Fall of Light (32 page)

Urusander studied her. The day was failing around them, the wind picking up, bitter with cold. ‘I cannot say,’ he finally said. ‘Let us ask him, shall we?’

‘Best wait on that,’ Sharenas said. ‘Forgive me, sir. But we do not know the strength of your camp. I would speak to Lieutenant Serap first. She has suffered the loss of two sisters, after all, and this might well have cleared her vision of Hunn Raal. More, I would know the High Priestess’s place in all of this. And what of Infayen Menand, and Esthala, and Hallyd Bahann? Commander, these officers I have just mentioned – your favoured in the Legion – each one has been named in the pogrom and its grisly list of terrible crimes. Each one, I would say, has acted upon Hunn Raal’s orders.’

‘You think,’ Urusander said, ‘that you and I will stand alone, against an array already bound in conspiracy.’

‘A conspiracy in your name, sir, although that cause floats before them as but the thinnest veil. When the last flames of this war die down, I envisage a sudden end to the illusions, and ambition will stand naked before us.’

‘Who commands the Legion, captain?’

She shook her head. ‘The last commander to lead it into battle, sir, the last to lead it into victory, was Hunn Raal.’

‘I have made a mistake,’ Urusander said.

‘Nothing that cannot be remedied,’ Sharenas replied.

‘Sharenas Ankhadu, are we now at war?’ He looked away. ‘I called it such, only a few moments ago.’

‘Even from this, sir, peace can be won without any more bloodshed.’

‘Barring those who have committed crimes in my name.’

Indeed? And will you now do our enemy’s work for them? Execute the majority of your officers? Whether Ilgast Rend heard your promise or not, he would have been sceptical. Your justice, Urusander, thrives best in imagination. It remains an ideal, unsullied by any real world.

Scud over us if you will. I chose the land below you, and choose it still.

They continued on, skirting the edge of the high ground as they made their way to the front gatehouse. The setting sun on their left was a red smear on a horizon made dark by the burned grimace of the forest. Above that smear, the sky was streaked in gold.

She thought again about Urusander’s last promise. Justice shone fierce and blazing in the man walking at her side. Should he seek to impose it, however …
in the face of this man’s justice, mortal flesh will simply melt away.
No, he would be blunted at every turn. What had begun with the slaying of Enesdia – the slaughter at the wedding site – was a cascade of retribution. Too many aggrieved agencies to see anything like proper justice in what was to come. She was not even certain that Urusander could regain control of his own Legion.
Not while Hunn Raal lives.

The Issgin line lived under its own curse, and Hunn Raal was but the latest in its filial list of fools. But such stains had a way of spreading outward.

Urusander’s justice was without subtlety. There was not just one war being waged here. Surely he must comprehend that.
And what of me? Have I now committed myself to Vatha Urusander? Am I not nobleborn? What harsh choice awaits me, should this all unravel?

No, now was not the time to decide. For this moment, she would hold to honour, and her duty to her commander. For as long as he seemed fit to command. If there came a time when she must cut herself loose, she would be ready.

‘Sharenas,’ Urusander said, ‘I am pleased that you are back.’

  *   *   *

There was value in keeping close those who dwelt in all company, mostly unseen, always beneath regard, who served the single purpose of cleaning up whatever mess had been left behind. This notion lingered in the mind of High Priestess Syntara as she idly watched the maid gathering up the meal’s leavings. She knew, as well, how a man’s thoughts would set off down entirely different paths, gauging and perhaps even reflective, as eyes fixed on the swell of the girl’s behind, the thinness of her skirt.

Base impulses rode wine-heavy fumes, and there was no need to glance across at her guest to glean his musings. A drunk’s appetites were blind to every edge. Plates could crash, the young woman could cry out, as in his mind he flung her to the floor, and made blurred the boundaries of his desire.

It was no easy thing, to spar with a man like Hunn Raal. While her sober cleverness could slip in and around, past and through, a drunk was prone to sudden, unexpected moves. The dance was always uncertain.

For the moment, however, in this satiated silence following food and too much wine, she could ignore Hunn Raal and contemplate the necessity of people beneath notice. Only a deluded fool had the audacity to assert the notion that all were equal – no matter the arbiter, the final judge of such things; the sheer idiocy of such a claim earned no serious contemplation. Judgement was no crime in itself, and hardly a thing to shy away from, if the alternative was a levelling of all things to some idyllic, but impossible, ideal.

She had heard Urusander drone on about justice, as if by proscription and delineation law could be made to stand in place of what was both undeniable and wholly natural.
If in earning privilege, in attaining mastery over others, we find ourselves waging perpetual war to keep all things in their proper place – lesser people included – is it any wonder that we select few come to live a life under siege? And who can be surprised when desperation drives us to despicable acts of cruelty?

Such laws as Urusander would impose fashion for us the enemy’s face. It can be no other way. Things are not equal. People are not equal. There are those few who will rule, while the rest must follow.

Hunn Raal can have this woman, this maid, should he so choose. Her life is in his hands. In mine, too, for that matter. But we need no laws to force upon us the ethics of our comportment. Virtue never stands outside awaiting invitation like a stranger at a gathering. It is born of the light within us.

In any case, see how bright it burns in some, but not others.

The maid departed.

‘She is new?’ Hunn Raal asked.

Syntara sighed. ‘Many young women now come to me. It is my task to interview them, and find their place in things, be it household or temple.’

‘Ah,’ Hunn Raal said, slowly nodding. ‘She did not pass muster then, as a priestess in waiting.’

‘Lowborn and ignorant,’ Syntara said, settling back on the cushions. ‘Wholly lacking in any spark.’

Hunn Raal reached for his cup. ‘Most of the soldiers in my legion would share that assessment, should you make it of
them
. Lowborn. Not knowing much. And yet, are they not valuable? Are they not worth fighting for? Their lives, High Priestess, should not be a waste.’

‘Oh, spare me,’ she replied. ‘You fling them into the teeth of battle and think only of the outcome, the groaning shift of vast unseen scales. Does it nudge you a step closer to what you seek? That is your only concern, captain.’

Beneath heavy lids, he studied her for a moment, and then shook his head. ‘You are wrong. We seek recognition. For the sacrifices we made.’

‘Oh? And did the Houseblades of the Great Houses not make the same sacrifices? Why then do they not rate in your esteem?’

‘But they do. Soldiers, little different from us. It is their masters with whom we have a disagreement. In fact, High Priestess, it would not surprise me to find, on the day of battle, many of those Houseblades refusing to draw weapons, refusing indeed what their lords and ladies would demand of them.’

‘Is this your dream, Hunn Raal? A true uprising of the commoner, the lowborn, the ignorant and the witless? If so, then High House Light is not for you.’

Smiling, he held up a pallid hand and studied it. ‘The gift made no such distinctions, Syntara, and certainly not those you would now impose. How quickly a faith is corrupted.’

Anger flashed through her, but she bit it back. ‘Consider this, then. If there are none to serve, if, in the elevation of everyone, litter fills the streets, meals remain uncooked, crops lie unharvested, clothes unmended, the dust left to choke us all in our repasts, how fares this new paradise of yours, Hunn Raal?’

He scowled across at her.

She continued. ‘You wear a sword, captain, hinting at the threat behind your every request. But not just requests – after all, we need not mince words’ meaning here – no, behind your
expectations.
Of obedience. Of compliance. Of the continuation of the way things are, provided that the way things are sets you above those others, and makes solid your claim to rule over them.

‘As for your soldiers, why, I would think each dreams an identical dream – no different from your own. A retinue of servants for each soldier, slaves even, as proof of that “recognition” you so desire. Every ploughed field will sprout some new estate, as your beloved soldiers scramble to carve out their rightful place in the new scheme. As for the peasants, why, their lives will not change. They were never meant to change, not by your reckoning, in any case. You would shake the order, but not so much as to send the framework down into crashing ruin. This war of yours, Hunn Raal, is but a shuffling of the pieces. That and no more.’

‘And what is it that you seek, High Priestess, if not the same, as you elbow your way to the table?’ He snorted behind his cup. ‘You dance well, but it is in the same fire as the rest of us.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You can have that table, Hunn Raal, and all the new but grubby faces around it. What I seek is a new place, a new realm, in fact. One where Light rules, and Dark has no claim. I will make it here, in Neret Sorr.’

‘That wins us nothing, Syntara. They will marry. There will be unification through balance, Dark upon one side, Light upon the other.’ His expression grew ugly. ‘Now you sit here, seeking to change what we agreed upon, and I like it not.’

She narrowed her gaze on him. ‘I sense how the power of my gift now infuses you,’ she said. ‘Who would have thought that Hunn Raal, this rough, rarely sober captain of the Legion, should find in himself a burgeoning sorcery? By title you should name yourself warlock and be done with it.’

He laughed, collecting up the wine jug and leaning back on the cushions. He poured his cup full once more. ‘I’d wondered if you knew. It is … interesting. I explore it, but cautiously, of course. Risky to be headlong in such matters, as I am sure you have discovered.’

‘My comprehension is absolute,’ Syntara replied. ‘So much so that I advise you to be most careful in that exploration, Hunn Raal. You may in ignorance unleash something you cannot hope to control.’

‘Abyss take me, Syntara, but you have grown arrogant. Young women come to you, shining with dreams of a better future for themselves, for their wretched lives, and you set most of them to scullery, to waiting on you and your guests. Your High House Light looks suspiciously similar to every other noble household, and yet here you sit, spouting bland pretensions to justify your – apparently – near universal contempt for everyone else.’ He paused, drank deep, and then said, ‘I see now what Lanear saw in you. The beauty of your flesh belies an ugly soul, Syntara.’

‘No longer,’ she snapped. ‘I am purged. Reborn.’

‘Repeated, more like,’ he said, smirking.

There would come a time, possibly soon, when she would no longer need this man. The notion calmed her down. ‘You have not yet asked, Hunn Raal.’

‘Asked what?’

‘The maid. Do you want her tonight? If so, she’s yours.’

He set the jug and cup down, and then rose, carefully. ‘A man has needs,’ he muttered.

She nodded. ‘I’ll send her to your chambers, then. You may have her, for a day or two. But no longer, lest the dishes pile up.’

He stared down at her with his red-rimmed eyes. ‘You say I should name myself warlock, Syntara. I would offer some advice of my own, to you. You are not alone in this newfound power. Best, I think, we work together. Urusander weds Mother Dark. He is given the title of Father Light. The civil war ends on that day. As for you and Emral Lanear, well, fight with your temples all you want, just keep it civil.’

She said nothing as he made his way out. Drunks made dangerous adversaries indeed. No matter. Warlock or no, he would never be her match.

In her mind, she unleashed a momentary spasm of power. A side door was pushed open almost immediately thereafter, and the serving girl stumbled into the chamber, her eyes wide and frightened.

‘Yes,’ murmured Syntara, ‘that was me. Now, come closer. I need to look at your soul.’

Even terror could not win out against Syntara’s will. She found the girl’s soul, and crushed the life from it. In its place, she planted the seed of herself, a small thing, that would control its newfound body, and lead it into untold horrors. Through the girl’s eyes now, Syntara could look out, whenever she chose to, and not even Hunn Raal would be the wiser.

‘Now then, warlock,’ she said in a low whisper, ‘let’s see the depths of your appetites, shall we? Things to use, things to abuse, things to twist my way.’

Syntara sent the girl to the captain’s quarters.

There was value in keeping such creatures close at hand.

Lowborn, ignorant. Such a pathetic soul, so easily snuffed out. No great loss.

She would raise a temple, here in Neret Sorr. And set into its floor a Terondai, artfully recreating the sun and its torrid gift of fire. An emblem of gold and silver, a symbol of such wealth as to make kings ill. A temple to house a thousand priestesses, two thousand servants. And in the central chamber, she would raise a throne.

The marriage was doomed. There was not enough left in Vatha Urusander to assure a proper balance. Perhaps, she reflected, he had never been what others believed him to be. There was little of value in commanding an army: the talents required seemed few, and the measure of respect accorded it woefully out of proportion.

One need only look at Hunn Raal to see the truth of that. His talent, such as it was, served to feed the ambitions of others, clothed in the trappings of an acceptable violence. When she looked upon soldiers, she saw them as children, still trapped in their games of heroism, triumph, and great causes. But so much of that was delusion. Heroes fell into their heroism, mostly by accident. The triumphs were short-lived and, ultimately, changed nothing, which made those triumphs hollow. As for great causes, well, how often were they revealed to be little more than personal aggrandizement? The elevation of stature, the tidal swell of adoration, the penile gush of glory.