‘As did this K’rul, too, surely.’
Grizzin Farl nodded.
‘And what has it cost him, Azathanai?’
‘The tale of that is not yet complete, Mother.’
‘Then the blood still flows.’
Grizzin Farl started, and then he sighed. ‘A most apt description.’
‘He comes to me now. Will you remain to witness our reunion?’
‘Mother Dark, I fear there is nothing left here to protect.’
Her gesture of dismissal was perfunctory. Grizzin Farl bowed, and then strode from the Chamber of Night.
Outside the chamber he paused in the corridor. I forgot to warn her. With the birth of one gate, there will be others.
* * *
Their horses labouring in the acidic air, Spinnock Durav and his commander rode down to the shores of the Sea of Vitr. They had heard a thunderous reverberation, as of the air itself splitting open, and hastily saddling their mounts they had left the camp among the boulders well above the shoreline, and ridden out to discover the source of that terrible sound.
For three days, Spinnock and the others in the troop had explored the strand, moving among scores of dead and dying monstrosities, no two alike. If born of the Vitr, each had been nurtured on foul milk, and the sea in which they found their home had set upon them with frenzied hunger. The creatures crawled free of the silver waters torn apart, bleeding, their flanks hanging loose, bones exposed and many ruptured by unbearable pressures. Even then, they took a long time to die.
The horror of these births assailed the Wardens. There was no sense to be made of this failed invasion, and for all the violence borne in the arrival of the demons, nothing but pity could attend their death throes. As Calat Hustain had observed only the day before, any entity, beast or otherwise, could not but lash out in the midst of such agony.
They knew well to keep their distance, and the veracity of Finarra Stone’s report was evinced time and again, when creatures little more than exploded carcasses somehow found the strength to thrash and fight on, seeking to drag themselves out from the Vitr.
This horror was a weight upon the Wardens, and Spinnock Durav felt a dulling of the pleasures he took in life. Each morning he awoke enervated, feeling helpless, and dreading the next journey down to the shoreline.
As the thunderclap seemed to shiver on through the caustic air, they rode clear of the final boulders above the strand, and could see at last the source of that event.
A wall of fire hovered in the air above the Sea of Vitr, as if a new sun had been born. Yet it was not so bright as to blind them. The flames writhing about its edge seemed to erupt, flying outward in strands and threads, like molten gold escaping the edge of a spinning wheel. These fires vanished like sparks, and none curved in flight or arced downward to the surface of the silver sea.
The emanation was stationary, hovering in the sky. It was difficult to determine its size, but the reflection it cast upon the sea was immense.
The troop reined in on the strand, forming a row. Their horses trembled under them, and glancing to his right and left Spinnock was struck by the audacity of this conceit: that he and his fellow Wardens – that the Tiste of Kurald Galain and even Mother Dark – could somehow stand firm against such forces of nature.
A sudden conviction took hold in him: this sea would never be defeated. It would continue to grow, devouring land as it did behemoths, poisoning the air, stealing the life from all that it touched. Sorcery would fail against it, and will alone proved frail defiance.
‘There are shapes within it!’ one of the Wardens cried.
Spinnock looked back up at the blazing conjuration.
The air cracked anew, with a force that staggered the horses and flung men and women from their saddles. Spinnock managed to remain mounted, fighting to keep his balance. A rush of sweet wind rushed out, lashing across the surface of the Vitr, revealing at last something of the distance out from the shoreline of this raging sun. The power of that gale, as it poured out from the emanation, lifted waves upon the sea.
It seemed that Spinnock was the first to comprehend the portent of that. ‘We must flee!’ he shouted. ‘Commander! We must retreat!’
He saw Calat Hustain, who had also managed to remain on his horse, swing round to stare at him, and then the commander began shouting. ‘Withdraw! Hurry!’
The horses that had unseated their riders had already fled the onslaught. Those Wardens now on foot were quickly gathered up by their comrades. The beasts were shrilling in terror, and the surface of the strand itself was shivering.
A third eruption sounded.
Spinnock glanced back.
Abyss take me. Abyss take us all!
Dragons emerged from the emanation, wings outstretched, their tails scything the air in their wake. One after another, Eleint were rushing out to lift on the air, like birds freed from a cage. Faintly, through the howling wind, came their piercing cries.
Upon the sea, a succession of monumental waves advanced towards the shore.
There was no need for further exhortations from Calat Hustain. The troop rode up from the strand in frantic retreat. Even the boulders did not seem proof to what was coming.
Plunging into the rotted tumble of crags and rock, Spinnock left his mount to find its own way. A massive shadow swept over him and he looked up to see the belly and translucent wings of a dragon sailing above them. The Eleint’s long neck curled and the head came into view, almost upside down as the creature flew on, and Spinnock saw how its eyes seemed to blaze as they looked down on him. Then that wedge-shaped head tilted, as the beast scanned the other riders who were just breaking clear of the boulders and beginning to cross the dead ground, towards the black grasses of Glimmer Fate.
The dragon’s talons spread wide, and then closed again.
Moments later, with savage beats of its wings, the creature lifted higher into the sky. One of its companions swung close and then, as the first dragon’s jaws snapped the air in warning, away again.
A rider came alongside Spinnock, and he saw that it was Sergeant Bered. He shot Spinnock a wide-eyed look. ‘Nine!’ he shouted.
‘What?’
‘Nine of them! And then it closed!’
Spinnock twisted round, but at that moment his horse reached the high grasses and plunged into the mouth of the nearest trail. The tall, razor-edged stalks whipped and slashed at him. Spinnock was forced to drop his visor and keep his head down as his mount galloped deeper into the Fate.
The ground shook to a succession of concussions, and the wind redoubled, flattening the grasses on all sides.
Glancing back, he saw the first and largest of the waves pounding over the boulders, knocking many aside as if they were but pebbles.
The silver walls rushed across the dead ground, and struck the edge of the grasses.
A flash lit the air, blinding him. He heard shouts and then screams, and then his horse was tumbling, and he was spinning through the air, landing hard on the flattened mat of the grasses. Skidding, feeling countless blades slicing through his leather armour as if they were sharp iron, Spinnock kept his forearms against his face. He rolled and came to a stop.
He was facing the way he had come, and he stared in disbelief.
The Vitr thrashed against an invisible wall, delineated by the edge of Glimmer Fate, and there the silver water climbed and lunged, only to be flung back. Wave after wave hammered against this unseen barrier, and each spent its power in raging futility. In moments the sea began its foaming, churning retreat.
Spinnock sat up, surprised that no bones had broken. But he was slick with blood. He saw his horse stagger upright a dozen paces away, to stand trembling and streaming red from its wounds. On either side other Wardens were appearing, stumbling over the flattened grasses. He saw Calat Hustain, cradling an arm that was clearly broken between shoulder and elbow, his face cut open as if by talons.
Dazed, Spinnock looked skyward. He saw a distant spot, far to the sout
h now, marking the last dragon visible in the sky.
Nine. He counted nine.
* * *
Hearing a horse upon the road behind him, Endest Silann moved to the shallow ditch to let the rider past. He drew his cloak tighter about him and pulled up the hood to send a veil of shadow over his eyes. Three days past, he had awakened alone in the historian’s room to find his hands bound with bandages, to take up the blood that had wept from them.
There had been a faint sense of betrayal in this, given Rise Herat’s promise to abide, but upon leaving the chamber and finding himself in a corridor crowded with half-panicked denizens, and learning of the frightening manifestation of darkness in the courtyard, Endest pushed away his disappointment.
The Consort’s dramatic return had reverberated throughout the Citadel, and it seemed that the conjurations of that day were far from done. He had felt Night’s awakening, and then had fled, like a child, the flood of darkness that took first the Citadel, and then all of Kharkanas.
Carrying nothing, he had set out upon the river road, sleeping in whatever remaining hovels he could find amidst the grim wreckage of the pogrom. He saw no one for long stretches at a time, and those he did come upon shied from his attention. Nor was he inclined to accost any of them, hungry as he was. They had the furtiveness of wild dogs and looked half starved themselves. It was difficult to comprehend how quickly Kurald Galain had surrendered to dissolution. Time and again, as he walked, he had felt tears streaming down his cheeks.
The bandages still wrapped about his hands had become filthy, freshly soaked through with blood each night, drying black in the course of the day. But he now walked clear of the sorcerous darkness, and still as the forest was, with its burnt stretches and scorched clearings, he had found a kind of exhausted peace in his solitude. The river upon his left marked a current that he felt himself pushing against on this road. He had begun this journey knowing nothing of his destination, but he had realized that that ignorance had been a conceit.
There was but one place for him now, and he was drawing ever closer to it.
The rider came up from behind and Endest heard the animal’s pace slowing, until the stranger appeared alongside him. Endest desired no conversation and cared nothing for the rider’s identity, but when the newcomer spoke it was in a voice that the priest knew well.
‘If we are to adopt the habit of pilgrimage, surely you are walking the wrong way.’
Endest halted and faced the man. He bowed. ‘Milord, I cannot say if this path belongs to the goddess. But it seems that I am indeed on pilgrimage, though until you spoke I knew it not.’
‘You are weathered by your journey, priest,’ said Lord Anomander.
‘If I fast, milord, it is not by choice.’
‘I’ll not impede your journey,’ Anomander said. He reached down and drew out from a saddle bag a leather satchel, which he threw over to Endest. ‘Break your fast, priest. You can do so while you walk.’
‘Thank you, milord.’ In the satchel, there was some bread, cheese and dried meat. Endest partook of this modest offering with trembling fingers.
It seemed Anomander was content, for the moment, to keep pace with Endest. ‘I have scoured this forest,’ he said, ‘and have found nothing to salve my conscience. No birdsong finds me, and not even the small animals spared by our indifference remain to rustle the leaves at night.’
‘The meek of the realm, milord, have but one recourse to all manner of threat, and that is to flee.’
Anomander grunted, and then said, ‘I’d not thought to include the forest animals, or the birds for that matter, as subjects of the realm. It is not as if we can command them.’
‘But their small lives, milord, tremble atop our altars none the less. If we do not command with the snare and the arrow, then we speak eloquently enough with fire and smoke.’
‘Will you lift back your hood, priest, so that I may see you?’
‘Forgive me, milord, but I beg your indulgence. I do not know if penance awaits me, but this journey is a difficult one, and I would not share it for fear of selfish motives.’
‘You choose, then, to walk alone, and to remain unknown.’ Lord Anomander sighed. ‘I envy your privilege, priest. Do you know your destination?’
‘I believe I do, milord.’
‘Upon this road?’
‘Just off it.’
Something changed in the First Son’s voice then, as he said, ‘And not far, priest?’
‘Not far, milord.’
‘If I made a spiral of my search,’ said Anomander, ‘I now close upon a place where I believe it ends. I think, priest, that we will attend the same altar. Will you make of it a shrine?’
Endest started at the notion. He fumbled to close the satchel, and then made his way over to Anomander to hand the leather bag back. ‘Such a thing had not occurred to me, milord.’
‘Your hands are wounded?’
‘No more than my soul, milord.’
‘You are young. An acolyte?’
‘Yes.’ Bowing his thanks for the food, Endest returned to the side of the road.
They continued on in silence for a time. Ahead, the track leading to the estate of Andarist appeared, flanked by burnt grasses and the skeletal remnant of a fire-scorched tree.
‘I do not think,’ said Anomander, ‘that I would welcome a consecration in that place, acolyte, even could you give it. Which you cannot. The only holy object in the ruin before us is an Azathanai hearthstone, and I fear to come upon it now, and see it broken.’
‘Broken, milord?’
‘I also fear,’ Anomander continued, ‘that my brother is not there, when I can think of no other refuge he might seek. I was told he chose the wilderness for his grief, and can think of no greater wilderness than the house where his love died.’
Endest hesitated, and then drew a deep breath. They were but a dozen paces from the track. ‘Lord Anomander,’ he said, halting but keeping his head down. ‘Mother Dark has blessed her.’
‘Her? Who?’
‘The maiden, Enesdia of House Enes, milord. In the eyes of our goddess, that child is now a High Priestess.’
Anomander’s voice was suddenly hard as iron. ‘She has blessed a corpse?’
‘Milord, may I ask, where were her remains buried?’
‘Beneath the stones of the floor, priest, upon the threshold to the house. My brother insisted and would have torn those stones from the ground with his bare hands, if we had not restrained him. Regrettably, there was some haste in that excavation. Her father lies beneath the ground at the entrance, and at his side is the body of the hostage, Cryl Durav. The Houseblades lie encircling the house. Priest, Mother Dark has never made claim to the souls of the dead.’
‘I cannot say, milord, that she does so now.’
‘What has brought you here?’
‘Visions,’ Endest said. ‘Dreams.’ He then lifted his hands. ‘I – I bear her blood.’
To utter those words was to unleash the torment within Endest, and with a cry he fell to his knees. Anguish rushed through him in waves black as midnight, and he heard his own voice emerging, broken and torn.
And then Lord Anomander was beside him, kneeling to draw an arm around him. When he spoke it seemed that it was not to the priest. ‘Why does she do this? How many wounds will she make us carry? I’ll not have it. Mother, if you would so share your guilt, look only to me. I will take it upon myself, and know it as familiar company. Instead, you make all your children carry the burden of your legacy.’ He barked a harsh laugh. ‘And what a wretched family we are.’
Then he was helping Endest to his feet. ‘Give me your weight, priest. We take these last steps together, then. Set hands upon the blank stones that mark her grave, and leave the stain of her blood. High Priestess she will be. Mother knows, she was used as one.’
The bitterness of those last words reached through to Endest, and perversely he took from it strength and renewed fortitude.
Together and on fo
ot, lord and priest made their way up the track.
Through blurred eyes, Endest saw the half-ring of low mounds of freshly turned earth. He saw the front of the house, its doorway still bereft of a door. He saw the larger mound that marked the barrows of Lord Jaen and Cryl Durav. He had seen it all before, in his dreams. They drew closer, neither speaking.
Blood flowed anew from Endest’s hands, dripping steadily now as they came to the entrance to the house.
Lord Anomander paused. ‘Someone waits within.’
The stones of the floor just within the entrance were tilted, uneven now, and stained here and there with dirt, many of them in the patterns of handprints. Seeing this, Endest halted once more. ‘In my dreams,’ he said, ‘she is still dying.’
‘I fear the truth of that is in us all, priest,’ said Anomander. Then he moved past and stepped within. ‘Andarist? I come to set aside vengeance—’
But the figure that rose from its seat upon the hearthstone, in the heavy gloom of the unlit chamber, was not Andarist. This man was huge, with fur upon his shoulders.
Endest stood, watching, the blood from his hands dripping down on to the stones of Enesdia’s grave, and Lord Anomander strode forward to stand before the stranger.
‘The hearthstone?’ the First Son asked.
‘Beleaguered,’ the man replied in a deep voice. ‘Trust is strained, and the stains of blood cannot be washed from all that has befallen this place.’
Lord Anomander seemed at a loss. ‘Then … why have you come?’
‘We are bound, First Son. I have been awaiting you.’
‘Why?’
‘To defend my gift.’
‘Defend? From me? I will not breach this trust – for all that Andarist now denies me. I will find him. I will make this right.’
‘I fear you cannot, Anomander. But I know this: you will try.’
‘Then stand here, Azathanai, until the death of the last day! Defend this mockery of blessing so perfectly shaped by your hands!’
‘We are bound,’ the Azathanai said again, unperturbed by Anomander’s outburst. ‘In your journey now, you will find me at your side.’
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