by karlov, matt
“Yeah,” a male voice said. “About that…”
Clade whirled to his feet. Arandras stood in the doorless portal, his bearded face contorted in a triumphant, lupine snarl. A grinding noise sounded just behind Clade’s head, and he glanced back to find the golem turned in his direction, its pinprick yellow eyes staring directly at him.
“Your name is Clade Alsere,” Arandras said. The words were both a statement and a question.
“Yes,” Clade said. A strange calm flooded through him. “It is.”
Arandras gazed at him from beneath lowered brows. “You killed my wife.”
“Yes,” Clade said again. There was nothing else to say.
Arandras bared his teeth. “Why?”
Clade flicked his gaze over the other man. Arandras was at least a head shorter than Clade himself, and was already breathing hard. But the man’s stance was poised, balanced. Ready.
“I had to,” Clade said. Behind him, the unfinished binding tugged at his thoughts like a load on a pulley. He paused, wrapping a piece of his mind around its form, and moistened his lips. Without his support, the incomplete structure risked a potentially destructive collapse. “I had no choice.”
“No,” Arandras snapped. “Not true. There’s always a choice.”
“Not for me,” Clade said. “I was bound.”
Arandras flinched, his expression shifting to something unreadable. “Meaning what?”
“Bound,” Clade repeated, watching for any reaction. “By sorcery.”
Arandras growled, shaking his head. “No, you weren’t.”
“I was. That’s why I’m here.”
The man’s laugh was scornful. “Don’t give me that. You’re here for the golems.” He grinned, the confident cast returning to his shoulders. “And you’re here because I led you.”
Clade raised his eyebrows. “Bannard —”
“No. Bannard left.” The grin remained, but there was something beneath it, something Clade still couldn’t identify. “I made the sign at the bridge. I showed you where we left the path.”
Clade opened his mouth, then closed it again. He hadn’t noticed Bannard among the fallen; but then, he hadn’t looked very hard. Perhaps it was true. “Why did you do that?”
Arandras’s lip curled. “Why do you think?”
Hatred filled the man’s face; yet still there lingered something else, something Arandras fought to keep hidden. What? Clade cast about for something, anything, that might crack the man’s shell. “I think… I think you blame yourself for what happened out there.”
Something lashed out beside him, the motion so quick it was already over by the time he turned his head. The golem’s hand grasped the air a hair’s-breadth from his arm, the manacle’s chain pulled taut. Clade drew a deep breath, willing the pounding in his chest to slow; but as he did, a fresh rumbling sounded from the far doorway. An unchained golem stepped through, its feet stained with blood and fluids. Sinon.
“Those deaths are on you,” Arandras hissed, his face dark with anger. “You are the killer here. You killed my wife. You killed those Quill. Hells, you even killed your own people. And now you want the golems so you can go on killing, with nobody to stand in your way.”
“No.” Clade grit his teeth, shoving his frustration into as deep a hole as he could manage. His play for the golems had failed. No alternative remained but to give them up and hope that the gesture could still make a difference. He took a breath. “I’m not here for the golems.”
“Bullshit.” The free golem took a step into the chamber. Its eyes burned a dark orange.
“Hear me,” Clade said. “Yes, I sought them. Yes, the Oculus wants them as a weapon. But I don’t. Not any more. Take them. They’re yours.” He opened his arms, inviting Arandras to believe. Beseeching him. “I’m not here on behalf of the Oculus. I’m here to escape them.”
•
Arandras laughed. The man’s claim was absurd. “Of course you are. That’s why you followed us all the way here. To escape them.”
Clade hissed through gritted teeth, and Arandras laughed again. Without shifting his gaze, he directed a command to the unrestrained golem. Take another step. It did so, rumbling to a halt almost within reach of the other man.
“Wait! Wait.” Clade raised his arms. “You don’t understand. I’m bound. Beholden to a… I don’t know what it is, exactly. They tell us it’s a god.”
“What’s that? The gods made you do it?” Arandras shook his head. “No. You killed Tereisa. Nobody else. You bear the price.” Golem, take another —
“Ask them!” Clade pointed a desperate finger at the golems. “Ask them what they see!”
Arandras paused. Clade stared at him, expectant, his outstretched finger almost touching the nearest golem. Weeper’s breath, he actually believes it. He sighed, feeling strangely deflated. After all this time, all he had done to reach this point, Tereisa’s killer turned out to be nothing more than a common madman. Deluded, that’s all. Almost certainly. Almost…
He gave Clade a long, measuring look. The other man stood silent, waiting, his finger frozen in the air. Slowly, Arandras exhaled. Golems, tell me what you see.
The shackled golem remained silent, but the other responded immediately. A low drone filled his head, the strange almost-sound twisting and warping to form words like shapes in the rock. Stone and metal, sorcery and stone. My brother in chains. A man argues with the master. Sorcery; the man is more. It watches and listens and hungers. Sorcery; my brother is more. Lamps in the dark. An opening. An empty space —
Hold. Arandras frowned. Tell me about the sorcery.
Sorcery, the golem repeated. My brother is more; the more is incomplete. Sorcery. The man is more; the more is angry. It watches and listens and hungers. A single strand. A fastening made fast. It beats. Spirit and stone, blood and sorcery.
Arandras eyed the man before him. The more is angry. “You’re adding something to the golem,” he said experimentally, watching for Clade’s reaction. “Some sort of spell.”
“Yes,” Clade said. “To transfer my binding onto it.”
Arandras nodded slowly. Perhaps it was true, then. Perhaps Clade did have some… thing bound to him. But that didn’t absolve him. “This binding,” he said. “You chose it?”
Clade hesitated. “Yes.”
“And does it physically compel the movement of your body?”
Clade licked his lips, said nothing.
“Your choices,” Arandras said. “Your responsibility.”
“I see,” Clade said. “And I suppose that justifies your choice now.”
Arandras said nothing. Golem, take hold of the man’s shoulder. The heavy hand reached out, enveloping Clade’s shoulder in its massive fingers. The man shuddered, took a long, steadying breath.
“Tell me, Arandras,” Clade said. “Have you never made a choice and then regretted it?”
A surge of emotion filled Arandras, too thick for words, and he stared back, struggling to speak past the constriction in his throat. “Are you telling me you regret killing Tereisa?”
Clade opened his mouth, then closed it again; but the answer was there in his eyes. No.
Rage filled Arandras. “Answer me! Do you regret killing my wife?”
The other man closed his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was calm. “You’ve never killed before, have you?”
Arandras blinked. “What?”
“You said it yourself just a moment ago, didn’t you?” Clade seemed to be looking past him, off into the darkness. “I’m a killer, you said. You’re not.”
“There’s a first time for —”
“I’ve killed ten people by my own hand, now. Your wife was the sixth.” Clade gave a small smile. “She cursed me, you know. Oh, not in fear, or at least not much. She was angry, I think. Affronted that such a thing was even possible.”
Images of Tereisa flashed through Arandras’s mind. Memories of the two of them together, arguing, laughing. Affronted. Yes, that sounds lik
e her.
“It does something to you,” Clade said. “Killing, I mean. You lose something you never knew you had.” He paused. “I can’t say I regret what I gained. But I do, I think, regret what I lost.”
Arandras shrugged. He was an empty shell. Loss meant nothing to him, not any more. “What did you gain?”
The other man blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You heard me. What did you gain?”
Clade said nothing, a resigned look creeping into his eyes.
“You sought control, I think. Power over others. The ability to further your own ends. Whereas I…”
Arandras trailed off, his words hanging in the air. Control. Power over others. Clade stood before him, his arm locked in a grip of stone and clay. With this golem I remove your volition, just as you did to Tereisa. Because she, to you, was nothing more than a tool to be used. Just as Isaias was to me. And Narvi. And Druce, and Jensine. He stared into the face of the man who had killed his wife. And now you have become the same thing. A means. One by which I may console myself, and consider myself avenged.
Swallowing hard, he pushed the thought to its inexorable conclusion.
With this act, I become you.
It was as though he stood on the edge of a blade, perfectly balanced, with not the slightest breath of wind to push him one way or the other. Clade’s eyes showed neither fear nor hope nor petition nor remorse. The golem stood motionless beside him, awaiting Arandras’s command.
The golem. A construct of sorcery. Crafted to resemble human form, but not, in fact, alive. A device, in the truest sense of the word. Something created with no greater purpose than to be used. In truth, little more than a glorified puppet.
This is how Clade sees the world. Filled with creatures like these, all awaiting his touch, his direction. His disposal. The vision called to him, tempting in its simplicity. He reached out, inviting it closer. What relief it would bring, to let go of his foolish reserve and embrace the gift that the gods had given him…
No. Another voice stirred to life deep within and he recoiled, turning away from the mirage in revulsion. Conviction filled him, sure and unshakeable. That is not who I am.
He bowed his head. I’m sorry, Tereisa. I cannot do this.
Not even for you.
Breathing heavily, Arandras sent a command to the golem. Its grip on Clade’s arm loosened, and the man pulled himself free, rubbing his shoulder where the great hand had grasped it. A quizzical expression formed on his face and he opened his mouth to speak.
Arandras raised a hand and the other man subsided. He paused, wiping his eyes, taking a moment to collect himself. When he spoke, his voice was steady.
“Where are my friends?”
Chapter 26
If the gods did not ceaselessly disappoint us, by what other token would we recognise them?
— Kassa of Menefir
Solitude
Eilwen knelt in the dark of the cavern, her racking sobs slowly subsiding. Rough rock pressed against her knees and she shifted awkwardly, balancing with her hands as the muscles in her legs groaned to life. Raising herself to a crouch, she blinked sightlessly down the passageway and heaved a shuddering sigh.
The man was gone, vanished into the cavern on his way to Clade, or the golems, or the prisoners. Or all three. He had taken her lamp with him, leaving her stranded at the top of the vast, black sea. But she knew the layout of the caverns now. Follow that wall all the way down to the manacle chamber, and past that, the golems. And Clade would be there, preparing the sorcery that would somehow remove the so-called god’s hold over him.
Assuming, of course, that he wasn’t already dead.
I failed. Again. Gods, that’s all I ever do. Her only task had been to stop the man from coming in. Instead, she’d just stepped aside. I might as well have invited him down for chocol. But no, it hadn’t been like that. She’d had him at dagger-point, but she’d stayed her hand, terrified that if she killed again, the beast within would finally and irrevocably escape her control.
At least she wouldn’t have that problem again.
She was the beast, and the beast was her. She saw that now. The old her was gone, drowned with the Orenda. The beast was all she had left. That’s why I kept failing. She’d been clinging to her old self, not realising that part of her was already dead. By forcing her to confront the truth, the man had shown her the way out.
The beast could not be expelled, but neither could it be allowed to roam free. It was still a child, undisciplined and unformed. And like a puppy, or a colt, or the rawest recruit to the standing army of Anstice, it needed the help of others to guide and instruct it on the long, slow path to maturity.
In short, it required training.
Havilah had already begun it, she realised now, selecting her as his adjunct and commencing her instruction before she’d even known she needed it. She wondered if he’d seen her truly all along. You would have taught me well, Havilah. You would have shown me what it meant to fight well. But Havilah was dead, and the Guild was lost to her. All that remained was her rage.
And Clade. He shared her rage, if nothing else. And he knew what to do about it. She could do worse than follow him for a time. He’s not you, Havilah. He won’t train me the way you would have. And she’d never trust him the way she had Havilah, not after seeing him so casually order the deaths of his own people. But then, they hadn’t been his people, not really. We share a cause, he and I. We fight on the same side. Better we fight together than apart.
But now she had failed him too, jeopardising his grand project and possibly his life. Even if he survived, even if he completed his sorcery, there’d be no place for her. Not any more.
She groaned, burying her hands in her hair; but as she did so she felt the beast’s growl, low and heavy, bringing her back to herself. She was a soldier now. She had failed, yes, but failure didn’t release her from her duty. Breathing deeply, Eilwen pushed herself to her feet, wincing at the ache in her leg. She had to get down there, find out what was happening. Maybe she could still make it right.
Without a lamp, the cavern seemed twice as large, a vast, empty space of silence and dust. Eilwen shuffled down the slope as fast as she dared, feeling for spurs and protrusions with each step, groping blindly ahead with both hands whenever an opening punctuated the rough wall. The egg began to buzz softly at her side, gentle as a purring kitten, and she felt the distant presence of the god waft across her face.
An uncanny babble rose from somewhere ahead, and she froze in startled confusion. After half a dozen thudding heartbeats came realisation: the sound was laughter, distorted by the jagged stone into something monstrous. Gritting her teeth, Eilwen pressed on, stumbling as she kicked against the uneven ground.
At last the chamber came into view, its thin lamplight brighter than a beacon to her hungry eyes. Clade stood within, speaking to someone just out of view; but as she watched, a great, inhuman hand reached out and grasped him by the shoulder.
A golem. Gods, no. He’s going to kill him. She crept closer, allowing the stink of Azador to wash over her, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who stood frustratingly out of sight. She couldn’t intervene without knowing where he was — a moment’s warning would be enough for the man to leave Clade with a crushed arm, or worse. Even allowing Clade to see her might tip the man off. Circling around, she approached the doorway and reached for her dagger.
It wasn’t there.
Shit. She’d let it fall near the entrance and forgotten it in the dark. Now what?
There was still the small one in her boot. She dropped to a crouch; but as she did so her knee gave an ominous twinge and she hurriedly extended her arms, holding herself steady in a painful half-stoop. Gods have mercy! Had she made a sound? She held her breath, her leg burning, listening for a change in either man’s voice. A moment passed, then another, and she began to breathe more easily. She straightened slowly, easing the weight on her injured knee with a silent gasp.
All r
ight. No dagger, unless I want to give myself away. She reached down to massage her aching joint as Clade’s voice rose in the adjoining chamber.
“It does something to you. Killing, I mean. You lose something you never knew you had.”
Eilwen bent her head, but the tears that had come with her moment of revelation did not return. What’s gone is gone. There was pain, but with acceptance came a kind of peace as well. Not even the gods could bring back the person she’d been before. This is me, now. Just this. And she could still find a way to do some good.
The voices in the other room fell silent. Eilwen shook off her reverie, cursing herself for her inattention. What just happened? She stilled her breath, straining her ears for the slightest sound within. Did he kill him? Why is nobody moving?
Then the other man spoke, his voice startling for its nearness. “Where are my friends?”
“Downstairs,” Clade said, and she thought she heard a note of relief. “They haven’t been harmed.” He paused. “Though some were injured in the battle.”
Silence returned. Eilwen waited, fighting an unbearable urge to creep up to the doorway and glance inside.
“All right,” the other man said at last. “Finish your sorcery. I won’t stop you. But I’ll be taking the rest.” Boot scraped on stone, and Eilwen shrank back into the shadows. “Oh,” the man said, the edge of his sleeve visible in the doorway. “One other thing. I want my urn back.”
There was a whisper of cloth and a faint smack, as of something being caught; then the light tilted as someone lifted a lamp. Eilwen retreated to the cavern’s shadowy corner just as the man strode out, lamp in hand, and made for the first doorway in the long side wall. He looked inside and shook his head, then moved on to the next opening and disappeared down the stairs.
Silence descended. Thin lamplight still bled from the chamber, its soft glow undisturbed by movement. A needle of fear slithered through her. Is Clade all right? A cry echoed up from the now-dark staircase behind her: the man’s voice, his words too distorted to tell whether the call was one of welcome or alarm. Casting stealth aside, Eilwen rounded the doorway and entered the chamber.
