Fall of Light (98 page)

Kellaras wished he was drunk, if only to weaken whatever credence such tales were worth. Instead, in answer to a summons, he stood in the ancestral family chamber of the Purake waiting for Silchas Ruin to take notice of his arrival. The white-skinned warrior was at a table, leaning over a large, ornately illustrated vellum map, one detailed enough to note elevations, with scrawled observations pertaining to ease of passage among various trails and tracks. The work was Kadaspala’s, devised in the wake of the wars against the Forulkan and the Jhelarkan, a belated gift the value of which had been questionable, at least until this moment.

Finally, Silchas Ruin stepped back, and slumped into a high-backed chair. He eyed Kellaras for a moment before speaking. ‘A dragon to mock our walls. A season to mock our rest. Have you seen Grizzin Farl?’

‘No, milord, not for many days.’

Sighing, Silchas gestured at the map. ‘We will meet the Legion at the Valley of Tarns. It is shallow and broad, the old riverbed wide and not too stony. There are defiles to the east of it, the tangled wreckage of a burned forest to the west. Tell me, do you think Lord Urusander will oblige us?’

‘He is reputed to be confident, milord.’ Kellaras hesitated, and then added, ‘The valley is known to him, since it is where he first mustered the Legion, before marching south to meet the Forulkan.’

‘Will he appreciate the irony?’

‘I do not know him well enough to answer you, milord.’

‘Hunn Raal will delight in it,’ Silchas Ruin predicted. ‘I have received a missive from Captain Prazek—’

‘Captain,
milord?’

‘Field promotion, one presumes. The Hust Legion will soon depart the training grounds.’

‘Prazek judges them ready, then?’

‘Of course not! Don’t be foolish, Kellaras. No,’ Silchas rose, suddenly impatient, ‘we have simply run out of time.’

A bell rang in the outer room.

With a flash of irritation twisting his features, Silchas snapped, ‘Enter!’

The Houseblade who stepped into the chamber saluted both men and said, ‘Lord Silchas, there has been an … occurrence, at the Terondai. A monk of the Shake and a Warden were seen to be taken.’

‘Taken where?’

‘Milord, they strode on to the pattern, and then simply vanished. Another monk is even now approaching the Chamber of Night—’

‘Unchallenged?’

The young woman before them blinked. ‘The High Priestess dismissed the guards upon the approach some time ago, milord. It seems … there is nothing to defend.’

‘This monk,’ said Kellaras. ‘Is he known?’

‘No, sir. Hooded to hide his face. But the one who vanished in the Terondai was Warlock Resh.’

There was a moment when none moved, and then Silchas reached for his sword-belt. ‘Both of you, ready weapons and attend me.’

The three set out in haste.

Caplo Dreem. Sheccanto’s favourite assassin. And this time, Anomander does not stand in his path.

  *   *   *

A single Houseblade had followed Caplo Dreem, accosting him at the entrance to the corridor leading to the Chamber of Night’s door. Irritated and mostly unmindful, the assassin left the man’s corpse sprawled across the cracked flagstones and continued on until he faced the sweating blackwood barrier. The polished wood was now crowded with carved runes that framed illustrated panels. Caplo paused, frowning at the images for a moment.
Scenes of gift giving. That one must be Draconus, and that faintest of outlines … Mother Dark. Or what’s left of her. Odd, isn’t it, how it is the goddess who receives gifts? What shall we make of him who bears them?

But such ponderings were but distractions. A wild fever burned in Caplo Dreem, the hunger to unfold, one into many, as if snapping the chains of his own flesh and bone. He bared his teeth in anticipation, and then kicked against the door to the Chamber of Night.

The strength within him was startling even to his own eyes. The blow proved savage enough to splinter the wood, sending cracks through the delicate carvings. The ancient iron hinges broke with popping sounds, and a second kick sent the portal toppling with a heavy crash upon the threshold.

Bitter cold assailed Caplo and he voiced an animal snarl in answer.
Take me then, Old Blood. We have known restraint for too long.

He blurred, burgeoned, and with visceral jolts veered into a dozen lithe, feline forms, each one black as the surrounding darkness. In his wake he left the tatters of his clothing, his worn boots, the leather belts and straps bearing his knives, and the hood and heavy wolf fur cloak, all heaped into a disordered pile.

The earth beneath his many padded feet was frozen clay, slick and unyielding. From twelve pairs of eyes, he studied the way ahead – the stunted, leafless trees rising from the plain, the wayward lines of boulders marking out mysterious patterns upon the vague slopes a short distance before him, and off to the right – those many eyes narrowed – the skeletal frame of a wheeled wagon. Even incomplete, it was massive, almost beyond comprehension. To look upon it was to reel with the jarring impossibility of its scale – and he felt his ears flattening with instinctive fear.

A man stood near one enormous wooden wheel. He had turned upon Caplo’s arrival.

I see you, Draconus! And yet … yet –

Spreading out, the panthers edged forward, tails twitching, twelve pairs of eyes fixing upon the man who now slowly approached. The promise of violence flared within Caplo.
Old Blood, why did I deny you for so long?

‘You Shake are a presumptuous lot, aren’t you?’

He is weak. Weaker than I expected. As if some part of his soul is missing. Even more pleasing, he is unarmed.

Draconus shook his head. ‘D’ivers now, as well. The Shake consort with forces they do not understand. Not just the cursed legacy of desperate Eresal eludes that understanding, but so too the one you would now challenge.’

As Caplo drew closer, he saw chains strewn upon the ground, the rough links stretching back towards the wagon, vanishing beneath its vast bed. Scores, perhaps hundreds, they made a web upon the frozen clay, the heavy shackles at their ends gaping and glistening with frost. Seeing them, Caplo felt faint unease rippling through his dozen bodies.

‘You mean to kill her, Caplo Dreem? You will fail. She is well beyond your reach.’

Caplo focused his thoughts, sent them out towards Draconus.
‘Do you hear me, lord?’

Draconus grunted. ‘I’ve listened since the moment of your arrival, D’ivers. My weakness, my incompleteness … these hands’ – he lifted them – ‘you deem less than weapons.’

‘I care nothing for her. The power here is yours and yours alone.’

‘Not any more. Such was my gift to the woman I love.’

‘And who are you to give it?’

Draconus shrugged. ‘Here, I am named the Suzerain of Night.’

‘The Tiste House of Dracons is a deceit. Old scents, known to the Old Blood within me. You are an Azathanai.’

Reaching down, Draconus collected up a length of chain. ‘If it’s me you want, assassin, come along then. You can collect your coin from Urusander later – or is it Hunn Raal? I would not imagine Sheccanto or even Skelenal have given this deed their blessing.’

‘Now you speak plain, Draconus. No highborn poetry to ride your last breaths.’

The Azathanai shrugged. ‘I can’t be bothered.’

The twelve panthers now surrounded Draconus, giving Caplo a view of the huge man from every angle. Somehow, this did not confuse him, and the flood of senses was a delicious roar in his mind, rising like flames.

The Old Blood was not interested in subtlety. Caplo attacked at once, from all sides. Twelve panthers, converging upon a single enemy.

The chain lashed out, wrapping tight upon a leaping form, and Draconus yanked it close even as the remaining beasts slammed into him. Caplo felt his many fangs sink deep into the man’s flesh. He felt his claws score deep furrows upon the muscles of the Azathanai’s broad back – down to scrape along ribs and shoulder blades. More talons plunged into the man’s stomach. The muscles there clenched suddenly to trap those claws, defying every effort at evisceration, but Caplo held on. Jaws from another beast ground tight around the back of Draconus’s thick neck, seeking the windpipe.

Through all of this, somehow the Azathanai remained standing. The panther he had snared with the chain came within reach of his hands, and, releasing the chain, Draconus drove thumbs deep into the beast’s throat. Blood sprayed and the cat screamed.

Caplo felt its sudden death in a wave of agony.

Flinging the carcass away, Draconus reached round to tear loose the animal clinging to his back and neck, and the Azathanai’s strength was appalling. Unmindful of his own torn flesh, he pulled the writhing breast around, and then broke its spine with a savage twist of his wrists.

Caplo howled.

Fangs and claws tore flesh to shreds, ripped through muscles, yet still Draconus remained upright, his wide-legged stance unyielding.

A third panther – the one with its foreclaws sunk deep into the Azathanai’s gut – died beneath the skull-shattering blow of a single fist.

Caplo released his sense of all but one cat – leaving them to fight on by instinct – and flung his strength into that single creature, which had locked its jaws about the man’s left thigh, and now, writhing and spinning round with a surge of unnatural strength, he toppled Draconus. The remaining panthers closed in to finish him.

Another died, neck broken, its head suddenly loose in the grip of the man’s hands.

But the panthers savaged the writhing, kicking, blood-soaked figure.

Caplo shrieked when a lone hand stabbed into the gut of the beast he rode, and in a welter of blood and fluids his guts were pulled out from their cavity. The assassin fled the dying cat, found another.

But Draconus found that one immediately, rolling to pin it beneath him, even as he began punching, each blow of his fist shattering ribs, flensing the lungs beneath them.

The death of so many beasts broke something in Caplo. Howling, he tore himself free of the Azathanai. The six surviving panthers reeled in retreat, flanks heaving, ears flat, fangs bared. They halted a half-dozen paces from the prone man.

Who then laughed from where he lay on his back. ‘Come, let us finish it.’

‘Why won’t you die!’

‘I should have,’ Draconus replied, shifting on to his side to spit out a gout of blood. ‘Or you
would
have, since I summoned my Finnest.’ He coughed, spat again. ‘But it seems to have gone astray …’ He groaned and pushed himself to his hands and knees. Blood poured from his wounds, making thick puddles beneath him. ‘And that’s not good.’ He glanced over with dull red eyes. ‘Still, I’ll leave one of you. For the chains. Though I doubt you’d deem them a mercy.’

Hissing, Caplo backed away.

‘You all thought me unmindful,’ Draconus said. ‘An impediment to your newfound powers. You, Syntara, Raal, even my beloved. But things have been unleashed. Indeed,’ he paused to cough again, ‘it’s all becoming something of a mess.’ He waved one hand back towards the massive wagon. ‘But I’m working on it. Take some faith in that. Tell your Higher Graces this: I will see it all through, and by that alone, you will one day find a throne awaiting you.’

‘We have no need of a throne! We have no realm to rule!’

Draconus showed red-stained teeth in a cruel grin. ‘Heed your fucking leopard instincts, Caplo, and find some patience. Restraint, even. I’m working as fast as I can.’

Caplo crouched his forms low, studied the ravaged Azathanai.
‘You promise us a realm?’

‘And a throne. Do they seem gifts? Remind yourself of that the day you need to defend them both.’

‘Where will we find these … gifts?’

Draconus grunted a bitter laugh. ‘Not in your precious monasteries.’ He pushed himself to his feet, stood tottering, his dripping hands held out slightly for balance. ‘You have a choice here. Leave, and seek those already upon the shore. Or try me again. But should you prevail against me, ruin will haunt you all – with my blessing.’ And he offered Caplo another crimson smile, this one faintly sad.

The six panthers turned to depart.

Behind them, Draconus raised his voice. ‘That way, Caplo? Are you sure?’

Snarling, the assassin padded to the gate. Moments before passing through the shattered doorway, he sembled into his Tiste form, and then staggered to the massive wounds upon his naked body.

I should have thought of that.

Gasping, blinded by pain, he stumbled through the portal.

  *   *   *

Since seeing High Priestess Emral Lanear, Orfantal had struggled with an overwhelming desire to curl into her lap. She seemed a mother of bad habits, and this intrigued him. He was not interested in making sense of it – thinking too much about things hadn’t done him much good, thus far. There was something clean and pure in his sense of the guardian wolves he had on occasion conjured into being, and what he could feel of their minds told him that there were creatures in the world – in all the worlds – that lived simpler lives. He wanted to emulate such ways of living.

And so he haunted her, keeping his eyes hidden within the wreaths of smoke drifting around her as she sat, unmoving apart from the steady rise and fall of the water-pipe’s mouthpiece in one hand and the swell and ebb of her chest. So many things were possible now. He could drift unseen through the Citadel, wandering its corridors, sliding beneath doors and into chambers that had once been forbidden him. His body, small as it was, could of course achieve none of this. So he had left it behind, in the cell where he slept, with Ribs lying against the door.

He rode the currents of Kurald Galain, but for all their enticements, from the fascinating patterns and sly invitations of the Terondai to the red tears of Mother Dark’s eyes – unable to look away in the palms of the priest, Endest Silann – Orfantal found himself drawn back to the High Priestess, who still sat alone in her chamber, gaze heavy upon the slightly open door, as if awaiting someone.