What battle? What storm? What Age of Founding?
He studied the swarm of figures upon the blasted landscape, the scores of flying dragons shredding the dark clouds hanging low over the battlefield. His eyes narrowed on the flanking hilltops, where stood the rival commanders of the two armies locked together between them. From one such figure, tall and martial, something like a stain, or scorching, marred the weave, blackening the air surrounding the man.
He’d thought it nothing more than damage, the bloom of rotting mould, perhaps, or where a torch had been held too close to the hanging. But now he saw, as he looked more closely, that the very threads were black.
It’s him. Draconus. The helm hides his face, but the manner of his stance betrays him. That, and the darkness, like smoke. I saw it today, as he strode across the Terondai.
Abyss below, what have we done?
A voice spoke behind him. ‘I sought you upon the tower.’
Herat closed his eyes, not yet turning to face her. ‘Yet you tracked me here.’
‘Your journey was reported,’ Emral Lanear replied. ‘This is my temple, after all.’
‘Yes,’ the historian replied, eyes opening again, gaze returning once more to the tapestry laid out on the floor before him. ‘There is honour,’ he said, ‘and then there is stupidity.’
‘What do you mean?’
Still he would not turn to face her. ‘If in the course of our lives, we find ourselves in the same place, again and again … what lesson is not being heeded? What wilful idiocy obtains, proof against any self-examination, any reflection or contemplation? How is it, High Priestess, that a single man or woman’s life can so bitterly match the history of an entire people?’
After a long moment, she moved up to stand beside him. Her attention fixed upon the tapestry.
‘Draconus,’ said Herat, ‘has done this before. See him? That wreath of darkness he wears like a cloak – or wings. See the woman at his side? Who was she, I wonder? What forgotten ancestor embraced his gifts, only to vanish from all memory?’
‘That is no more than a stain,’ she said. ‘Your imagination—’
‘Is beggared by truth,’ he said sharply. ‘Blind yourself if you must. At last, I begin to understand.’
‘What? What is there to understand, historian? We have done what was needed.’
‘No, I think we have failed.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We saw Draconus, Kellaras on his heels. They were setting out for the Valley of Tarns.’
‘Yes, so that Draconus can retrieve his Houseblades.’
‘But he won’t,’ Herat said. ‘He can’t. Don’t you see? This is his battle. It’s been his war, from the very start. We just didn’t realize it.’
‘You are speaking nonsense,’ Lanear snapped. ‘Liosan is to blame. And Urusander’s Legion. Hunn Raal—’
‘Failure finds myriad details, High Priestess, each one like a trap. Each one can snare you into believing the moment was unique. And so you are deceived into focusing on the details instead of the failure itself. In this manner,’ he added, ‘failures breed unchecked, unchallenged, and more often than not, unrecognized in what they all share.’
‘Which is?’
He shrugged. ‘The face in the mirror.’ He heard her breath catch, but continued remorselessly. ‘This is a squalid revelation, High Priestess. Nor are we alone in our … errors in judgement. Draconus and the ways of love … it is my thought that, time and again, his ways of love become ways of war. Call him a fool – it’s easily enough done. But even then, Emral, spare the man a moment of pity.’
‘He was to be our only sacrifice, Herat. We set Silchas upon him, and what was done was only what was necessary.’ She gestured dismissively at the tapestry. ‘This signifies nothing, a web for your fears and overwrought imagination.’ Stepping away, she said, ‘I will leave you to struggle in its strands. I must resume my preparations for the arrival of my Liosan counterpart.’
He saw no point in responding, and simply listened to her dwindling footfalls.
Ah, Draconus. You poor, misguided man. All that power, all those years – how many thousands? And still you stumble, your arms laden with gifts, your words forever lifeless in their entreaties.
Perhaps you Azathanai were too few, more an extended family than strangers inviting fascination. Perhaps, in your collective knowing, you all knew one another too well. Or perhaps, Draconus, your failure was and is a personal one, written deep in your bones and blood, in that heart too generous, too bloated with all it would give, and far too intent on the giving to receive anything in return. To make generosity into a weapon … ah, you understand nothing, nothing at all, do you?
Consider your friends, good sir, so few in number, so wary in their regard. Few could match your largesse. Of them all, only Anomander could stand as your equal, and even then, an equal measure quaintly discounting your secrets. Still, I wonder if he suspects …
Herat could almost see them, there upon the ridge overlooking the Valley of Tarns. How, he wondered, would that fateful exchange play out? Terse in the manner of men for whom deeds and gestures mattered more than any words. A meeting of gazes, a recognition of intentions, and then, at the last, the simple nod bespeaking the tragic cost of all to come.
Shall I write of that encounter? Am I not the historian, the caged witness behind the bars, flinching at the mad world beyond?
I see sleet slanting down from a glowering sky, a washed-out winter’s afternoon, with only a hint of the coming storm. I see Lord Anomander turn from his steady contemplation of the distant enemy ranks – or perhaps, in the wake of dread magic, he wheels, his face twisted in grief—
No, let us hook ourselves upon the meat of this battle before the flesh cools. To dangle and spin in wayward regard. See Draconus, dismounting from a blown horse. With Captain Kellaras behind him, colours muted in such a way as to flatten him against the background, our lone witness bound in threads. Few others are present, none with the temerity to draw closer, to hear the two men speak. Only the captain, a face of black threads bleached by the passing centuries. His name will be forgotten, his role beneath mention.
Like the armies about to clash, he and they are but footnotes, reduced to a sentence or two, or some rhythmic oration of set phrases to lay out the battle, the time of fever, stumbling to the knees, vanishing thereafter.
But he watches as the two men greet one another. They are friends, after all, and there is much for each man to recognize when looking upon the other. The future will fail in knowing this. A battle for a woman’s affections, yes, that’s summary simple enough – after all, what value motivations? It is the deed that is important. A lover upon one side, an adopted son upon the other.
And yet, nothing they say speaks of that. Indeed, I know enough to claim that such notions do not occur to them at all. Not at this time, not at any other.
‘Consort.’
‘Lord Anomander,’ Draconus replies, tilting his head in deference. The gesture is minimal, and yet for all that, Anomander’s brows lift. The respect they have known for one another has ever precluded such formal gestures. Anomander is indifferent to his noble blood. Draconus knows that, and knows as well that this is no mere affectation on the part of the First Son of Darkness. Nor is Anomander inclined to disparage privilege. The man simply dismisses the entire charade. For this reason, these two men are friends.
But now, here, something has changed.
‘I see, milord,’ Draconus continues, ‘that my Houseblades are positioned upon your east flank. I see Ivis at the ready, wearing the mask of war.’
But Anomander knows nothing of the Consort’s return to the world, or what bargains, if any, were made between him and Silchas Ruin. ‘Indeed, Draconus. They present a most powerful fist, as Urusander’s Legion is about to discover. And the gap between them and the Hust Legion is held by Silchas Ruin and my Houseblades.’
At that, Draconus turns, his gaze now fixing upon the far wester
n flank, where foment now stirs the highborn command. His face tightens, but only for a moment, as his attention returns to Anomander. ‘Milord, your brother came to me, as this day’s commander.’
Anomander’s gaze grows more acute now. ‘I have drawn my sword,’ he replies. ‘I have taken my rightful place.’
‘Then it follows, milord, that I must take mine.’
There is silence then, between these two men.
Is this how it was? As simple as that? The Consort rides to take command of his Houseblades, hard upon Anomander’s eastern flank. The gathered nobles burst apart in mock fury. Stung by the offence, the western flank dissolves. Companies wheel, withdraw, march away in high dudgeon. And all at once, the outcome of the battle is no longer in doubt.
Rise Herat turned away from the tapestry. He lifted his head, as would a drowning man breaking the surface, and looked round. Bronze and marble statuary surrounded him, the hues a sharp contrast. Great leaders, heroic soldiers, even a few scholars and figures of state. There was no order to the press, and as Herat studied them, he heard in his mind the rising clamour of battle. Amidst the flattened shadows of the chamber, his imagination woke to life every statue, as weapons were drawn, as the killing commenced.
He drew a sharp breath, silencing the tumult, freezing every figure in its tracks.
Unless the sorcery was unleashed. Yet negated, made useless as Light locked jaws with Dark. Any other possibility obviates the necessity of any portentous moment. Anomander, Draconus, Kellaras, all of them shattered by infernal magic. And Hunn Raal strides across a field made into a charnel house. Even the victorious legion is silent, aghast at the carnage.
No. Instead, let us set sorcery aside. Every weapon will be met, by sword or shield. Fear and defiance, failure and triumph, the miserable dance is all played out. But even that is yet to come. Return us to Draconus and Anomander. The priests have answered Hunn Raal. Nothing has changed.
‘I despise sorcery,’ the First Son says in a faint, brittle tone. ‘Is this what awaits us? Will Hunn Raal and his kind make mockery of battle?’
Lord Draconus glances across at Kellaras, his expression unreadable. He walks to Anomander’s side, and Kellaras edges his mount closer to the two men.
The two lords face the valley, where sleet is gathering in ribbons of dull white across the ravaged basin. Here and there, steam or smoke still rises from ruptured earth.
Draconus speaks. ‘Will you deny me, friend? Have we not fought side by side before?’
Anomander seems to tremble a moment, before turning to the Consort. ‘You seek my leave, Draconus? To what end?’
‘If you command me to withdraw, I shall. But understand me, Anomander. I will have Ivis and my Houseblades.’
‘You would break his heart, then.’
Draconus turns, slightly, to squint at Ivis in the distance where he remains at the head of his mounted company – and the captain’s gaze is fixed upon his lord, as if but awaiting the summons. ‘I see it. The fever has taken him. I should not be surprised at that.’
Anomander nods. ‘Urusander’s Legion prepares to advance.’ He studies the enemy ranks, and then asks a most fateful question. ‘How fares Mother Dark?’
Draconus seems to flinch at Anomander’s simple question. ‘She refuses my presence. I fear she knows my mind, and what lies between us is now wounded.’
‘Fatally so?’
‘I cannot say. Would you have it so?’
Anomander shakes his head. ‘No, never that, Draconus.’
A few moments pass, while both armies hesitate, while the sky loses its will and the sleet falls away to nothing, and a strange, exhausted silence takes hold of the dusk. Then Draconus says, ‘I can make it right.’
Something passes over Anomander’s face, as if he has just weathered a slap, but he slowly nods and then says, ‘Draconus, I must name this love, this courage of yours.’
‘I shall make it right,’ Draconus says again.
‘Take command of your flank, then, sir. Ivis and Silchas Ruin await you.’
‘I shall lead my Houseblades,’ Draconus says. ‘Your own I leave to your brother, of course.’
‘As you wish.’
‘Anomander?’
‘Yes?’
‘We shall not yield.’
‘No, Draconus, I expect not.’
‘She will see that, won’t she?’
Anomander makes no reply.
Draconus passes a hand over his face, and then adds, ‘There is the matter of your brother, Silchas Ruin.’
‘Draconus?’
‘I rode here, friend, wondering if you had commandeered my Houseblades. If you had simply taken them from me.’
‘Ah, I see. And if I had?’
‘I will speak to Ivis on the matter. Anomander, I chose to believe otherwise.’
‘Thank you,’ Anomander replies.
‘Your brother—’
‘Later, perhaps,’ Anomander says in a tone of peculiar finality.
Draconus studies his friend for a moment longer, his expression flattening with something like resignation, and then he turns to where his lathered horse still stands. He mounts up, and then rides out to the left flank to take command of Ivis and his Houseblades.
Rise Herat blinked, and then wiped at his eyes. It was the briefest of pauses, and now the sounds of battle resumed, the jarring discord of blackened bronze and bleached marble, the statues trapped in their hopeless war. Mere flesh betrays the armour and raging swords of the Hust. Prisoners, criminals, dying in the name of a civilization that has cast them out. Too ill fitted to thrive, and now they die by the score.
Ivis falls, fighting for his lord. Silchas Ruin rages, weeping as his sword flails at all who would draw near. Lord Anomander stands soaked in blood. He has carved a space around him, and sees at last the inevitable end to this carnage. He strides from the field, climbs the mud-streaked slope. Upon the ridge the standard of the Tiste Andii appears before him. He reaches the youth who stands holding it upright. Gently takes the tall, wavering pole from the boy’s hand—
And Draconus? Nowhere to be seen. His body will never be found.
It is no easy thing to kill an Azathanai.
Herat brought his hands to his eyes, plunging the terrible scene into blessed darkness. And we have done this. Emral and I … Abyss take us.
The standard tilted, and then swept down.
Done. All done.
With a cry, he staggered through the chamber, colliding with statuary, his eyes still covered by his damning hands. He fell more than once, scrambling frantically back to his feet. Disoriented, bruised and bleeding, he set off again, only to find himself lost among the towering figures.
They crowded him. With hands smeared in his own blood, they reached for him. Shrieking, he lunged and staggered about.
The chamber echoed his cries, until a thousand voices wailed in pain and grief.
All in the name of one man.
* * *
‘She will see you now.’
High Priestess Emral Lanear flicked her gaze upward to see the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, standing in the doorway. She lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and drew in another mouthful of smoke. She filled her lungs, feeling the familiar bite, the shock dulled to faint pleasure. Frowning at the huge, bearded man, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Who will see me now?’
Almost shyly, Grizzin Farl edged into the room. ‘Mother Dark. Your goddess.’ After a moment, he shrugged and said, ‘The wounded heart contracts, like the closing of a fist. She will see you now, and you in turn will see her. Out from the darkness, a manifestation of flesh, blood and, perhaps, tears.’
Lanear sent out a stream of smoke, and then snorted. ‘A little late for that.’
‘Such things do not pass swiftly, High Priestess, even for a goddess.’
After a moment, Lanear set the mouthpiece down and then rose from her chair. ‘Has word come from Tarns?’
‘Not yet.’
Se
eing him hesitate, she cocked her head. ‘Go on. No doubt, you have ways of … seeing things.’
He sighed. ‘Lord Anomander has struck the standard. The battle is over. Triumphant, the Liosan now approach the city. Many have died. That said,’ he added, ‘it could have been worse.’
She sat back down, all strength leaving her legs, and reached a trembling hand to retrieve the mouthpiece. ‘And … Draconus?’
‘Gone.’
‘Not dead?’
Grizzin Farl glanced away. ‘Gone, I think, is a better word.’
‘Mother Dark knows this?’
‘She has known this for some time, yes.’
Lanear smoked, studying the Azathanai through a veil of curling white. ‘And now, she will see her High Priestess.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I would think,’ he ventured, ‘preparations must be made. A wedding, yes?’
After a moment, she stood again, gathering her robes about her. ‘Lead on, Azathanai.’
The journey did not take long. They exchanged no further words, and a short time later they stood before the door to the Chamber of Night.
* * *
Surgeon Prok leaned against the sill of the window and used the palm of his right hand to melt the ice upon the thin, bubbled glass. ‘The tower’s flag has settled,’ he said after a moment. ‘Defeat. Surrender. Occupation. But then,’ he added as he straightened and turned to Sorca, ‘they are foreigners in habit only, and soon that too shall fade. I see an admixture ahead, and cannot but wonder at what spawn such union will yield.’ He lifted up his flask and drank another mouthful of spirit.
Sorca looked around, moved to a plush chair and sat heavily. ‘Beware the torch, lest your breath catch fire.’
‘If my words are fire, it’s a modest flame.’
Fall of Light Page 108
