There was silence in the chamber, until Sheltatha stretched on the divan and spoke in a loose tone. ‘More likely the nobles will surrender, milord. There’ll be no battle. Simply show the sword and the will behind it, and your enemies will kneel.’
‘If they do,’ Urusander replied, ‘they will leave the field with their Houseblades intact. We but delay the clash.’ He faced the chamber, eyed both women. ‘This is what Hunn Raal does not understand. Nor the High Priestess. The marriage wins us nothing but an uneasy delay. Which of the noble families will be the first to yield a portion of its land?’ He waved a hand. ‘The two thrones are meaningless. These conjoined hands, dark and light, cannot win us peace.’
Sheltatha slowly sat up, her eyes bright on Urusander. ‘You mean to betray them. Your own soldiers.’
‘I wanted peace. All I ever wanted.’
‘Hunn Raal will see you dead. High Priestess Syntara will hand him the dagger, with every blessing of Light she can conjure.’
‘We march to battle,’ Urusander said to her, voice suddenly cold. ‘We will force the nobles to fight us. We will shatter the Houseblades, and leave the highborn with no choice but to negotiate. And then there will be restitution.’
‘All to keep Hunn Raal from your back.’
‘I will see peace forged.’
‘Hunn Raal—’
‘Is an outlaw and a murderer. I will hand him over to the Hust Legion, with my blessing.’
Sheltatha smirked. ‘Your first gesture of reconciliation.’
Looking between the two, Renarr could not decide which one dismayed her the most. After a moment, she shut down such emotions, mentally turned away from them both. None of this mattered. None of this was relevant. The winter loses its grip upon the Legion. The camp whores, men and women alike, gasp at the sudden rush of coins, the eager tumble of bodies. By this, they know. They understand. We are to march. Cut a heated path through the season. There is excitement riding the lust, because lust comes in so many flavours. Time to taste them all.
None of it concerns me. Not any more.
My adoptive father has come to his sense of duty. He will take the hand of Mother Dark. This is not so vast a deviation for Vatha Urusander. He was always one to embrace sacrifice, to set aside his own wants and needs. Indeed, he yearns for such moments, such gestures. They are what he would use to set him apart from the rest of us.
Noble acts, like the spreading of a peacock’s tail. Nothing for himself, and everything for those who witness. After all, let it not be misunderstood. It is his very reluctance that spawns the virtue, and by the virtue’s power, he will force upon this realm all the justice it can stomach.
But even then, he will defy the most egregious demands from his soldiers, and so they will see him as a betrayer. This too will stand as a sacrifice. This too will taste of virtue.
But none of it matters.
Soon, I will stand with Urusander, in the Citadel. I will see him made a husband once more. I will see the marriage done. I will see the beginning of his overtures. The first gestures at reconciliation, restitution, the sure path to some kind of justice – the kind none like, but all can live with.
The dust will begin settling. There will be relief. Elation. The storm has passed. It’ll not turn now.
She rose. ‘I will take my leave, milord. Sheltatha’s lessons are done for this day.’
But Urusander was at the window once again, and only now did Renarr hear the clamour of the Legion breaking camp. To Renarr’s announcement, he simply nodded, and then, as if in afterthought, he added, ‘Preparations will take some time. We march on the morrow, or perhaps the day after.’
‘Heady times,’ said Sheltatha Lore in a low voice, smiling down at the wine in her goblet. Raising her voice, she said, ‘Milord, I beg you, on the day of your justice, spare not my mother.’
When Urusander made no reply, Renarr quickly left the chamber.
* * *
‘A procession will be necessary,’ said High Priestess Syntara from where she stood near the altar. ‘A lighting of sacred torches, perhaps, to burnish the dawn. I will lead. With awakened Light suffusing my person, bright as the sun, and yet purer. We must make the dawn our first blessing, each and every day, even while on the march.’
Seated on a stone bench, Sagander studied the woman from beneath heavy lids. Pomp to cow the masses was all very well, but this woman’s vanity was too transparent. She lacked subtlety. ‘I was speaking of Sheltatha Lore,’ he said. ‘In the keeping of a whore is not acceptable. A whore but makes other whores, even should they be children. The habits of the adult seduce, and against such things no child can resist.’
‘From my understanding,’ Syntara said, ‘Tathe Lorat’s daughter was never a child. I told you, she is too damaged for my temple. It is a wonder that my blessing of white still remains upon such soiled flesh.’
You were one of Emral Lanear’s temple whores, woman – what of your soiled flesh? Of course, he dared not point out such details, lest they sully this woman’s desperate reinventions. Besides, reinventions are necessary, enough to knock history into some semblance of destiny, when it is all said and done.
I will pen the new truths of all this. The eyes and the hand of a witness, here within the inner sanctum of a newly forged realm. Sagander will be a name revered for ages to come.
‘Besides,’ Syntara continued, ‘your obsession over that child is unseemly.’
‘Baseless lies!’
The High Priestess shrugged. ‘It hardly matters. Tathe Lorat was free in gifting her daughter, and cared little about the nightly unveiling of horrors. If Sheltatha Lore’s lessons with you involved the art of sucking your cock, what of it?’
Sagander’s hands curled into white-knuckled fists where they rested on his lap. ‘I sought her salvation,’ he whispered.
Syntara smiled down at him. ‘Many are the paths to salvation. Or did she remain … unconvinced?’
‘You bait me.’
‘I offer you any child in my temple, historian.’
He glared at her. ‘High Priestess, I was a tutor. An honourable profession that I never – not once – sullied by what you suggest. Indeed, I find your invitation reprehensible.’
She studied him for a moment longer. ‘Good. The fewer of your weaknesses they can exploit, the better.’
The ones they would exploit, or you?
‘The army prepares,’ he said, made uneasy by her steady regard. ‘But Hunn Raal hides in his tent, refusing all messengers.’
‘The Mortal Sword has no time for such mundane trivialities,’ Syntara said, moving to circle the altar and the makeshift throne positioned on the dais behind the altar-stone. Torches blazed in the chamber, with candelabras set on every available niche and flat surface. Every shadow had been banished, every dollop of darkness expunged. The throne awaited a dressing of gilt, and it seemed that this one, at least, would remain here in the temple.
‘I am surprised you have elected to join us,’ Sagander said.
‘The High Priestesses must meet. We must both attend the sacred wedding.’
‘Leaving this temple virtually empty.’
She paused with one hand on the back of the throne. ‘There is no risk, Sagander. What concerns you so?’
He began reaching down to the leg that was not there, but caught himself in time. ‘I will need a cart, and attendants.’
‘No doubt,’ she said.
‘Do you believe there will be a battle?’
‘Consider the blood spilled as a necessary sacrifice. Indeed, as a source of power. Does that bother you, historian? I should think you’d be pleased.’
‘War never pleased me, High Priestess. It is crass, an admission of failure. It is, alas, the triumph of stupid minds.’ He eyed her. ‘Yet now, you hint that Liosan is a thirsty faith.’
‘There is something raw in its power, yes,’ she replied. ‘But on a field of battle, Sagander, men and women will die. Are we to waste such spillage? Are we to de
em it useless?’
Sagander gestured. ‘You have one altar. Is that not enough?’
‘Is not every battlefield sanctified? Are there not countless sacrifices made upon that holy ground?’
‘Gods of war are barbaric creations, High Priestess. To consort with them must be beneath us.’
‘They will gather nonetheless.’
‘Then see them defied! Banished!’
Syntara laughed. ‘You’re an old man indeed, historian. Some things are inevitable. But like you, I expect this war to be short. A single day, a single battle. Besides,’ she added, ‘Lord Draconus will be among the victims on that day. Insofar as necessary sacrifices go, he stands alone.’
‘I should think Mother Dark would refuse to hand him over,’ Sagander said, shifting on the bench where he sat, his back to the bare stone wall. ‘Much less see him slain.’
Syntara blinked languidly as she studied Sagander once more. ‘That has been anticipated.’
He squinted up at her. Damn that wretched glow! ‘What do you mean?’
‘Draconus will not leave the battlefield. Or, rather, he will. Laid out cold upon a bier.’
‘Would that he fell by my hand,’ Sagander said, with a rough sigh, his hands once again curling into tight fists.
Syntara smiled. ‘By all means, historian, wade out into the charge of battle, and meet him with a blade. By hatred alone you should blaze with impenetrable armour. Fired with righteous zeal, how could your sword not swing sure and true? How could it not cleave asunder all who would stand in your way?’
His gaze fell from her. ‘I wage war with words,’ he said.
‘Yet it seems you fight every battle in its aftermath, historian, to accommodate a mind insufficiently quickened to repartee. Why, even that whore Renarr can disarm you with a flick of her wit.’
He flinched, and then scowled at the tiled floor. ‘That manner of cunning is a shallow thing, forged in a society of eager malice.’
‘School, you mean.’
‘Just so,’ he said, irritated by Syntara’s ebullience. She gloats. This makes her ugly, despite the penumbra of light, despite the natural beauty of her face, the burnishing of eternal youth offered by this infernal magic. A faith that blinded one to natural flaws made perfection a false conceit, one defying too careful an examination. It must eschew complexity, promising simplicity in its stead. He suspected it would prove popular indeed.
‘I give you leave to spit upon his corpse,’ Syntara said. ‘If such a thing pleases you.’
‘That is one procession I will gladly join,’ he replied.
* * *
The day was nearing its end and from the keep’s tower came faint wailing as the priestesses announced the dying of Light with ritual grief. Captain Infayen Menand supposed it a proper gesture, even if the voices sounded strained and false. But this was as much effort as she was prepared to make in contemplating the myriad complexities of faith, since her attention was fixed upon the distant figure of Hunn Raal, as the Mortal Sword made his solitary way down into the town of Neret Sorr.
Beside her stood Tathe Lorat, while behind them both, soldiers worked into the dusk, preparing for the march. The air was bitter cold with a wind sweeping down from the plains of the north, and it was likely that they would ride that wind all the way to the gates of Kharkanas.
‘Frozen ground,’ she said. ‘Solid underfoot, until the hot blood turns it all to mud.’
‘The glow of white fades,’ Tathe Lorat replied, ‘with every doubt stirring awake in the mind. I yearn to discover a sorcery for myself, if only to lend the illusion of loyalty.’
‘So do we all,’ Infayen said with a grunt. ‘I dislike a faith that knows the mind.’
‘Then we are little different,’ Tathe replied. ‘Hunn Raal—’
‘Is dangerous,’ cut in Infayen. ‘When he’s not spilling his cock into the fire, that is.’
‘I felt his ire, Infayen. I felt its capriciousness. Careless, deadly. He could have broken every bone in my body, all for the crime of insolence.’
‘And the man less a captain with every day that passes.’
‘My appetites never weakened discipline.’
Infayen glanced across at her. ‘It was well known that you played no favourites, Tathe Lorat. If you could make it wet or hard, you’d have it to bed.’
‘When I have title, and wealth, I will take a score or more lovers. I’ll fuck every Houseblade I hire. To ensure their absolute loyalty.’
‘That’s one way, I suppose. What of your husband?’
‘What of him? The man can’t even track down a lone renegade captain. He’ll return here to Neret Sorr, tail between his scrawny legs, only to find us long gone. No, what we must win for ourselves will have to be by my hand, not his, and that’s a debt from which he’ll never recover.’
‘Your esteem is a miserly thing, Tathe Lorat.’
‘I’ve not your hero’s blood, Infayen, to give clout to my claims.’
Infayen watched as Hunn Raal slipped from sight, down between ramshackle buildings. ‘He’s not making for the keep.’
‘No.’
‘Some other task commands him.’
‘Hunn Raal will grant us no favours in the court, Infayen.’
‘No, he will turn on us all.’
‘We need to consider our … options.’
‘That is your need, Tathe Lorat, not mine. The Infayen line finds a grave in every battle. That said, perhaps you would take my daughter under your care when that time comes.’
‘You trust me in this? I will see her sullied. The light of her young eyes dulled with use. Children are like dolls, and this woman here at your side plays rough.’
Infayen turned and smiled at her. ‘You’ve not met my daughter yet, have you?’
Tathe Lorat shrugged. ‘Have you met mine?’
‘Menandore is no fool.’
‘Nor is Sheltatha Lorat, I assure you.’
Infayen frowned. ‘And yet …’
Shrugging, Tathe Lorat drew her heavy cloak about her shoulders and turned back to the camp. ‘Break them young, and all that they make of themselves afterwards lies thinly over the scars.’
Infayen swung round and joined the other captain as they walked back into the army’s encampment. She sighed. ‘Some mothers should never be mothers at all.’
‘I expect both our daughters would agree with you, Infayen Menand.’
* * *
The master blacksmith of Urusander’s Legion was a squat, broad, scar-faced man of middle years. He stood with his back to his forge, limned in its fiery glow, his small eyes narrowed on Hunn Raal. ‘Now what?’
The Mortal Sword of Light glared at the smith. ‘Maybe it’s not big enough,’ he said.
‘Big enough for what?’
‘Legion discipline seems to have failed your manners, Bilikk.’
‘The commander sent me to work in Gurren’s stead. I’m as much the town’s smith as the Legion’s. Besides,’ he added, ‘word is you don’t take the title of captain no more. Mortal Sword? What the fuck is that? Ain’t no Legion rank I ever heard of. You lookin’ for worshippers now? Fuck that on a stick.’
There was a sound from the door to Gurren’s old house and Witch Hale emerged, drawing a tattered shawl about her narrow shoulders. ‘Hunn Raal,’ she said, making the name a sneer. ‘What you’re calling for here isn’t Legion work. Heard you went and stood in a fire. Burned half your clothes off, but left you uncharred. That’s ugly magic, Raal. You want to stay away from the flame bitch, she’s got appetites you don’t want to know.’ She cocked her head, regarding Hunn Raal. ‘Or maybe it’s too late. It is, isn’t it?’
‘You were not invited, witch,’ Hunn Raal said. ‘Don’t test my patience. Go.’
‘Me and Bilikk got history between us now,’ Hale replied. ‘Where he goes, I go.’
‘This is Liosan business.’
‘And we all got stained, didn’t we? Only, when your mind decides it’s not sure, wh
y, the glow fades.’ She lifted an arm, letting the loose sleeve slip down, revealing her scrawny, ashen wrist. ‘’Tis strange purity that washes off, don’t you think?’
‘The stains of your sins hardly surprise me, witch. Your magic’s a sordid thing. Unwelcome on this sanctified ground, and do not think for a moment that all of Neret Sorr isn’t sanctified, in the name of Tiste Liosan.’
‘I feel it,’ she said. ‘But I don’t fear it. Neither does the flame bitch.’
‘You think you can stand against me?’
‘I don’t care about you, Raal. It’s Bilikk I mean to guard this night.’
‘And I need him – do you think I would not protect him?’
‘Once his use is past, no. You won’t give him a second thought.’
He studied her, curious. ‘What do you think is about to happen here, witch?’
‘What did she offer you?’
This night was not going as planned. Build me a fire, she’d said. I will guide you to the First Forge. A sceptre must be made. And a crown … or did she say that could wait? She’d made me drunk on her. Not wine, not ale, but her strong grip on my damned cock.
A goddess of some sort. A demon of the fire. Flame bitch? That will do, I suppose.
Fucked up my memory, to be certain. Sceptre, crown … throne?
‘You are addled,’ Hale said. ‘Already lost in the unnatural heat of Bilikk’s forge – see how nothing burns away? How the flames grow even unfed? She’s coming—’
The forge behind Bilikk suddenly erupted. A tongue of fire arced out like a whip, striking Witch Hale, who shrieked as she was flung back through the doorway of the house, landing crumpled on the wooden floor, where her body began burning like resinous wood. In moments the floor and then one wall of the house were alight.
Stunned, terrified, Hunn Raal sought to back away.