by Anne Perry
None of them turned as Sadokhar approached. They were all apparently oblivious to everything except the blazing fire and its light and warmth. Sadokhar realised suddenly how much the warmth mattered. It was bitterly cold. Outside the circle the wind seemed to bite into the flesh and the darkness was now absolute. He was shaking with cold, his whole body shuddering.
Two men moved apart just enough for him to squeeze in and sit down and the warmth reached him, enveloping him, easing the ache out of his bones. It was marvellous. All his muscles relaxed and he found himself smiling.
He did not know how long he sat there basking in the heat before he became aware of someone moving on the outside, first one place then in another, trying to get in, and always denied. Each time he came between two people they would move almost indefinably closer together, excluding him. Then he would back away a little, his shoulders slumped, and try somewhere else, always to be met with the same refusal. He looked beaten, shaking with the cold.
Sadokhar could not bear it. He stood up, leaving his own place, and shuddering, stumbling in the dark, he went to find the outsider.
He had gone more than halfway around the circle, ignored by everyone else, when finally he found the shadowy figure. Sadokhar was between him and the fire, and when he turned in amazement, his face was clearly visible.
It was a long moment before he believed it. It was Tornagrain. He was haggard-eyed, there were streaks of grey in his hair, but he was still unmistakable. Not only that, but he knew Sadokhar in the same instant, and his features suffused with joy. He stepped forward, his voice hoarse with emotion, and long disuse.
“Sadokhar!” He held out his hands.
Instinctively Sadokhar clasped them. So much of friendship came back in a wave—danger and laughter shared, victories and mistakes, all the wild learning of youth.
Then he remembered Aelfrith, his death, Yldyth’s body in the burned house, the pain and the ruin and the loss. Rage boiled up inside him and he let go of Tornagrain and hit him as hard as he could, feeling his fist connect with bone with an impact that jarred right through him.
Tornagrain staggered back and fell.
Sadokhar strode forward. “Get up!” he shouted furiously.
Tornagrain scrambled to his feet, hesitated a moment as if to speak, then, seeing another blow coming, struck back.
Again and again they hit each other until suddenly Tornagrain stopped and held his hands wide, moving backwards and away. He shook his head. His face and neck were smeared with blood but he did not seem seriously hurt.
Sadokhar was out of breath, and bruised. Without any warning the whole thing had become ridiculous. Tornagrain was the only soul in hell that he knew, and the passion and hate of the Eastern Shore was years ago. Tornagrain might not have changed since then, but Sadokhar had. The war for the earth was what mattered, not old sins already paid for over and over again. The betrayal was Tornagrain’s grief, not Sadokhar’s. He should have let it go then, not treasured it up all this time, to the crippling of his own heart.
He held out his hand, palm up.
Tornagrain hesitated only a moment, then came forward and took it, holding it tightly, his eyes steady and straight.
Sadokhar found himself smiling.
Then he saw a look of horror on Tornagrain’s face, and the instant after felt a stinging blow on the back so violent it knocked the breath out of him and left him gasping. He swung around and saw that a dozen of those who had been sitting around the fire had risen and were bent on attacking himself and Tornagrain. It seemed that as long as they were fighting each other, they had been content, but now in the sight of some sort of peace, they were enraged.
In moments they were both fighting the strangers, arms and legs flailing, rolling on the ground, beaten, bruised and all but suffocated. As another numbing blow landed on his chest Sadokhar rolled over and tried to get up, and it came to his mind how idiotically pointless this was. There was nothing to be won or lost.
But it went on. He managed to land a severe blow on the face of the man nearest to him, a visage made hideous by fury and hatred. The man fell backwards, allowing Sadokhar to get to his feet just in time to kick another man in the act of strangling Tornagrain.
The next instant he was knocked over himself and the air driven out of his lungs by the force of his landing. Then Tornagrain was attacking the man who had struck him, and being kicked and punched by two more.
Sadokhar could see they were vastly outnumbered and not all the courage or the anger imaginable would be enough to help. Almost without realising what he was doing, he prayed, not only for himself, but for Tornagrain also.
Then he heaved himself up and lashed out again as hard as he could. He was aware of Tornagrain being badly beaten, struggling to hold off an attack on Sadokhar. His face was covered with blood and he was limping badly.
“Go!” he shouted, gasping for breath. “Get out! I’ll hold them ...” He was cut off by another tremendous blow to his head, and fell back with three men on top of him, pummelling and kicking his body. Sadokhar hesitated. The anger slipped from him and all his will was to save Tornagrain, as if the betrayal, the raid, and the deaths had never happened. He moved forward.
“Get out!” Tornagrain yelled with the little strength he had left. “It’s all I can give. For God’s sake, take it ... and go! Please!”
A man with streaming hair and savage, contorted features lunged towards Sadokhar. Sadokhar raised his foot and kicked him as hard as he could, throwing all his weight into it. The man let out a scream and fell back, clutching his stomach.
But there were others behind him.
Sadokhar ached to help Tornagrain, but he knew he could not. Perhaps the best he could do was to accept his gift. Maybe that was what he needed more than physical help.
He raised his arm in a salute, as they had when they fought at sea together on the longships of the Eastern Shore. He stood long enough to know that Tornagrain had seen it, then he turned and ran, his feet flying easily over the dust, barely leaving prints on its powder surface. There was no dawn, only a slow return of colourless light.
It took him nothing like as long to reach the plain with the great rock piles and outcrops than it had to go from it, and then at last to find the one which held the portal. He was overwhelmed with relief, almost joy, to recognise it. It was unmistakable: there were hand-cut slabs, paving stones made by men, not random nature. The arch of the portal was carved with lily flowers as beautiful as daybreak after a lifetime’s darkness.
He stumbled in his eagerness to reach it, and be through. Hell was behind him. Tathea was right: he could forgive Tornagrain; he could even grieve with real pain that he had left him behind. All his hatred was gone, and nothing remained except the memory of friendship, and a grief that it had been broken ... no anger, no pleasure at his pain, just regret that justice demanded such a price. He would have remitted it now, had he the power.
The door was open!
He walked through, his feet silent on the dusty flagstones. The arch above him was lost in shadow, but there was light ahead. He increased his pace. Where would he emerge? Sylum again? Would Orocyno still be there? How long had he been gone? He had very little idea. It would be wonderful to see Tathea, and the others.
The light was growing stronger, but no sun! What time of the day was it? Shouldn’t it be summer now?
He started to run. There was still dust under his feet, and bits of loose rubble here and there. The arches were broken, crumbling. But there were no ivies, no moss, no green at all.
He burst out into the open.
It was the same flat, shadowless light as before, and the grey dust of hell spread out in front of him all the way to the white horizon.
There was no air, no wind, barely any sensation under his feet, no sound except a roaring, crackling in his ears as if a sea or despair were closing over his soul and drowning him, yet leaving him witheringly, hopelessly alive.
He fell forward on to the dust,
crumpled up, desolate and utterly, heart-achingly alone.
Chapter XIII
SADOKHAR HAD NO IDEA how long he sat staring into the despair of hell. He was too wretched to move. What was the point?
Hope died hard. There was nothing any sense or reason offered, and yet the pain of having believed still filled him, as if he could not let it go. He did not want to leave the place he had so passionately thought was the portal. He could not accept that it had gone.
He became aware only slowly of how tired he was. His body ached, his feet and legs were bruised, and caked in blood and dust. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go, no purpose in anything any more.
He drifted into a sleep which was hazy, full of vague discomfort and the desire to weep, without the energy to do it.
He opened his eyes at last to an image of mounds of debris, the sour smoke rising from them darkening the air. As far as he could see in every direction it was the same—hills and waves of every kind of detritus, and the smell of it knotted his stomach.
He did not move. There was no way to escape it, and no purpose in trying.
Then he saw her, walking towards him like a shadow over the sea of filth. She was slender, head high, as beautiful as the hope of redemption.
“Tathea!” He started to his feet, plunging through the waste towards her. He reached her and clasped hold of her fiercely, passionately, as if she were life itself.
She put her arms around him, but he could barely feel them. Then, with a wave of horror that broke sweat on his skin, he realised that his own arms closing around her body could crush her by accident, so fragile was she, so insubstantial.
Why? When she had come before she had been so strong it was her power which had pulled him out of the mire and held him up during the sandstorm!
Was this how it was going to be now—he would be less and less able to feel her, to touch her or hear her? What if one day he would not even know she was there any more? Then hell would be truly endless. That would be the last damnation.
Why? Was it because he had failed somehow? Or was hell doing this to him? Or worse! Was it she who was weakening, her faith slipping away as Asmodeus and his creatures won the earth? If Tathea lost her belief it would be like God ceasing to exist!
Sadokhar clung to her, gently, saying her name over and over again in his mind, as he buried his face in her hair, but no sound came to his lips.
He heard her voice in his heart rather than his ears.
“You have forgiven Tornagrain, but it is not enough,” she said softly.
“I did! I forgave him!” his heart cried. “I did it!”
“I know, my darling, I know!” she whispered. “But to forgive, and walk away is only half. You must teach him why he was wrong. You must wait with him until he understands and becomes no longer the man who would commit that act, or even think of it. You must guide him to honour, and love, and greatness of spirit. You have learned forgiveness; that was for yourself. Now you must teach redemption—which is for him.”
“I ...” he began. The idea was monstrous. It was too much!
“You must!” She held him more fiercely, but he could hardly feel her any more. It was only the tightening of her arms, of her shoulders and the way she leaned even closer to him that made him sure. “Tornagrain must come back. His work is not yet done.”
“I can’t!” It was a cry of despair, torn out of his heart and his flesh, out of his soul. “I can’t!”
“It is the only way,” Tathea repeated. “You come out together, or not at all. It is the truth ... for both of you.” She loosed her hold on him and looked up, meeting his eyes. “Please?” she whispered, her voice growing faint. “I can’t ask again. You have all you need to come back to me, to the world. I love you, Sadokhar, and I need you ...” Even as she was speaking she was moving away from him. She tried to hold on to him, but her hand slipped out of his.
He could not bear it. He called her name, but his lungs had no air. He could not move his feet from the filth in which he stood. All around them the smoking debris was piled high, the air was dark with the fumes of it.
She was helpless. Her face twisted with anguish as she was drawn back into the smoke and in moments she was gone and he was alone again.
He sat down suddenly, his legs too weak to hold his weight. He bent his head and covered his face with his hands. He did not know how to begin! What she asked was too much.
When at last he looked up it was light and he was back in the rubble beside the portal and the dry, dust-white land stretched all around him. If this was the only way, then he must try. He staggered to his feet and set out.
He did not count the time it took him to go past the rock outcrops, the huge excavations where the people were still digging and swearing in everlasting rage, or over the flat plains towards the cliff. He dreaded going up the gorge and seeing what was left of Ozmander. His imagination raced on to whether he was whole again and barring the way, or if he had in some way managed to sink into unconsciousness.
But even before Sadokhar reached the narrow pass he could see the broken limbs, the scattered entrails and the blood exactly as he had left them. In the world they would have been consumed by flies and maggots by now, but there was no life here, not even the minuscule beasts of the air that cause dead flesh to rot.
He stopped, thinking he could smell it in the air, but it was only the illusion of what he expected, not reality. He stared at the head, a dozen yards from the disembowelled torso, and the limbs misshapen and twisted, and felt more pity than revulsion.
Then with a sick horror churning his stomach he saw the fingers move, scrabbling in the dust.
He took to his heels and ran, scrambling wildly up the scree slope, falling and clambering up again, fighting to keep his balance, oblivious of bruises and gashes.
He reached the top breathless and collapsed on the level ground, gasping with relief. His feet and shins were covered with blood, even his hands were torn, but he was aware of no pain. He was losing sensation even more rapidly.
But there was no time to waste. After only a few moments he rose again and started to go the way he had before, even though as far as he could see there were no features to distinguish any direction from another.
Eventually it began to grow dark and he started to turn from side to side, seeking the fire.
Then it was there, just a spark, so tiny he was not sure if it were illusion born out of the passion of his mind.
He began to run, floundering in the dust, falling and sending up choking clouds which half blinded him.
But the fire was real. It grew stronger as he came closer to it, and he started to shout. “Tornagrain! Tornagrain!” How dare he not be here, after all Sadokhar’s labour and pain to find him?
At first he could see no figures. Nothing moved. Disappointment and anger engulfed him, taking his breath away.
Then he heard a sound, very slight, then out of the darkness there was a flurry and a shout.
“Sadokhar!” It rang with joy, like a trumpet call.
He spun around, and there was Tornagrain, his face radiant in the firelight. “You came back for me!”
Sadokhar was filled with shame because it was not true. He had come back for himself, but he wished now with all his heart that it had been for Tornagrain. He gulped, and forced a smile to his face. If it was not the reason he had come, then he would at least make it why he stayed.
Looking at Tornagrain’s battered face, which was scarred and bruised still from the fight, Sadokhar was overwhelmed with how much he truly wanted to tell him everything that mattered and make him understand it, make him see the beauty of what was precious and true. Now, he could not bear the thought of leaving him behind in this place of agony. He knew what it was, he had tasted the bitter dregs himself. They would find the portal together and it would have to let them pass!
Tornagrain reached him and clasped him by the arms. He struggled for words, and found nothing which was enough to express his emoti
ons.
“Yes, I did come back for you,” Sadokhar said, trying to keep his voice firm and strong. He could feel Tornagrain shaking. He had been here for years! Could he ever imagine leaving this place? What blind, stubborn courage had sustained him?
“For what?” Tornagrain whispered, daring now to meet Sadokhar’s eyes. “What could we do? I’m tired of fighting. There’s nothing to win ... or lose.”
“Yes, there is. There’s everything,” Sadokhar argued. “There’s a way out.”
Tornagrain’s eyes filled with tears of pity. “No, there isn’t. Don’t you understand that? We chose our path in life, and now we have what we earned.” He frowned. “Why are you here? You seemed to have so much! No one is punished blindly. How did you die? At sea in some great battle? Is the world still ... as beautiful?”
Sadokhar was overcome with loss so intense it dizzied him. “Yes,” he gulped. “On the Island, at least. Walk with me and I’ll tell you.”
“Walk?” Tornagrain was confused. “Why? There’s nowhere to go.”
“Yes, there is. Don’t argue! Just do it!”
Tornagrain laughed sharply. “You haven’t changed. Just as bossy as ever.”
“I united the Island,” Sadokhar told him, taking him by the arm and pulling him along in the dust. “I was King of it all. I got into the habit of being bossy, and I did it very well.”
“And modest as always too!” Tornagrain’s voice was thick with mockery, then sudden and urgent pain. “So what happened? How did you come to end here?”
“I didn’t die,” Sadokhar replied, then as he saw Tornagrain’s look of disbelief he snapped back: “Do you want to know or not?”
“I want to know!” Tornagrain returned. “Why are we walking so quickly? Where do you think we’re going? It’s getting light!” He looked around them in surprise, shading his eyes against the white glare. “God, what a wasteland!”
