The ancient tapestry offered no lies, no inventions of the imagination. The dragons depicted were accurate. In the scene seven of the creatures whirled above a burning city. There was no attribution to this work of art – even the age that spawned it was lost to memory, and nothing of the city itself was recognizable. Nothing but the river running through it, black as a fissure in bedrock.
If Kharkanas rested upon ruins, they’d yet to be revealed. Only the temple at the heart of the Citadel hinted of a world now vanished.
Then again, the city trapped by thread and dye was burning, dying within a firestorm. In such a storm, even the rocks would shatter, crumbling to dust.
Omens are for fools, but every truth of the future resides in the present, if only we have the will to see.
After a time, he realized that he was no longer alone. Turning, he frowned at the figure standing a step behind him. ‘Grizzin Farl, for all your girth, you move in silence.’
The Azathanai sighed. ‘Humble apologies, historian.’
‘I was thinking of you.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Vast forces at work, making a mockery of our conceits. Was this all begun by the woman we call T’riss? Or, as I suspect, should we look to Lord Draconus? Or you, perhaps, with your curious presence here, or, rather, your persistence?’
‘You would blame others for your ills?’
‘A feeble deflection, Azathanai. The realm of Eternal Night, or whatever it’s called, is too vast for us Tiste Andii to call home. And do not offend me by suggesting that Mother Dark lays claim to it. She is but an interloper. For all we know, she wanders as one lost, or even in fear, cowering at her Consort’s side.’
‘Neither, I should think,’ Grizzin Farl replied.
‘Dragons,’ said Rise Herat, turning back to look upon the tapestry once more. ‘Will we see more of them? Do they gather like vultures spying a wounded creature? Do they but await our inevitable death?’
Grizzin Farl scratched through his beard, his eyes glittering from some unseen light. ‘Now you describe a deceit in truth, historian. The fate of Kurald Galain barely registers with creatures such as the Eleint, and what they feed upon is nothing so crass as flesh and bone. Though, it must be said, they will indulge from time to time. It is important, Rise Herat, that you understand something of their nature.’
‘Oh? Please, continue.’
Ignoring the ironic invitation, Grizzin Farl stepped up beside the historian and squinted at the tapestry. ‘Inclined to scavenging,’ he said. ‘Less the hunter, then, than the opportunist. They dislike, even fear, each other’s company—’
‘This depiction suggests the opposite.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘Explain.’
‘They become a Storm, sir. A Storm of Dragons, and that is a terrible thing. No single Eleint can resist, once a certain threshold is crossed. Gather enough of the beasts – create a big enough Storm – and they merge. They become one beast, possessing many heads, many limbs, but a single, undeniable identity. Such a Storm has a name among the Azathanai. Tiamatha. Goddess of destruction. Tiam among the Thel Akai. The Fever Queen.’ He paused, and then nodded at the tapestry. ‘Here, merely a Storm. Ill chance that it should gather above a city, but you well see its annihilating force.’
‘The fire – that is incidental?’
Grizzin Farl shrugged. ‘Something drew them all there. There is that, I suppose.’
‘Something? What thing, Azathanai?’
‘Unknown. Perhaps … a wounded gate?’
‘Abyss take you, Farl! How can a gate be wounded?’
‘Careless usage, I imagine. That, or some form of elemental opposition.’
Elemental opposition? ‘Such as Light upon Dark?’
‘Not necessarily, historian. Forgive me if my careless words have alarmed you. You now fear some kind of violence to attend the union of Mother Dark and Father Light, but that is far from incumbent.’
‘I fear the violence leading to that union!’
A flicker of sorrow softened the huge man’s features. ‘Yes, the necessity for a delicate balance awaits you. I see that now. But still, be at ease. Dragons have indeed returned to the world, but they are scattered and would remain so, given the choice. The Storm is an unpleasant manifestation even for the Eleint trapped within it.’
‘Never mind that – what of the gate? What of this damned marriage?’
‘If neither resists, all will be well.’
‘And if one proves … reluctant?’
‘The mere recognition of necessity lends one wisdom, don’t you think? Enough to ease the pain of such reluctance.’ He paused, and then added, ‘At last, something manifest to give breadth to your prayers?’
‘Why, yes,’ Rise Herat snapped. ‘How thoughtful of you.’
‘Does this tapestry possess a name, by any chance?’
‘Threaded upon the back. “The Last Day”.’
‘Ah. Nothing else, then?’
‘No. I would think,’ Rise bitterly added, ‘nothing more was necessary.’
* * *
He felt her touch upon his shoulder, and then she spoke. ‘You heal quickly, my love.’
‘I was once beset in a like manner,’ Draconus said. ‘Back then, it was hounds.’ He hesitated, feeling her essence closing gently around him. ‘Hounds are cleverer than panthers. The assassin was new to his curse. He left too much to their instincts. Cats hunt in the manner of pinning or binding their prey, clinging tight, jaws about the windpipe, until the prey suffocates. But hounds … well, as I said. They are cleverer.’
‘Yet you survived both.’
He said nothing for a long moment, and then sighed heavily. ‘My love, what would you have me do?’
Mother Dark’s embrace was all-consuming, impossibly tender, and in utterly engulfing him she took away the world: the forest and standing stones, the unfinished wagon and its chains, the pools of blood upon the ground. ‘Beloved, my heart is for you. As it was, as it is, and as it shall ever be.’
He nodded. ‘As you will, then.’
‘You tremble. Does my touch hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘Then … what?’
He was thinking of the D’ivers hounds, all those centuries past. Assailing him from all sides. Even with the fullness of his power, they had nearly torn him apart. ‘Nothing of import,’ he said after a moment. ‘Just memories.’
‘Let not the past haunt you, my love. In that realm, we are all ghosts.’
‘As you say.’
She kept the world away for some time, and he was content with that.
* * *
‘They don’t look much like wolves,’ Sergeant Savarro said to her husband.
The huge man tugged at his beard. ‘Surprised they ain’t ate up those little ones we brought along.’
Savarro grunted. ‘No. Seems they like other children just fine. Playing with ’em like they was pups or something.’
Veered into their canine forms, a dozen Jhelarkan hostages tumbled with the children of the refugee families from the Warden’s fort. The new snowfall in the compound was all churned up by their antics, and high-pitched squeals and shouts joined the chorus of mock growls. The scene was appallingly bucolic.
‘It ain’t so bad,’ Savarro continued.
‘You’re trying too hard,’ Ristand said, grimacing. ‘You should’ve let me change my vote. We should’ve stayed a night or two and then got us out of here. They now call this place Howls for a fucking good reason. The mules are so scared they stopped eating.’
She sighed. ‘That’s what makes me so sick of you, you know that? You keep changing what happened to suit what you’re thinking right now. Fucking men.’
‘I ain’t changed nothing! You’re just remembering it wrong, like a typical woman.’
‘I’ve seen you eyeing that Nassaras.’
‘Not that again!’
‘Go on then! Drag her into the barn, tear her clothes off and rut li
ke a damned hare. A fat damned hare! Slap your paws on her big tits. Bite at her neck. Make her groan as you try crawling up inside her—’
‘Abyss take us, woman, let’s go!’
Together they rose and hurried back into the keep.
*
Just inside the entrance, Lord Kagamandra had to quickly step to one side to let the two Wardens past. He paused, watching them rush through the dining hall, and then thump quickly up the stairs.
Trout stepped into view from near the hearth. ‘Not again,’ he muttered.
Kagamandra opened the front door and glanced outside, then shut it again and returned to the dining hall. ‘No blood,’ he said. ‘I mistook those screams.’
‘Numbers went down fast,’ Trout said, shifting where he stood, absently pulling at his stubbly cheeks hard enough to expose the red rims below his dark eyes. ‘Might be they ain’t feeling so crowded any more. It’s been days since we last stumbled on to a chewed-up carcass.’
‘The blind one still survives, and that’s surprising,’ Kagamandra said musingly, as he moved to sit down at the table.
‘More wine, milord?’
‘It’s not even noon.’
‘Aye. More wine?’
Kagamandra eyed the ugly captain. ‘You’d see my mind dulled, made witless, to take the sting from my plans for vengeance. Since when did the fates of Scara Bandaris and Silchas Ruin concern you?’
‘It ain’t them, milord. It’s you. You just got here, and all you been talking about is leaving again. With Silchas in Kharkanas, no doubt, and Scara probably riding with Urusander, you’d end up stuck between two Abyss-damned armies. It’s a simple fact, sir, that they needed to send the hostages somewhere. Remote, out of the way, peaceful even.’
‘Thank you, Trout. You always had a way of reining me in.’
‘Sarcasm ill fits you, milord. Besides, conscience has an ugly face, most times.’ And he smiled to make even more ghastly his visage.
‘Still,’ Kagamandra said, ‘if a war is in the offing, what are we doing here?’
Trout pulled a chair close and slumped down in it. He squinted at the flames of the hearth. From somewhere in the kitchen, there was a shout and pots clanged as Igur Lout’s new assistants once more got underfoot. ‘Aye,’ Trout said. ‘Braphen said as much, too. It’s that damned itch, isn’t it? Takes us all. Riding out, fuck the winter and all that. Just riding out, back into war.’
‘Feeling old, Trout?’ Kagamandra asked quietly.
‘We all are, is my bet, sir. And still …’ He shook his head, half his face twisting into a grin as he glanced at Kagamandra. ‘We could do some damage, hey? I was never much for Urusander’s bleatings, and Hunn Raal’s a pig and I don’t expect that’s changed any. But I wonder, sir, what happens when you find yourself facing Scara Bandaris across that field? Will the pranks continue when it’s life and death on the bloody line?’
‘The notion has occurred to me,’ Kagamandra replied. ‘I cannot say what clout Scara possesses among the high command in the Legion. If I am able, I will speak to him and attempt to dissuade him. This civil war is a bitter legacy of our past triumphs.’
‘Scara’s would be a lone voice,’ Trout said.
‘No. There is another. Captain Sharenas.’
Trout’s gaze narrowed on his lord, and then he nodded, returning his attention to the hearth. ‘Need more wood,’ he said, grunting as he rose. ‘Cold in the bones won’t do, if we’re to ride.’
Kagamandra smiled at his old friend.
Trout paused. ‘What of the Wardens?’
‘I’ll put it to them, but to be honest, Trout, I think the fight’s out of this bunch.’
‘You begin to speak like a soldier again, milord. I’ve missed that. I’ll get some wood.’
Kagamandra watched the man depart.
From almost directly above came a rhythmic thumping, while clanging and Lout’s ongoing harangue continued in the kitchen. Outside, children and beasts frolicked in the snow.
He rubbed at his face. Ah, Sharenas. I cannot stay in one place, it seems. Snapping jaws upon my flanks, I am inclined to bolt.
My betrothed? I cannot say. Together and apart, we travel lost to each other, as the fates demand.
This keep seems paltry and small. Not a place she could call home, and I’ll not insult her with the offer.
A child outside attempted a howl, and moments later the hostages gave answer.
Shivering, Kagamandra looked to the ebbing fire, but found little heat there. Trout had best hurry with that wood.
NINETEEN
‘RESTITUTION,’ SAID VATHA URUSANDER, ‘SEEMS SUCH A simple concept. A past wrong made right, even should generations span the injustice. Even if questions of personal culpability no longer obtain, there are the spoils of the crime to consider.’
Renarr slid her gaze from her adoptive father where he stood by the window, over to young Sheltatha Lore, who had a way of making adolescence itself a triumph. Long limbs draped upon the divan, her slim torso slightly curled in feline grace – as if she but awaited the sculptor and the chisel, the unblinking eye finding its myriad obsessions. ‘Art,’ Gallan once said, ‘is the sweet language of obsession.’ Renarr thought that she’d begun to comprehend the poet’s assertion, as she idly gave herself the artist’s eye when looking upon her not-so-innocent charge.
In the meantime, Urusander continued. ‘A concept may seem simple, until its careful consideration unveils unending complications. How does one measure such spoils when cause and effect settle one upon the other in endless repetition, like sediments in stone? Raise up that first cause like a spire – the years after will see it weathered to a stub, its solidity reduced to grains, its height levelled amidst the heaps of its own detritus. Even then, how does one assign a value to all that was gained, over all that was potentially lost? Is innocence worth more than knowing? Is freedom worth more than seeming necessity? What of privilege and greed? And power and force? Are they a match in coin, or weight of gold, to destitution and loss? Helplessness and impotence?’
Plucking at some thread or lint, Sheltatha Lore sighed. ‘Dear me, milord, surely you comprehend that restitution holds a thousand meanings, ten thousand – numbers unending, in fact.’ One supple arm reached out and down to collect up the goblet of wine, which she brought to her lips. A careless mouthful, and then, ‘What about the victim indifferent to gold? Contemptuous of coin? Or the one whose beliefs reject vengeance? What of the Denier in the forest who can only weep for the loss of trees and the deaths of loved ones? How many wagons filled with loot will satisfy him or her? How many newly planted trees, or rebuilt huts? How many monuments to honour their dead? Restitution,’ she said, after another mouthful of wine, ‘may live in the present, promising a just future, but it dwells in the sordid past. The word itself ignores the lesson of its necessity, and so will breed its own generations. But at the last, milord, the only restitution won in the final bargain will be that of the wild’s return, to all that civilization destroyed and enslaved. Restitution is not found in the words of compensation, guilt, and wretched bargaining. It is found in the silence of healing, and that silence only comes when the criminals and their ilk, their very civilization, are gone.’
Urusander turned, with something like delight in his eyes. ‘A sound argument, Sheltatha Lore. I will give your words some thought.’ He turned to Renarr. ‘She is your student? You have many talents indeed, Renarr, to awaken such a lively mind.’
Sheltatha snorted. ‘This lively mind, milord, was forged in neglect and abuse, long before I crossed paths with Renarr. Isn’t that always the way? Isolation hones the inner voice, the unspoken dialogue between the selves – and surely there are many selves within each of us. Some uglier than others.’
There was something of the challenge in Sheltatha’s tone.
‘I see little that is ugly in you,’ Urusander said quietly.
‘Youth is the soul’s disguise, milord. It serves, until it is used up. For now, sir, y
ou are seduced by what you see. What if I told you that a vicious, venal demon hides within me? A thing of scars remembering every wound?’
‘Then, perhaps,’ said Urusander, turning once more to the window, ‘I would welcome you to our company.’
Sighing, Renarr settled back in her chair. ‘Your soldiers don’t want restitution, Father. What they lost can’t be returned to them. No, they want wealth, and land. They want to carve up the holdings of the nobles. They want titles. And see how, for all their simple greed, they are now painted white, as if their every squalid want has been blessed. Is it any wonder they grow bold?’
‘I am subjected to their demands daily, Renarr,’ Urusander replied. ‘If this not be a burden I accept, then someone else surely will.’
‘Hunn Raal,’ said Sheltatha Lore, leaning over to refill her goblet. ‘Now there’s an ugly man.’
‘The Legion readies to march,’ Urusander said, eyes still on whatever had caught his attention through the window. ‘Hallyd Bahann’s delay in returning will no longer hold us back.’
Renarr studied her adoptive father for a moment, and then said, ‘Not by your command? Not in answer to your will? Will you simply be pulled along, swept up in this flood of self-serving indignation?’
‘You advise I defy the wishes of my soldiers?’
‘I advise nothing,’ she replied.
‘No,’ murmured Sheltatha Lore, ‘she’s much too subtle to do that.’
‘In the early morning,’ Urusander said, ‘I can look down upon the pickets. The camp’s guards, standing so still in the whiteness. As if carved from marble. I stand here, a sculptor of these creations, the maker of an army of stone. Three thousand stone hearts in three thousand stone breasts. And I tremble – as I have always done, when I am about to give the command to march, to find battle, to see my creations shattered, broken.’ He lifted a hand and settled it against the cold lead pane. ‘This is a dreadful truth: much as I would like to imagine an army of such perfection that it need never draw a blade, need never deliver death and have death delivered unto it, I recognize the brutal truth. Each and every soldier out there has had his or her flesh hacked away, everything soft – all gone. Leaving nothing but stone, cold and hard. Intent on feeling nothing. Existing only in order to destroy.’