Fall of Light (133 page)

Wreneck looked much older than Orfantal remembered, scarred and sure-eyed, like a warrior or a hunter. He carried a spear, and no one he passed in the corridors challenged him. Orfantal did not know if he should be frightened as Wreneck followed the ghost ever deeper into the Citadel, and ever closer to where he now hid.

But all these details were shoved to the wayside upon the return of Emral Lanear, the mother he would have chosen for himself. He longed to curl up in her lap again, not just in spirit, but with his own body, its solid limbs and the weight of his head resting on her breast.

Everywhere there was the talk of war, of the battle to come. Everywhere in the Citadel, and in the city beyond, there was a miasma of fear and uncertainty. People were in motion, restless and at times scurrying, as if their labours could reshape the future. And how their hands worked! He watched pots being scrubbed, stacked and dried, and then hung on hooks in neat rows. He watched clothes being folded, floors being swept, cords of wood perfectly stacked. Axe-edges honed, blades polished. Everywhere his mind looked, he saw a frenzy of order taking hold of men and women.

Panic was the enemy, the mundane necessities of living a ritual of control, and as control was torn away – out beyond the walls, out beyond the city itself, those busy hands at the ends of those arms – they all retreated to what was in reach. That and nothing more.

And this is us. This is the Tiste.

And, the ghosts tell me, this is how a civilization falls.

He would curl into her lap, as she sat in her chair, tendrils of smoke rising about them. In a chamber well guarded by his ghostly wolves. Children only ever had one place of retreat.

My real mother is skin over wounds. She hurts everywhere inside, and she wants to bring it to me. She has a new child, a thing of sorcery, a thing of terrible power. I see the Eleint in the baby’s eyes, the father’s ancient power.

If Mother keeps her close, that toddling thing, she will poison it. She will make a monster.

Wreneck was coming closer. He would reach this room in only a few moments. Orfantal blinked, withdrawing his vision, his multitude of strange senses that quested everywhere like unseen draughts. He glanced down at Ribs, watched the dog dreaming in a cascade of twitches. Easier to make the beast sleep than to see it ever fleeing.

If he had the words, he would tell Emral Lanear so many things. If he had the words, he would say this:
Mother Emral Lanear, I feel your clouded mind, and all the guilt you refuse to think about. I feel your grief at beauty lost, there in the mirror. And I would tell you otherwise, how your beauty is something no mirror could capture.

Mother of Darkness cannot be seen, so you stand in her stead. Her true representative. Even you do not understand that. Just like the goddess, you are the mother of us all. And that space surrounding you, that vast space, it is your gift of freedom. To your children.

But it seems we’ve made it a place for killing.

But no such words came to him, except in the echo of someone else’s voice. There were times – and he heard this in a whisper – when the poet took liberties, to sweep aside the confusion in service of clarity. To make things plain.

Some indulgences must be borne. For others, patience was wearing thin.

The door opened. Wreneck stepped warily into the chamber. ‘Orfantal?’

Orfantal uncurled from Lanear’s chair. ‘She’s back,’ he said. ‘She’s coming here, I think.’

‘What? Who?’

‘The High Priestess. Hello, Wreneck.’

‘I’ve come to warn you.’

‘Yes, my mother. And her new child.’

‘Korlat. She’s named Korlat.’

‘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 Turayd 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.