Fall of Light

  His friend spoke again, this time in a woman’s voice. ‘If the world was a parent – to all that lived upon it – then love died long ago, after too many ages of mutual cruelty. Burning forests. Dying trees. A child trapped by the flames. The shaking of earth and rock-falls, or houses falling down killing everyone inside. A beautiful baby, dying for no good reason. No, we have lots of reasons to hate the world, and the world has lots of reasons to hate us. It goes on and on, now, and still we keep being cruel to each other.

  ‘And we pretend we’re winning. Until we lose again. This is how things rise and fall, and how things once strong can end up burned out and in ruin, with weeds growing up from the cracked flagging. This is how proud old women end up dying in the dirt, or just burning up like a straw doll. Things rise and fall, the way the chest does when you’re breathing. And, dear child, you’re still breathing. Shall we count this a victory?’

  There were gravestones, and crypts. I walked over mounds. It was cold, everything was cold. The stones, the sky. I found a pit and sank into it. Like a dead man. Until the cold went away.

  It is as my friend says. Men twist to what they suffer inside. Jinia, I will find them and kill them. They won’t be able to hide, because what they did will be right there, on their faces.

  ‘The life of a child finds strength,’ said his friend, now a man again, ‘in its potential. That potential is stubborn. It doesn’t understand surrender … until it does, and with that understanding, the child withers and dies. You, Wreneck, don’t comprehend the notion of surrender. This is what draws us to you. You have the will of tender shoots, as they emerge from cracks in stone, or between the flagstones. Victory is far away, but inevitable. In this manner, the child is closest to nature, when the adult has long since fled the cost of ambition, and must live, day upon day, with the price of an entire language built around notions of surrender.’

  Who are you? Wreneck asked.

  ‘We are dying gods.’

  Why are you dying?

  ‘To make way for our children.’

  But they need you!

  ‘They think not. Lessons, Wreneck, are not easily won. We see a future filled with blood. But you, child, we were drawn to you. Even so near death, you shine bright. We will leave you now. Do not ask our blessing. It has become a curse. Nature is an eternal child. Thus we, the eternal children of the world, now understand the notion of surrender. It is time, alas, to go away.’

  Some memories returned to Wreneck, and with them, his friend vanished.

  He had felt them lift his body from the grave. He was light in their hands, almost floating, and the rags he wore were stiff with frost. He thought he heard them speaking and there were two voices thus far. Just the two, and then the smell of woodsmoke and maybe heat, and now he was swaddled in furs. Beneath his back was a thick, tanned hide, and beneath that there were hot stones lifted out from the fire. Still, the hand upon his brow was the warmest thing he felt, and yet it remained impossibly far away.

  Dying gods, I miss you.

  The world beyond the farm and the town of Abara Delack was bigger than he had imagined. It just went on and on, like someone repeating the words of creation over and over again. Trees, hills, rocks, river, ditch, trees, trees, track and trail, road and ditch, hills, trees, stream, trees. Sky and sky and sky and sky … and the further it sprawled, the colder it got, as if the words had lost their love of themselves, as if the creator of the world was just getting tired of the whole thing, the over-and-over-again of it. Trees and sky and trees and glade and graves and pit and down here, yes, just down here, is what you need. See how small it is? Perfect.

  ‘Some never awaken,’ said a voice, and this one was real.

  ‘He will,’ replied the other, closer, belonging to the one whose hand was upon his brow. ‘You ever underestimate the strength of the Tiste.’

  ‘Perhaps I do at that.’

  ‘And he’s young, but not too young. A tough boy, I should say. See the burn scars and whip marks? And that one I’d wager was a sword-thrust. Should have killed him. It is difficult to claim that this child knows nothing of survival.’

  ‘What will you do with him?’

  ‘Dracons Keep is nearest us.’

  ‘Ah, I see. But Lord Draconus is not in residence, is he?’

  ‘Probably not, as you say, Azathanai.’

  ‘Mother Dark still holds him close.’

  ‘It may be that, yes.’

  ‘What else?’

  There was a pause, and then came the reply, ‘He steps away from things. He chooses to remain in darkness, unseeing and unseen. By deliberate absence from all affairs, he wishes to be forgotten.’ The voice sighed and then continued. ‘Hopeless, yes. Events will drag him out before too long.’

  ‘As they will drag you back. To Kharkanas.’

  ‘Will you accompany me, then?’

  ‘To the Citadel? I think not. Walls and stone overhead makes me uncomfortable. No, I will simply await you, nearby.’

  The hand slipped away, and Wreneck felt its sudden absence with a pang. But he heard the soft laugh, and then, ‘The High Mason cringes from walls and stone roof.’

  A few moments passed, and then the other man said, ‘Every monument I raise from the earth is a prison, First Son. In being made, it is contained. In its shape, it displaces emptiness. In its conceit, it seeks to defy time.’

  ‘Well tended, such a monument can withstand ages, Caladan.’

  ‘Even as its meaning weathers away. Tend to the stone or bronze, yes, and keep it pristine. But, I wonder, who tends to the truth of it? It would be better, I sometimes think, if I simply sank my works into bogs, to dwell in darkness and mud.’

  ‘An altogether different kind of monument,’ said the nearer man, as he brought his hand once again to rest upon Wreneck’s brow. ‘A different meaning, too.’

  ‘Intention, First Son, yields no echoes. All who come afterwards, to gaze upon my art, can only wonder at my mind, even as they note every chisel scar, and ponder the sure hand that dealt it. They will, of course, make a feast of the morsels, and assert their pronouncements to be a certain truth.’

  The hand slipped away again and Wreneck heard the man beside him rise to stand, and his voice now drifted down as if coming from a cave, or the ledge of some tower or cliff. ‘Your angst is not unfamiliar, Caladan Brood. I’ve heard the poet Gallan snarling when in his cups. Still, there is little artistry in my life. My mind works in plain ways, my meaning plainer still.’

  The one named Caladan Brood, whose voice was strangely heavy, now made a sound that might have been laughter. ‘And your swordplay knows no subtlety, Rake? The machinations of court? You fail to convince me with your claims.’

  ‘The issue is simple enough,’ Rake replied. ‘Urusander and his legion will quit Neret Sorr before the break of winter’s hold. Together, they will march upon Kharkanas, with the intention of setting Urusander upon a throne, at Mother Dark’s side.’

  ‘And what in such a scenario so offends you, First Son? Tell me, if you will, what sets the common soldier so far beneath those of noble blood? By what means do you measure worth?’

  ‘Ask the common soldier, Caladan, and the words are direct enough. Coin and land, standing and prestige. A freedom with indulgences, a certain pomp. The very things they curse in their enemies are what they seek for themselves. The argument, friend, is held low, and in that modesty, iron will shout in the manner of bullies. It is a pathetic language, this argument, with mutual stupidity setting the limits of the exchange.’

  ‘Yet you must march to meet him, with swords and spears to speak for you.’

  The First Son – Wreneck knew that title, as he had heard Lady Nerys utter it often enough, in tones of awe – was slow in replying, and when he did, his voice was cold. ‘The pretensions of the nobles are little better, Caladan. They see their perch as crowded enough. I have an angry child to either side of me, and I like it not – is this my sole task? My singular service to Mother Dark? T
o stand between two self-serving brats? No. If I am to march against Urusander, I need better reason than that.’

  ‘And have you one?’

  ‘I take offence at the presumption.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Well, all of them. But mostly Urusander’s – or perhaps it is Hunn Raal’s, but I have doubts as to the importance of the distinction.’

  ‘Do you know, then, Mother Dark’s mind?’

  The First Son’s laugh was bitter, and then he said, ‘She has her Consort. Is this not plain enough? But then a kinswoman of yours, Azathanai, flung a burning brand into the haystack. Andii and now Liosan – we are a people divided, and I cannot but believe that was your Azathanai’s intent, to see us weakened. And I must wonder, why?’

  ‘Look to Draconus for an answer to that, First Son.’

  ‘Draconus? Why him?’

  ‘He has brought Dark to the Tiste.’

  ‘The Terondai on the Citadel’s floor? No. The Azathanai named T’riss had already done her damage by then.’

  ‘The Gate, which I suppose we must now call Kurald Galain, is an iteration of control,’ Caladan replied, ‘over a force that was and remains pervasive, existing as it does in opposition to Chaos.’

  ‘To Chaos? Not Light?’

  ‘Light, if you would consider this, is an absolution of Chaos. In its purity it finds order, with substance and hue. This is how Chaos seeks, in its own fashion, its own obliteration.’

  ‘I do not understand you, Caladan. You speak of these elemental forces as if they possessed will.’

  ‘No, only proclivity. Name any force and, with sufficient contemplation, you will discern that it cannot exist alone. Other forces act upon it, make demands of it, and even alter the edges of its own nature. This is Creation’s dialogue, but even then, what seems but opposition, of two forces set against one another, is in truth a multitude of interactions, of voices. Perhaps dialogue is the wrong word. Think more of a tumult, a cacophony. Each force seeks to impose its own rhythm upon all of Creation, and what results may well seem disordered, but I assure you, First Son, this chorus makes music. For those willing or able to hear.’

  ‘Caladan, return this discussion to Draconus, and T’riss.’

  ‘A lover’s gift – well, too many gifts, and too generous their span. In his blessing of the woman he loves with the power of Elemental Dark, Draconus imposed an impossible imbalance upon Creation. The world, First Son – any world – can hold only its necessary forces, and these in delicate balance. The Azathanai you have named T’riss had no choice, although in the boldness of her act she displayed nothing of the subtlety of our kind. It may be that the Vitr has damaged her in some way.’

  ‘I would track her down, Caladan, to learn more of all this.’

  ‘She may well return,’ Caladan said. ‘But for now, it is unlikely you can find her trail. She walks unseen paths. You must understand, First Son: the Azathanai are skilled at not being found.’

  ‘Then, you say, the blame is with Draconus.’

  ‘With the weakness in his heart, but is it right to blame such a thing? In the prelude to war, compassion is the first victim, slain like a child upon the threshold.’

  ‘Lord Draconus is my friend.’

  ‘Then sustain it.’

  ‘But … remaining at her side as he does, he disappoints me.’

  ‘You have set your expectation against the compassion you claim to possess, and now the child bleeds anew.’

  ‘Very well, I will seek to withhold judgement on Draconus.’

  ‘Then, I fear, you will stand alone in the war to come.’

  ‘The thought,’ the First Son said, ‘of a highborn victory tastes as sour as does the thought of Urusander’s ascension. I am of a mind to see them both humbled.’

  ‘Ascension is a curious word in this context.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mother Dark … Father Light. The titles are not empty, and if you think the powers behind them are but illusions, then you are a fool.’

  Wreneck heard a gasp, but it was a moment before he realized that it had come from him. He was back, in a place of warmth. He had crossed the icy river all unknowing. He opened his eyes.

  A tall warrior stood above him, studying him with calm eyes. Off to one side, seated on a scorched stump, was a huge figure wearing silver fur upon his broad shoulders, with something bestial in his broad, flat face that made Wreneck shiver.

  ‘The chill remains deep in your bones,’ the First Son said to Wreneck. ‘But you have returned to us, and that is well.’

  Wreneck glared across at Caladan Brood. ‘First Son, why do you not kill him?’ he asked.

  ‘For what reason would I do that, even if I could?’ Lord Anomander asked.

  ‘He called you a fool.’

  The First Son smiled. ‘He but reminds me of the risk in careless words. Well now, we found you in a grave, yet here you are, resurrected. But this winter has been hard on you – when did you last eat?’

  Unable to recall, Wreneck said nothing.

  ‘I will prepare some broth,’ said Caladan Brood, reaching across to his pack. ‘If you will make this child your conscience, best he know the bliss of a full stomach.’

  The First Son grunted. ‘My conscience, Caladan? He just urged vengeance against you.’

  ‘After riding the back of our conversation, yes.’

  ‘I doubt he understood much of it.’

  The Azathanai shrugged as he withdrew items from the pack.

  ‘Why,’ Anomander persisted, ‘would I make this foundling my conscience?’

  ‘Perhaps only to awaken it within you, First Son, given his impulsive bloodlust.’

  Lord Anomander looked back down at Wreneck. ‘Are you a Denier orphan, then?’ he asked.

  Wreneck shook his head. ‘I was a stabler for House Drukorlat. But she was murdered and everything was burned down. They tried to kill me and Jinia, too, but we lived, only she’s hurt inside. I remember their names. I am going to kill them. The ones who did that to Jinia. I have a spear …’

  ‘Yes,’ the First Son said, his expression grave, ‘we found that. The shaft seems sound, lovingly tended, I would judge. But it could do with a better-weighted blade. You have their names, you say. What else do you recall of these murderers?’

  ‘Legion soldiers, sir. They were drunk, but they took orders and things. There was a sergeant. They thought I was dead, but I wasn’t. They were going to burn us all in the house, but I got me and Jinia out.’

  ‘Lady Nerys is dead, then.’

  Wreneck nodded. ‘But Orfantal had already been sent away, and Sandalath, too. There was just the three of us left, but I wasn’t let in the house, and the barn burned down and she didn’t really want me any more anyway.’

  Lord Anomander continued studying him. ‘And Sandalath … if I recall, she is now a hostage in Dracons Keep.’

  Wreneck couldn’t remember if that was true, but he nodded. ‘And that’s where you’re taking me, isn’t it?’

  ‘A quiet listener, this one,’ said Caladan as he set a battered pot upon the embers.

  ‘Good men are,’ said Wreneck. ‘It’s only little boys who are too loud, getting whipped for it as is proper.’

  Neither the First Son nor the Azathanai replied to this.

  After a time, Wreneck sat up, and Caladan Brood brought to him a bowl of broth. Wreneck held it in both hands and felt how the heat seeped through to his fingers. The sensation was painful, but he welcomed it nonetheless.

  Then Lord Anomander spoke. ‘It may comfort you to know that Orfantal is safe, in the Citadel.’

  Wreneck glanced over, and then frowned down at the bowl and its steaming broth. ‘She said I sullied him. We had to stop being friends.’

  ‘Sandalath?’

  ‘No. Lady Nerys.’

  ‘Who was free with her cane.’

  ‘Me and Jinia had to know our place.’

  ‘Would you rather,’ Lord Anomander said, ‘that I did not d
eliver you to Dracons Keep? I recall Sandalath, from her time in the Citadel. She was clever, and seemed kindly enough, but time will change people.’

  ‘She liked it that Orfantal had someone to play with, but it was wrong. Lady Nerys explained it.’ Wreneck sipped at the broth. He had never tasted anything better. ‘I can’t stay long at Dracons Keep, even if Sandalath wants me there. I have bad men to kill.’

  ‘This,’ said Caladan Brood, ‘proves a most cruel conscience.’

  ‘Go slowly with that broth,’ Lord Anomander said. ‘Tell me your name.’

  ‘Wreneck.’

  ‘Have you brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Just my ma. The man who made me with her was with the army. He also made horseshoes and other stuff, but he died to a horse-kick. I don’t remember him, but Ma says I’m going to be big, like he was. She sees it in my bones.’

  ‘You’ll not return to her?’

  ‘Not until I kill the ones who hurt Jinia. Then I’ll come back. I’ll find Jinia in the village and we’ll get married. She says she can’t have children, not any more, after what they did, but that doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t matter if Ma doesn’t like her either, because of how she’s been used and all. I’ll marry Jinia, and protect her for ever.’

  Lord Anomander was no longer looking down at Wreneck. He was instead looking across at Caladan Brood. He said, ‘And so I now raise my standard, Azathanai, to a deserved future, and a conscience scrubbed clean. If not in the name of love, then what cause suffices?’

  ‘Draconus would stand with you, First Son, beneath such a standard. And thus the nobles are lost.’

  Lord Anomander turned away, studied the barren trees with their scorched trunks that surrounded the glade. ‘Are we then past the age of shame, Caladan? No sting should I ridicule my fellow highborn?’

  ‘Its power has diminished. Shame, my friend, is but a ghost now, haunting every city, every town and village. It has less substance than woodsmoke, and but rubs the throat with little more than an itch.’

  ‘I shall make it a wildfire.’

  ‘In such a conflagration, First Son, guard your standard well.’