iron, which all Tiste use.’

‘Yes.’

‘And find pleasure in.’

He sighed. ‘It’s just our way, Bonecaster. As yours are different from ours.’

Vastala Trembler had bundled up all her skins and furs, and was carrying them on one shoulder. She wore hide moccasins and nothing else, barring an obsidian knife bound to a leather thong around her neck. ‘The Ay get restless.’

Listar frowned, looked about for the huge wolves, but the rolling plain with its windswept drifts of old snow seemed empty of life. As if to give credence to their name, the Dog-Runners had company wherever they travelled. Twice since departing the encampment, Listar had seen a half-dozen of the enormous beasts paralleling them in the distance. But the last time had been three or four days past. He’d thought them gone. ‘What has made them restless?’
And more to the point, how do you even know?

‘They wonder,’ Vastala replied, ‘when it’s time to eat horse. As do we.’

‘We’re not starving, are we?’

‘Fresh meat better.’ She lifted one red hand and made a strange, elaborate gesture.

A step behind her, Hataras laughed. ‘Then take him, fool.’

‘Punished Man,’ said Vastala, moving up alongside him. ‘Would you like to lie with me tonight? It is privilege. Bonecasters can have anyone.’

‘I will take him night after,’ Hataras said. ‘Too much waiting. He thinks us ugly, but in dark he will feel our beauty.’

‘I’ve not told you my crime,’ Listar said, edging away from Vastala. ‘You’ll want nothing to do with me. I had a mate. I killed her.’

‘No you didn’t,’ Vastala retorted, drawing close again.

‘You know nothing of it!’

‘You have never taken a life.’

A snort from behind them, and then, ‘Insects. Lice. Gnats.’

Vastala glared back at Hataras. ‘A Tiste life, then. You know this. Nothing stains him.’

‘Mice, spiders, fish.’

In a flash, Vastala spun and launched herself at Hataras. Both went down scratching and snarling, biting and kicking.

Listar halted, the horses nervously gathering up around him. He squinted northward, waiting for the scrap to work through to its exhausted, sex-filled conclusion. It was not the first fight between these women. He could not recall what had set them at each other the first time, but he had stared at them, alarmed, and then bemused, as the vicious grappling soon found nipples and the tangled thatch between their legs, and before too long the struggling grew rhythmic, with moans and gasps instead of snarls, and he had looked away then, his face burning.

These were the women he was escorting to the Hust Legion, the women who were meant to give shape to a ritual of some kind of absolution. Beyond the unlikelihood of success, Listar was troubled by such notions of forgiveness. Some things did not deserve what captains Prazek and Dathenar sought.