by Glen Cook
“What?”
“The soultaken you defeated at al-Khazen were neither the beginning nor the end of your war with the Night. Their reasoning is fallacious. It’s too late to stuff the djinn back into the bottle. But the Night doesn’t see time the way we do. They think in centuries. They don’t often recognize individuals. But you they know. You’re a threat. You’re the Godslayer. You have to be stopped. Despite the obvious fact, from our viewpoint, that a lot of other people have figured it out, too, by now. Because you’re the spark who sparked bright enough for them to see.”
“One who hasn’t figured it out being Piper Hecht.” Cloven Februaren told him, “A while ago you decided to go along. You’d stop insisting that you’re Piper Hecht from Duarnenia. You’d let us define what we want you to be. As once you promised Ferris Renfrow you’d let him. As you’ve done with everyone since you arrived in Firaldia.
“Right here, right now, I’m telling you — between you and me, boy — the age of bullshit is over. I know every detail of your life. The most critical is that you stumbled on a way to kill the Instrumentalities of the Night. They don’t know how you did and they don’t know why it works, but they saw you spark. And your entire life since has been shaped by that night in Esther’s Wood.
“And your life is only one of thousands. On either side of the curtain between the world and the Night.
More so, probably, on the other side. They’re slow to learn but they can smell a threat before it arises.
The soultaken meant to destroy you began their journey two hundred years before you were born. And though they’ve failed so far, they haven’t failed yet.
“You’ve shown the world that there’s a way to free itself from the Tyranny of the Night. Unfortunately, those dedicated to that end are captained by a lunatic named Sublime who is the slave of his own obsessions. And who is continuously manipulated by people who make sure he never comes into contact with any taint of reality.”
“I’m no messiah.”
“Of course not. You can’t crusade against the Instrumentalities of the Night. You have neither the will, the skill, nor the temperament. You’re a talisman. A totem of the living. While you live, the Night feels threatened.”
“Wouldn’t it be threatened anyway, if the knowledge is loose?”
“Of course. But the Night is constrained by its own mythical thinking. You need to understand that. You can’t reason with the Night any more than you can with a crocodile. But you can figure out what goes on behind the curtain by studying the shadows cast.”
“I’m lost. I always am around this kind of talk.”
Februaren said, “The wells of power are weakening everywhere. The same thing happened in antiquity.
Which is partly why those people were able to tame that generation of Instrumentalities. The wells came back that time. Hopefully, they will again. Meanwhile, though, we suffer the consequences. Sea levels are falling. The ice is coming south. And building up in the high mountains. Fast. Populations are running ahead of the ice. The Instrumentalities of the Night as well as humans and animals.”
“Animals?”
“It shouldn’t be many years before we see species formerly found only in the north. They shouldn’t be a problem. Refugees will. They are already. But worst will be the hidden things. As they flee the ice they’ll be forced into closer contact. The predators will get stronger. The confined, constrained, and shattered monsters of the past will grab the imaginations of fools, offering a lie. ‘Free me. I will be your God, before all others, and you shall reign over all the nations.’ That sort of thing.”
“Resurrecting the old devils.”
“As you wish. What they’re called doesn’t matter. What does is, it’s already happening along the edges of the ice. And in the other cold places. They’ve smelled the essence of Rook in the End of Connec. The ghost of the Windwalker has been seen up where your imaginary forbears battled the pagan horde. On the steppe …”
“Hang on. Kharoulke the Windwalker isn’t a Sheard god. He belongs to a pantheon displaced by the northern Old Ones.”
“You’re right. And those Old Ones have fallen, blessings be upon you. Some of their strengths have been taken by the monster in the Jago Mountains. The survivors are locked inside a pocket reality that is, itself, trapped inside a closed realm they created for themselves long, long ago. Meaning they can’t constrain the terrors they conquered when they arose anymore. More are sure to reemerge after the Windwalker.”
“There are worse things to come?”
“It will happen, Piper. Everywhere. But this time we can fight.”
“Uhm?”
Irked, Februaren snapped, “Because of your damned toy cannon! What was it called? A falcon? A silver and iron blast from one of those will stop the most powerful Instrumentality.”
“Even God Himself?”
Februaren missed only one beat. “Most likely. If He assumes a corporeal form.”
Hecht shuddered. It was true. Godslayer.
“Like it or not, the God of the Chaldareans, and the God of the Pramans, is just a glorified brownie.”
“Excuse me?”
“Brownie, Piper. Pay attention. A little bitty Instrumentality. The difference between a grain of sand and a mountain is the size of the rock. A brownie is a God who hasn’t grown up yet.”
“There is no God but God.”
“You can’t possibly be that blind ignorant. Take five minutes when you have five free. Use them to think. Then use the next five to think some more.”
Hecht started to say something underpinned by a foundation of his faith. The faith on which his life had been built since his earliest days in the Vibrant Spring School.
“Stop it, Piper. You’re over that nonsense.”
In a way, Hecht realized, he was. But dogma was a shield against reason. Faith was the way you defended yourself against real world evidence.
“It’s hard.”
“It’s hard for everyone, boy. You spend three decades being fed half-truths and untruths by trusted elders who have an abiding interest in having those who come up behind them swallow the same nonsense that they imbibed when they were young. Then you begin to discover details of the landscape and horizon that faith just doesn’t explain. You begin to grow suspicious. But you’re part of a culture that just can’t survive and prosper if it becomes infected by a wide-spread disbelief in the absurd.”
Hecht could not restrain himself. “What in the hell are you babbling about, Your Grace?”
“I’m saying it’s all bullshit, boy. The Episcopal Chaldarean Revelation. Everything Praman. Any other belief system you want to toss in. Every religion. The truth is, there are the Instrumentalities of the Night.
As huge as God. As tiny as a water sprite. All neutral in fact. All wicked in declaration by true believers of other religions. The believers shape the Instrumentalities by believing. They create reality with their faith. Change the minds of the true believers and you change the face of God. That’s what the first Pramans did. And the first Chaldareans. Before Aaron and the Founders, the Devedians found that they could no longer honor the harsh God of the Dainshaukin.”
“You’re saying it doesn’t matter what I believe? That God wears whatever face I want? That any belief, however heretical, is as valid as any other?”
“An uncomfortable way of stating it. But nearer the truth than most of my profession would admit.”
Hecht was honest. “I need the foundation.”
“Most people do. It’s essential to their spiritual well-being. They need to be a brick in a great edifice to feel like they have any meaning.”
“I’m happy the way I am.”
“Fine. Don’t let it blind you when the claws of the Night are pulling you down. Remember: Neither your God nor mine showed up at al-Khazen. But gods were there.”
The Godslayer reflected: Who but the God Who Is God could have inspired him to load that falcon with silver that night in Esther’s Wood?
“Yes.” With a touch of sarcasm.
“For example. The amulet you wear. Useful, yes? Saved your life several times, no doubt. But a huge frustration, now, to your great enemy. Who no doubt curses himself daily for having given it to you. In the form that he did.”
“Sir?”
“Relax. No one else has the skills to detect it. Though Bronte Doneto and Muno surely suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”
Hecht said nothing. He pursed his lips. He would gut it out.
“I think er-Rashal discovered something distressing after he armed you with the amulet and sent you our way. Maybe from the mummies. Maybe because of what happened in Esther’s Wood. Suddenly, you were more valuable dead than alive. But he can’t strike directly because of the amulet. His hirelings failed the straightforward attempt in Runch …”
The old man was thinking out loud, now. “Failure in Sonsa. Not er-Rashal’s fault. Grade had been warned there might be a person of interest aboard ship, but that wasn’t why he was traveling. Failure in the Ownvidian Knot. Substantial failure by Starkden and al-Seyhan, here and at al-Khazen. Failures by the soultaken and even by He Who Harkens to the Sound. And numerous failures since. It’s almost as if you have a guardian Instrumentality.”
“Thank you.”
“I nearly failed with the firepowder cart. Can I be lucky forever? The amulet. I know what a boon it’s been. But it’s coming time for it to go. It’s how they track you.”
Hecht had begun to nod. Exhaustion was wearing him down.
The old man told him, “I’ll replace it with something better. As soon as I can. Does it cause much pain?”
He was too tired to dissemble. “When something big gets close, it’s bad.”
“I’ll fix that. Er-Rashal isn’t half the sorcerer he thinks he is. Sit back down. Let me see your wrist.”
Februaren dropped down cross-legged, took Hecht’s left hand, ran fingers lightly over his wrist. “The madman was cleverer than I thought. This is difficult to sense, even knowing it’s there.”
“Ouch!”
“Cleverer. That stung me, too. And here’s the problem. He’ll know the instant it comes off. And he’ll know where. That offers us a strategic opportunity to switch it out in the right place, at the right time, and panic someone.”
“Sir, I don’t feel like being clever. I feel like cutting throats to get a message out. Leave my people alone.”
“I understand your anger. Your frustration. How many of my family have I seen victimized? But people who behave that way aren’t often persuaded. They haven’t yet gotten the message when you start shoveling dirt into their faces.”
“I’m in a mood to fill a big hole.” “If we must, we will. There’s one more thing. The ring.”
“Uh … Ring?”
“The ring accidentally given you by Principatè Bruglioni. The ring of forgetfulness. Where is it?”
Wow. He had forgotten it. That quickly. “I gave it to Principatè Delari to study. Why?”
“It’s of no consequence right now. But it could be, someday. If it’s the ring I think it is.”
“Grinling?”
“Excuse me?”
“A ferociously nasty and treacherous magical ring in northern mythology. Shares some characteristics with this one.”
“Not that ring. Which probably does exist. Buried under the ice, one hopes. That sort of artifact can be crafted only with the connivance of the Instrumentalities of the Night. But it exists independently afterward. If Grinling, or any number of mystic swords, hammers, lassos, runespears, and whatnot, failed to get folded up inside the pocket reality forged by the rebel soultaken, we’ll have to deal with them as soon as they seduce a suitably foul character.” Hecht stared.
“All real, remember. There is no God but God. And ten thousand other beings equally wicked.”
Sarcastically.
“Your Grace!”
“Spend another century on this vale. Or just one decade inside the Construct. You’ll see this world through new eyes.
If you retain any religious inclinations at all, it’ll be to buy into the dualist heresies of the Maysaleans and their theological cousins.”
“I know nothing about the Maysalean Heresy, Your Grace. But I’m sure it won’t be long before I get to see some heretics up close.”
“It won’t be long, no. Get that ring back. And keep it close.”
Groggy, drained, Hecht went down to the street. One of his lifeguards helped him mount the horse they had brought. The sergeant in charge glowered but did not chide him for wandering off yesterday.
The Castella was in a ferment. Hecht did not notice. Colonel Smolens observed, “You seem distracted.”
“Uh. To put it mildly.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“It’s family.”
“Woman trouble.” Buhle Smolens had off days related to conflicts with his wife.
“Yeah.” That was good enough. “What’s on the table?”
“Rumors running hot and heavy this morning.”
“Worse than usual?”
“Way. And Consent says Dominagua, Stiluri, Vangelis, and some others mean to try to slide out from under their obligations if we call up their field contingents.”
“We knew there’d be problems with Dromedan and the Patriarchal States in Ormienden. The heretics have a strong influence there. Brother Sedlakova. Good morning.”
Clej Sedlakova observed, “Convenient as the dualists are, blame really comes from a deep disinclination to do the Patriarch’s bidding.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning they think Sublime is out of his head. Meaning the Maysalean Heresy doesn’t bother them enough to make them kill their cousins and neighbors over it.”
Titus Consent invited himself into the conversation. “The Patriarch is the problem. In any choice you can count on him to pick the stupider option.”
“Excuse me?” Bronte Doneto snapped. “What did you say?”
How had Doneto managed to sneak up? Hecht said, “The man stated a plain fact, Your Grace.
Reporting what people in the Patriarchal States are thinking. And elsewhere, as well, I expect.”
Sedlakova’s credentials as an Episcopal Chaldarean were beyond challenge. “There are hundreds of bishops and princes who pray daily that God will call His infallible servant home, Your Grace. That’s truth. It won’t go away if we just wish hard enough.”
The Principatè scowled but dropped it. He was not blind to his cousin’s ever-expanding unpopularity.
“Captain-General, I need you to come with me.”
Two of Hecht’s bodyguards had followed him into the planning center. They were not about to let him get away again. They closed in. Hecht said, “We can trust His Grace.” And what good could they do if that were untrue?
Doneto started walking. Hecht followed. The Principatè asked, “Are they all so disdainful of my cousin?
Are you?”
“They are, in the main. I try to reserve judgment. I’ve seen the man only a few times, never to talk to.”
“Not that you know. Keep up. There isn’t much time.”
“I’m still suffering the effects of that explosion.”
Doneto went into regions of the Castella Hecht had not seen before. Down and into passageways obviously seldom used: cold, damp, creepy, and lighted only by clay lamps carried by the visitors.
Doneto said, “This isn’t pleasant down here. I always expect to bump into a minotaur or some other monster out of the old myths.”
“It’s the kind of place where I’d expect to meet all the Instrumentalities of the Night,” Hecht puffed.
“Where are we going?”
> “Krois.”
Hecht said no more. He made sure he could see Principatè Doneto all the time. Not that he expected anything. Not here and now.
Underground. Again. This time under the Teragi. Imagining all that water overhead dampened his spirit.
“Oppressive, isn’t it?” Doneto asked as he started up a long stairway. It curved away to the right, opposite the direction customary inside fortresses. Meaning the architects had been thinking about retreat downward rather than up.
Hecht’s thoughts seldom wandered from his calling. He could not look at a hill and appreciate it as a hill.
His mind instantly began working out how to both defend and assault that particular piece of ground. The same with any building, inside or out. And this one, so safe on its island, was vulnerable through its escape routes.
He did not mention that.
There were sentries. Two Patriarchal lifeguards posted at the archway where the stairwell debouched in a hidden alcove. Hecht did not disdain Sublime’s protectors as soldiers. They had performed well when the Calziran pirates attacked the Mother City.
They expected Principatè Doneto. They greeted him by name but did not let him past without examination. The Captain-General suffered an even closer search. Meanwhile, additional lifeguards arrived, summoned in no obvious way.
Hecht carried one weapon, a sixteen-inch blade. The Patriarchals did not take it. As he and Doneto followed an escort onward, Hecht asked, “What was the point of that?”
“To make sure we aren’t smuggling some Night-inspired piece of mischief in.”
Hecht scratched his left wrist. They had missed his amulet.
Er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen was skilled indeed.
Hecht was startled. Honario Benedocto, using the reign name Sublime V, appeared to be suffering from a wasting disease. He was pale, sweating, and shaky. His clothing appeared unchanged for days. He smelled bad. He was barely recognizable as Honario Benedocto. And his hangers-on did not appear to care.
Hecht had seen the man seyeral times, even exchanging a few words informally. This man was a shadow of the one he recalled.
Was he dying?
Hecht went to his knees, touched his head to the cold stone floor. Doneto had rehearsed him. The forms were little different from those one showed before the Kaif of al-Minphet. Doneto repeated it all, in a more restrained style.
