Fall of Light (96 page)

Cryba stared in disbelief.

‘Why, sir, did you think anger, aggression and pride would have any power over decency?’

Cryba raised both hands—

The hundreds of cages sprang open. The birds rushed out in a whirling mass and converged on Cryba, whose scream was quickly muffled beneath swarming wings.

The acolytes behind Endest Silann had one and all fallen to their knees. The crowd before him had retreated before the raging tumult of freed creatures, each bird an affront to their belief in mastery. The seller of songbirds was huddled on the ground, arms hiding his face.

Moments later, the flock swirled out from beneath the canvas awning, winging up into the sky above the city. Endest felt them leave, racing southward – bright sparks of joy.

Where Cryba had been there was now nothing, not even a scrap of clothing.

The hawker lifted his head. ‘Where’s Cryba?’

‘Given another chance,’ Endest replied. ‘An unexpected gift. It seems that my sorcery, such as it is, hides unanticipated depths of forgiveness. They carry his soul now, I believe. Well, tatters of it, perhaps.’

‘Murdered!’

‘To be honest,’ Endest said, ‘I am most surprised that they did not kill you instead.’

Staggering, the seller of songbirds – his skin suddenly seeming more grey than black – turned and fled, deeper into the maze of tunnels beneath the awnings.

Endest Silann glanced back at his followers. ‘What you will make of this,’ he said to the still kneeling figures, ‘is of no consequence. The sorcery within reach defies your compass, and mine. It may well usher forth from the Citadel’s Terondai, or rise from the earth itself. It may ride the currents of winter’s breath, or swirl beneath the ice on the river. Perhaps it bridges the stars themselves, and straddles the chasm between the living and the dead.’ He shrugged. ‘It arrives bereft of flavour, as open to abuse as to uses guided by moral considerations. It arrives raw as clay from a pit. Awaiting the grit of our imperfections, the throwing hands and the spinning wheel, the glaze of our conceit and the rage of the kilns. Today, I do not act in the name of Mother Dark. I act in the name of decency.’ He paused again, and then said, ‘So, rise you all, and attend to me. I have only begun.’

Endest Silann swung round to face the bowels of the Winter Market, with its masses, and all the private needs, the hidden fears and worries, the stresses of livings barely maintained, seemed to rise in ferment before him. And through this heady mix, he saw as well the pain of captivity, belonging to animals destined for slaughter; even the tubers, lying naked and arrayed for the taking, exuded a faint yearning for sweet earth.

Cages for our lives. Just another prison of necessity, wildly walled with every justification imaginable – these bars truncating what we believe to be possible. So many traps of thought.

Mother Dark, is this not what we all ask of you? Where is your promise of relief? For the joys we cling to are but islands in a sea of torment, and every moment of contentment is becalmed peace, edged with exhaustion.

Watch then, Mother Dark, as I deliver a day of release.

He felt her recoil.

But not retreat, and her gaze remained, and saw all there was to see, as he set forth, reaching out with his power to deliver the blessing of peace, from which none escaped. His followers wailed in his wake, while before him hardened men and women – with their wary but hungry faces, their knife-sharp eyes and their scars of toil – flinched before falling to their knees, before covering their visages as every struggle, every inner turmoil, was, for a short time, eased. For many, Endest saw as he moved down the aisles, such release loosed tears – not of sorrow, nor even of something like happiness, but of simple relief.

He moved among them like a drug, delivering a gift of the insensate, delivering to each person, in their turn, the benison of inner silence.

Tethered goats, hens in crates, tiny Eleint in their tall, net-walled prisons. Bats scrambling against the insides of wooden boxes, hares bound by one ankle – tearing the ligaments in their own legs as they bolted again and again, flinging themselves into the air – bawling myrid, tender dog pups, yet more songbirds, and squealing monkeys from the south – Endest Silann opened every door, severed every tether, and then, whispering
home,
sent the creatures away.
Home to your mothers. To your flocks, your herds, your forests or jungles. Home, in the name of some simpler justice, some simpler promise.

Figures loomed before him, charging in fury, only to halt as their rage vanished, as his blessing devoured them and made of each wounded soul a small thing that could, if one so chose, be cupped in loving hands.

Even death was open to refusal, as he came upon long tables crowded with dead fish that suddenly began flapping, gills working, eyes shining. And with a gesture he sent them away.
Go then, to your rivers and lakes. Today, the world returns to an untouched state. Today, I freeze all of time, and free you all to linger in the instant, this thing between breaths. This mote of peace.

Mother Dark watched as he strode through the chaos, as he unravelled the market, stole away food, denied to all the press of hunger. She watched, because she could do nothing else, for her eyes were inside wounds in his hands, and wounds did not blink.

Sorcery proved a thief of many things. Endest Silann found himself standing facing the centre of a square. Behind him was a portal that led back into the Winter Market, and from that canvas-lined throat drifted wailing and grief, only now dwindling as the day’s muted light hastened its surrender to dusk.

In the square before him crouched a dragon so vast and so close as to make his mind reel. Its scales were crimson edged in ochre or gold, deepening to bronze beneath its jaw and down the length of its throat. Black talons had punched deep into the cobbled ground. Its wings were folded behind humped shoulders, and the creature had lowered its massive, wedge-shaped head, fixing gold, lambent eyes upon the priest.

The dragon spoke into his mind with a woman’s voice.
‘Are you returned to us, mortal?’

He struggled to find his voice. Looking down, he saw that he held his hands upturned, the palms with their weeping wounds facing the dragon. She was witness. She was present.

‘You gave her the same peace, mortal. The same curse, and, with all those behind you, she now suffers its loss.’
The huge head tilted slightly.
‘But this did not occur to you, did it? The gift’s … other side. In your wake, mortal, a thousand Tiste now lie stricken with despair. I was drawn here – your effulgence was a beacon, your sorcery a terrible flowering in a dark, and dangerous, forest.

‘You were lost in it, mortal. You would not have stopped. You would have taken the entire city, and indeed, perhaps your entire land.’

‘What if I had?’ Endest voiced the question quietly, in no way defiant, but honest with wonder and horror.

‘Your gift of peace, mortal, was not what you imagined it to be. Their moment of bliss was not bliss. An end to life’s torment has but one name and that name is death. An end to torment and, alas, also an end to joy, and love, and the sweet taste of being.’

‘It was not death! I brought creatures back!’

‘In surfeit of power, there is the instinct to redress the imbalance. For each instant of death that you delivered, mortal, you reawakened a life. But the sorcery seduces, yes? Beware its assurances. Too often in magic, the blessing proves a curse.’

Struck silent, numbed by the implications of the dragon’s hard words, Endest Silann stared into the creature’s eyes. After a long moment, he said, ‘Then I thank you, Eleint. But still I wonder, why did you bother?’

‘I am made curious by acts of love, no matter the path they take – after all, in such a state, you are blind, and can but stumble unwittingly. You Tiste interest me. Raw, unbridled, as if Draconean blood lingered in your own.

‘If indeed it does,’
the dragon continued, slowly spreading its wings,
‘then your civil war is no surprise.’

‘Wait!’ cried Endest Silann. ‘Is this all you will give us? Where do you go? What is your name?’

‘Questions! I will not travel far, but do not look to me for succour. Love is but a flavour, no more and no less enticing than bitter anguish, or sour regret. Still, it … entices.’
The dragon’s wings were now fully spread, belling to unfelt winds, and the claws plucked free of their grip upon the cobbled expanse, as if they alone had been holding the creature bound to the earth.
‘I yield to you, Endest Silann – whose heart is too vast, whose soul begins to comprehend its own infinite capacity – my love. This time, to stay your ecstasy, I set finger to your lips. Next time, it may fall to you to offer me the same.

‘I am named Silanah. Should you choose to seek me out, find me before passion’s gate, where I am known to abide. Curious and … as ever … enticed.’

The dragon rose effortlessly, and the air buffeting the priest with each snap of the enormous wings was thick with sorcery, sharp as spice on the tongue.

He would have fallen to his knees, but somehow Mother Dark prevented the gesture. Instead, he stood facing skyward, watching the dragon vanish into the low clouds as his crowd of followers rushed to join him, their questions a deafening chorus he ignored. Limbs shaking, he closed his eyes. Blood streamed from his hands, as Mother Dark wept within him, like a woman with a broken heart.

  *   *   *

There was little mercy in the dusk, as the last light failed to hide the huge reptilian creature rising from the heart of Kharkanas. As one, the three travellers reined in, their mounts suddenly tossing heads and stamping on the frozen track.

Finarra Stone reached for her sword, then let her hand retreat back to the reins.

Winging southward, the dragon vanished into the heavy clouds.

Beside her, Caplo Dreem softly snorted. ‘Your sword, captain? As futile gestures go …’

‘And by the scent clinging to you,’ Warlock Resh retorted in her defence, ‘you were an instant away from scattering into the wilds of the wood upon either side of us. Grant the captain a more gentle regard, Caplo, lest you reveal the need to elevate yourself at the expense of others.’

‘Quickly stung, old friend. I meant nothing cruel by it.’

‘Naught but the intimation of your superiority, you mean.’

The assassin shrugged. ‘This ween is without pride, warlock. In any case, the beast is gone. Shall we resume this journey and so undertake our unremarked arrival in the Wise City?’

They set out once more, the horses nervous and reluctant.

‘I would think guards attend the city’s gate, assassin,’ said Finarra. ‘Thus, we will not escape remark, and word will precede us to the Citadel by way of signal from the tower.’

Caplo shrugged. ‘Even my tilt into modesty cannot go unchallenged.’

‘We are frayed,’ said Resh in a low growl. ‘Witness to a dragon rising from Kharkanas.’

‘Enough to humble us, yes?’ Caplo asked.

Finarra sighed. ‘Then forgive my pedantry, assassin.’

‘I anticipate we will be but an afterthought, given the events in the city on this day, but as you say, captain, the Citadel will indeed prepare for us.’

‘If I knew what either of you intended,’ Finarra said, ‘I’d be rather less fraught. We are to enter the Citadel, and stand before a painted pattern upon a floor. Is that all? A few moments of frowning regard, as if we were invited to peruse a portrait of uncertain talent.’

‘Uncertain talent, captain, or uncertain of our ability to comprehend said talent?’

‘What value discussing that distinction?’

‘Only to pass the time, captain.’

‘I would rather know your intentions. You and Resh both.’

‘Nothing untoward, I’m sure,’ answered Caplo in a murmur. ‘If the pattern tells a tale, we would read it. If it presents a conundrum, we shall ponder it. If a riddle, we shall play in it.’

‘And if it offers you nothing?’

‘Then we shall take upon ourselves the pose of fools.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Resh. ‘I intend to step into that Terondai’s pattern, to see the path it offers and, if I can, to take it.’

‘What if you’re not welcome?’ Finarra asked him.

Resh smiled across at her, a flash of white teeth in dark beard. ‘I shall have a sword-wielder at my side.’

She stared. ‘You expect me to accompany you? Into some unknown magical realm?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what appals me more, your assumption, or your faith that my sword can defend you.’

‘I am not as inclined,’ said Caplo, ‘to risk such a journey. But if you ask it of me, friend, I will guard your other flank.’

She turned on the assassin. ‘Then what do you seek, Caplo Dreem? You had such bold words earlier, as I recall.’

‘I cannot answer you, captain,’ Caplo replied. ‘You see bravado, but I assure you, I am lost.’

The admission sharpened her regard, but the assassin’s face remained hidden within his coarse woollen hood. Glancing across at Resh, she noted his frown. ‘Warlock, is it not time for the Shake to choose? Your god is dead. You assert your neutrality and the truth of your desire makes grey your very skin. But even if you will not kneel to Mother Dark, surely Lord Urusander has named you and your kind an enemy of the realm – should the Liosan win this war, there will be no place for the Shake.’

Caplo snorted. ‘Let Urusander face the monks in battle if he will.’

‘Then why not assemble them and ally with Lord Anomander and the Andii?’

‘And place ourselves in the shadow of the highborn?’ Caplo retorted. ‘What blessings have they ever given us? Tell me of the Houseblades who rode out from the keeps to help defend the Deniers of the forest! No, they were content enough with that slaughter—’

‘As were you and your monks!’

‘To our shame,’ Resh confessed. ‘We are bound to the commands given us by the Higher Graces. Nor does it seem likely that they will change their minds, even should Anomander come calling at Yannis.’