He walked past the corpses, pausing every now and then to study one. He scanned the tracks of beaten-down grasses, the places where blood had spilled. Flies buzzed the ground and crows took wing, croaking as they fled his and the dog’s approach.
The estate’s entranceway was splashed black with gore and a body was lying on the threshold. Grizzin Farl continued walking, until he stood in front of the open door, and the grim offering before it.
A highborn Tiste by the richness of his garb, a man with grey hair. Crows had plucked holes through one cheek, to get at the tongue. He had fallen to at least a half-dozen wounds, and those attackers whom he had killed were heaped to either side of the steps, five in all, dragged out of the way by their comrades but otherwise ignored.
Grizzin ascended the steps and walked past more corpses on his way into the main hall. Here he found the body of a woman, a maid, and there, upon the hearthstone, another young woman, lying on her back. The blood about her left no question as to what had befallen her. He drew closer, seeing that she was upon an Azathanai hearthstone, and seeing now what the blood had obscured: she wore the traditional dress of a bride in waiting.
Hearing a sound to his right, Grizzin turned. A figure was huddled on the floor, in the far corner of the room. Its legs were drawn up under the chin, but one side of its face was pressed against the stone wall, with a stained hand up beside it, the blackened fingers splayed against the stone. Shadows hid any further detail.
Grizzin walked closer. A young man, dressed neither in the fashion of the attackers nor like those who had defended this house. There was dried blood crusting his face, blackening the entire cheek and filling the socket of his eye with darkness. He wore no helm and his hair was long, hanging in greasy strands over his brow. With each step the Azathanai took, the man flinched and pushed deeper into the corner, seeking to grind his head between the stones of the wall until skin tore.
‘I mean you no harm, friend,’ said Grizzin Farl. ‘We are alone in this place, and I would help you.’
The head swung round and Grizzin beheld what had been done to the man’s eyes.
His gaze dropped to the man’s hands, and then lifted again to that clawed, disfigured face. ‘Oh,’ he sighed, ‘that was no answer.’
The cry that broke from the man was that of a wounded animal. Grizzin moved forward. Ignoring the fists that beat at him, he took the man in his arms and held him tight, until the screams died away and the body ceased its struggles and then, slowly, sagged in his embrace.
After a time, the dog came to lie down beside them.
* * *
They had travelled through the night. Breaking fast in the saddle, they continued on as the sun climbed into the sky. When it was high overhead, the procession reached the last stretch of the road before the track.
Anomander, Hish Tulla and Silchas were in the lead, riding abreast. Behind them rode Gripp and at his side was Captain Kellaras. There was no telling how many others had since joined the procession: highborn and their servants and guards, cooks and their pot-wagons, the tent-bearers and the musicians, the poets and artists, apprentices of all sorts; Gripp had seen Silchas’s old war-time companion, Captain Scara Bandaris, moving to take up the rear with his troop. By tradition, none had spoken since the dawn, and the solemn air accompanied them as if to protect the day’s light and warmth, lest a voice shatter the peace.
Gripp’s thoughts were on the woman riding ahead of him, and when guilt drove those thoughts back he thought of the boy, Orfantal. There were fates within reach, and those beyond reach. A wise man knew the difference and Gripp wanted to be a wise man. He welcomed this silence, after the seemingly endless questions his lord had asked, seeking every detail from his recollections of the attack, the flight and the hunt and the escape that followed. Lord Anomander was never one to reveal his emotions, nor allow the extremity or depth of those feelings to tighten his throat or stilt the words he uttered. And so Gripp had no sense of his master’s reaction to his tale. At the end he but thanked Gripp for saving the hostage, and this drew Gripp’s thoughts back to the boy.
Orfantal should have been accompanying this procession, riding his nag of a horse and knowing nothing of death or murder, or fear, or nights of weeping in the cold. By luck more than anything else, his fate had been within Gripp’s reach. But there was a score Gripp needed to settle, in that boy’s name, and settle it he would.
They drew within sight of the track.
It was then that Gripp noticed the carrion birds wheeling above their destination. Cold dread filled him, sudden as a flood. Without awaiting command or offering explanation, he kicked his horse into a canter, and then a gallop, rushing past the startled trio at the column’s head. An instant later his lord and his lord’s brother were following.
Gripp yanked savagely to wheel his horse from the road on to the track. Ahead, he saw the carriage – but no tents, no pavilion, no festive standards and no figures awaiting them.
But there were bodies lying on the sward, and a beaten retreat was marked out in dead Houseblades and matted grasses, straight to the house, and there, upon the steps—
Behind him someone cried out, but he did not recognize the voice.
The world was impossibly sharp around him, yet shaking as if jarred by repeated blows – but those sounded in his chest, and each beat was a fist against the cage of his ribs. The wound on his back bled anew. If a heart could have tears, then surely they were red.
He rode to the house and was down from his horse before it had stopped its frantic skid in the gore-flattened grasses. Limping past the body of Lord Jaen, through the doorway. The splash of blood on the walls, thick as mud on the tiled floor. Stumbling into the room, eyes struggling to fight the gloom, the brutal plunge from light into dark. One last fallen Houseblade – no, that was the Enes hostage, Cryl Durav, his chest broken open by sword-thrusts, one leg caked in blood, one hand mangled as it seemed to reach back towards the centre of the house. His face was twisted and almost unrecognizable, swollen and lined as an old man’s. Gripp stepped past him.
‘No further, I beg you,’ said a deep voice from the shadows of the main chamber.
Gripp reached for his sword.
‘I have kin to the fallen,’ continued the stranger. ‘Sadly injured. Asleep, or perhaps unconscious – I dare not test the gauge between the two.’
Behind Gripp, boots sounded at the entranceway.
‘I am come late to this scene,’ the voice said, ‘but not as late as you, friend.’
Gripp realized that he had sunk down to his knees. His injured leg threatened to give way entirely and he set a hand down to steady himself. He heard his own breathing, too harsh, too dry, riding grief and fighting horror.
A dog trotted out from the shadows of one corner, where Gripp could now make out huddled forms. The half-starved creature halted before him, and then sat with ears laid back. Gripp frowned. He knew this dog.
‘Ribs,’ he heard himself say. ‘I missed you at the Hold. You and Rancept both.’
A scrabbling sounded from the corner and a moment later a figure staggered into view, both hands held out and groping in the air. ‘Who comes?’ the figure shrieked. The cry echoed in the chamber and Gripp flinched. No question could sound more plaintive; no need could sound so helpless, and yet none answered.
Behind Gripp stood Anomander – a presence sensed but not seen, but Gripp did not doubt. His lord spoke. ‘Kadaspala—’
The blind man lunged towards Anomander, and only then did Gripp see the dagger in Kadaspala’s hand.
He rose swiftly and grasped hold of Kadaspala’s wrist, and twisted hard.
Another shriek rang through the room, and the knife clattered on the stones. Gripp forced Kadaspala to the floor and held him there as he would a raging child.
Straining against the hold, Kadaspala lifted his head, and blood-crusted sockets seemed to fix unerringly upon Anomander. The mouth opened and then closed, and then opened once more, like a wound. Red t
eeth offered up a ghastly smile. ‘Anomander? I have been expecting you. We all have. We have a question, you see. Just one, and we all ask it – all of us here. Anomander, where were you?’
Someone began howling at the hearthstone, a braying, hoarse howl that erupted again and again.
Kadaspala struggled and tried to reach for his knife on the floor. Gripp dragged him back and threw him down on to the pavestones. He set the weight of one knee on the man’s chest and then leaned close. ‘Another move like that,’ he said, ‘and I’ll cut you down. Understand me, sir?’
But Kadaspala’s mouth was gaping, as if he could not breathe. Gripp drew his knee away. Still the man gaped, those horrid sockets bleeding anew. All at once, Gripp understood what he was seeing. He cries. Without sound, without tears, he cries.
Another figure stood in the gloom. Huge, brooding. Gripp looked up and his voice was a rasp, ‘Who is that? In the shadows? Come forth!’
‘It is only Grizzin Farl,’ the stranger replied, stepping closer. Though tears glistened in his red beard, he somehow smiled. ‘I am known as the Protector.’
Gripp stared up at the giant, unable to speak. Shattered by that smile, he tore his gaze away and looked across to his lord.
Anomander stood with his head turned, his eyes fixed upon the prostrate form of Andarist. He was motionless, as if carved from onyx. His brother’s howls continued unabated.
Silchas appeared, halted a half-dozen paces back from the hearthstone. He stared down at Enesdia’s body, lying motionless and ruined beside Andarist. Behind him came others. None spoke.
Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala continued his silent, horrifying weeping. The fingers of his right hand made small scribing patterns against the floor. Shudders rippled through the man, as if fevers burned in his skull.
When Anomander drew the sword from the scabbard at his side, Andarist lifted his head, his howls cutting off abruptly, although the echo of the last lingered for what seemed an impossibly long time.
Anomander walked towards Andarist, his strides uneven – as if he was drunk – and halted near the hearthstone. Before he could speak, Andarist shook his head and said, ‘I will name it.’
Anomander stiffened at his brother’s cold pronouncement.
Silchas spoke. ‘Andarist, the weapon is not yours—’
‘The wound is mine and I will name it!’
Beneath Gripp, Kadaspala cackled softly, and held his head cocked, to better hear the words being spoken now by these three brothers.
Anomander said, ‘And if I name my future, Andarist, will you doubt me? Will you challenge me?’
‘Not now,’ whispered Silchas to Andarist. ‘Not on this day, I beg you.’
‘Where were you?’ Kadaspala asked again, in a broken voice. ‘Blind in the darkness – I warned you all but you refused to heed me! I warned you! Now see what she has made!’
On his knees, Andarist moved up alongside Enesdia’s body. With tenderness that was aching to witness, he gathered her up in his arms and held her head against his breast. He did all this without once breaking his gaze upon Anomander. ‘I will name it,’ he said.
‘The sword is drawn, brother, as you can see. I am awakened to vengeance, and so shall this weapon be named. Vengeance.’
But Andarist shook his head, one hand stroking Enesdia’s hair. ‘Anger blinds you, Anomander. You take hold of vengeance and you believe it to be pure. Remember Henarald’s words!’
‘The road is true,’ Anomander said.
‘No,’ said Andarist, and tears glistened in streams down his cheeks. ‘Vengeance deceives. When you see its road to be narrow it is in truth wide. When you see it wide the path is less than a thread. Name your sword Vengeance, brother, and it will ever claim the wrong blood. In this blade’s wake, I see the death of a thousand innocents.’ He paused, looked round woodenly, as if not even seeing what met his eyes. ‘Who is to blame for this? The slayers who came to this house? Those who commanded them? The lust of battle itself? Or was it a father’s cruelty to his child a dozen years ago? A stolen meal, a dead mother? An old wound? An imagined one? Vengeance, Anomander, is the slayer of righteousness.’
‘I need not reach to a childhood’s tragedy, brother, to know who has made himself my enemy on this day.’
‘Then you shall fail,’ Andarist said. ‘Vengeance is not pure. It rewards with a bitter aftertaste. It is a thirst that cannot be assuaged. Leave me to name your sword, Anomander. I beg you.’
‘Brother—’
‘Leave me to name it!’
‘Then do so,’ Anomander said.
‘Grief.’
The word hung forlorn in the chamber, amidst breaths drawn and then surrendered, and it stung like smoke.
‘Andarist—’
‘Take this name from me, Anomander. Please, take it.’
‘It has no strength. No will. Grief? Upon iron, it is rust. In fire, it is ash. In life, it is death. Brother, I will take nothing from that word.’
Andarist looked up with bleak eyes. ‘You will take my grief, Anomander, or never again shall I look upon you, or call you brother, or know your blood as mine own.’
Anomander sheathed the sword. ‘Then you shall but hear the tales of the justice I will mete out in your name, and the vengeance I will exact – which I here swear upon the still body of your beloved, and upon her father’s cold flesh.’
Andarist lowered his head, as if his brother had just vanished before his eyes, and Gripp Galas knew that he would not look up – not until Anomander had departed this place.
Silchas stepped into the chamber, and as Anomander marched past him he reached out and spun his brother round. ‘Do not do this!’ he cried. ‘Take his grief, Anomander! Upon your blade, take it!’
‘And so dull every edge, Silchas? I think not.’
‘Will you leave him to bear it alone?’
‘I am dead in his eyes,’ Anomander said in a cold tone, pulling free. ‘Let him mourn us both.’
Beneath Gripp Galas, Kadaspala laughed softly. ‘I have him now,’ he said in a hiss. ‘His portrait. I have him, at last, I have him. His portrait and his portrait and I have him, on the skin. On the skin. I have him. Wait and see.’ And the mouth beneath those empty sockets twisted with joy, and with the fingers of his hand he began painting the air.
From the hearthstone Andarist wept, and then words spilled from him, loose and filled with despair. ‘Will no one share my grief? Will no one mourn with me?’
Silchas said, ‘I will bring him back.’
But Andarist shook his head. ‘I am blind to him, Silchas. Choose now.’
‘I will bring him back!’
‘Then go,’ whispered Andarist.
Silchas rushed from the chamber.
Kadaspala struggled free of Gripp, pushing with his feet. He rose, tottering, fingers cutting at the air. ‘Listen to them!’ he shrieked. ‘Who sees here? Not them! Only me! Kadaspala, who has no eyes, is the only one who can see!’
‘Kadaspala,’ called Andarist. ‘I hold your sister in my arms. Join me here.’
‘You weep alone,’ the man replied in a voice empty of all sympathy. ‘She was never for you. You made for her this path, with your pathetic words of love and adoration, and she walked it – to her death! Look on me, O forgotten Son of Darkness, for I am your child, your malformed, twisted spawn. In these holes see your future, if you dare!’
‘Enough,’ growled Gripp, advancing on the fool. ‘Your mind is broken and now all you do is lash out.’
Kadaspala spun to face him, grinning. ‘I am not the one wielding vengeance, am I? Run to your master, you grovelling cur of a man. There’s more blood to spill!’
Gripp struck him, his blow sending the artist sprawling. He moved forward again.
‘Stop!’
He looked over to see Hish Tulla, and stepped back. ‘My pardon, milady. I am dragged across a jagged edge. It cuts upon all sides.’
Kadaspala was lying on the floor, quietly laughing and muttering under hi
s breath.
Hish Tulla walked up to Andarist. ‘Do you see my tears?’ she asked him, kneeling and resting a hand against the side of his face. ‘You do not mourn alone, Andarist.’
And she took then the last brother into her arms.
PART FOUR
The forge of Darkness
SIXTEEN
‘BELIEF,’ SAID DRACONUS, ‘never feels strange to the believer. Like an iron stake driven deep into the ground, it is an anchor to a host of convictions. No winds can tear it free so long as the ground remains firm.’
Riding beside his father, Arathan said nothing. The land ahead was flat, marked only by clusters of low cairns made from piled stones, as if signifying crossroads. But Arathan could see no crossroads; he could barely make out the path they travelled. The sky overhead was a dull blue, like burnished tin, through which vast but distant flocks of birds could be seen, scudding like clouds on high winds.
Draconus sighed. ‘It is the failure of every father to impart wisdom to his child. No paint adheres to sweating stone. You are too eager, too impatient and too quick to dismiss the rewards of someone else’s experience. I am hardly blind to the surge of youth, Arathan.’
‘I have no beliefs,’ said Arathan, shrugging. ‘No anchor, no convictions. If winds take me, then I will drift.’
‘I believe,’ said Draconus, ‘that you seek your mother.’
‘How can I seek what I do not know?’
‘You can and you will, with a need that overwhelms. And should you one day find that which you seek, you no doubt imagine an end to your need. I can warn you that disappointment lies ahead, that life’s most precious gifts always come from unexpected sources, but you will not waver from your desire. Thus, from me you learn nothing.’
Arathan scowled, realizing that he could not hide anything from his father. Deceit was an easy path, but the moment it failed only a fool would stay upon it. ‘You sent her away,’ he said.
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