Fall of Light

  The nobles were gathering in the dining hall, and while Horult might well have elected to sit beside Lord Drethdenan, as was the right of any spouse, instead he appeared in the company of his sister, joining Rancept where he sat finishing his meal.

  Horult Chiv’s demeanour suggested some measure of unease, if not frustration, but as Rancept knew neither of these two people well he remained silent, wiping up the last of the stew’s gravy with a piece of bread, pausing regularly in his chewing to draw a breath or two.

  Finally, Sekarrow dropped her fingers from the strings and settled the instrument into her lap as she leaned back in the chair. Eyeing her brother, she said, ‘Caution is not a flaw.’

  Horult rapped the tabletop with his knuckles, a sharp sound that made Rancept jump. ‘It has its place, I grant you. But not in this matter.’

  ‘He fears what he might lose,’ she said.

  ‘So much that what he fears may well come to pass.’

  Her thin brows lifted. ‘He will lose you?’

  Horult started, and then glanced away. ‘No. Of course not. We have had disagreements before.’

  ‘You mistake my meaning, brother.’

  ‘In what manner?’

  Sighing, Sekarrow looked across to Rancept. ‘Castellan, I beg you, indulge my dimwitted sibling with an explanation.’

  Grunting, Rancept said, ‘Not for me to intrude, unless invited.’

  Leaning forward, Horult gestured. ‘Consider it done. Tell me, what so dims my wits that I comprehend nothing of my sister’s warning?’

  ‘You command his Houseblades, sir. On a field of battle, soldiers die. Officers die.’

  The knuckles rapped again, hard enough to momentarily silence the dishwashers in the other room. ‘That is … selfish. What value this presumption of responsibility when the first threat sees it shy away? I am a soldier. That entails risks. We are in a civil war. A pretender seeks to claim a throne.’

  ‘Not entirely accurate,’ Sekarrow murmured, returning to tuning her iltre. ‘He but seeks a second throne, to stand beside the first, and of the two, at least his would be seen. I have heard tell that no vision proves keen enough to pierce the veil of darkness our beloved Mother now wraps about herself. Indeed, some say she is now nothing more than darkness manifest, a thing of absences so profound as to give the illusion of presence.’

  ‘Poets can play games with such notions all they like,’ Horult retorted. ‘One throne, two thrones, it matters not one whit. I dream of the day when pedantry ceases to be.’

  Smiling, Sekarrow said, ‘And I dream of the day it is no longer necessary. Precision of language is to be valued. Don’t you agree, castellan? How many wars and tragedies might we have avoided if meanings were not only clear, but agreed upon? In fact, I would hazard the suggestion that language lies at the root of all conflict. Misapprehension as the prelude to violence.’

  Rancept pushed the plate away and settled back, collecting up his tankard of weak ale. ‘The buck dragged down by wolves might disagree.’

  ‘Hah!’ snorted Horult Chiv.

  But Sekarrow shook her head. ‘There is necessity in hunger, of which we do not speak here, castellan. Nothing of hunter or prey, at least not in the simplest sense of their meaning. Instead, we take such natural inclinations and twist them into our more civil state of being. The enemy to our way of thinking becomes the prey, assuming it is too weak to claim any other title, and we the hunter. But such words themselves, “hunter” and “prey”, seek a kind of synonymy with nature, when the reality is in fact one of murder.’ She brushed at her uniform’s leather shoulder-guards. ‘Murder is then obscured behind a cascade of words intended to deflect that brutal truth. War, soldiers, battles – the mere vocabulary of our existence, as commonplace as breathing, or eating and drinking. And, of course, as necessary.’ She twisted a peg and then strummed the strings, making a discordant clash of notes. ‘Uniforms, training, discipline. Honour, duty, courage. Principles, integrity, revenge. To obscure is to empower the lie.’

  ‘And what lie might that be?’ Horult demanded.

  ‘Why, that being a soldier excuses us from the murder we commit. Have you ever wondered, dear brother, what lies at the heart of the Legion’s demand for justice?’

  ‘Avarice.’

  Her brows lifted once more. She turned another peg, strummed again, yielding if anything a more jarring sound. ‘Castellan?’

  Rancept shrugged. ‘As your brother suggests. Land, wealth.’

  ‘To compensate their sacrifice, yes?’

  Both men nodded.

  ‘But … what sacrifice do they mean?’

  Horult threw up his hands. ‘Why, the one they made, of course!’

  ‘And that is?’

  Her brother scowled.

  ‘Castellan?’

  Rancept scratched at his misshapen nose, felt wetness on his fingers and reached for his handkerchief. ‘The fighting. The killing. The fallen comrades.’

  ‘Then one must ask at some point, I should think: what compensation should a civil state give to those who murdered in its name?’

  ‘There was more to it than that,’ Horult objected. ‘They were saving the lives of loved ones, of innocents. They were standing between the helpless and those who wished them harm.’

  ‘And does this act require compensation? More to the point, is not that act, of defence of the weak and the helpless, something that should be expected of every able adult? Indeed, are we not describing something we share with every beast and creature of this world? Will not a mother bear defend her cubs? Will not soldier ants die defending their nest and queen?’

  ‘Then, by your very words, sister, war is indeed natural!’

  ‘When was the last time you saw thousands of worker ants line a parade of their victorious soldiers? Or the queen emerge from the bowels of her nest to drape medals and honours upon her brave subjects?’

  ‘Even there,’ Horult said, stabbing at her with a finger, ‘you trap yourself. Some are born weak and helpless, but others are born to be soldiers. Each finds a place in every society.’

  She smiled. ‘Workers and soldiers. Queens and kings. Gods and goddesses, all overseeing their fine and finely ordered creation. The worker enslaved to work, the soldier enslaved to the cause of defending and killing. The helpless doomed to remain helpless. The innocent cursed into a lifetime of naivety—’

  ‘And children? What of defending them?’

  ‘Ah yes, the children who must grow up to make more workers and more soldiers.’

  ‘You find your own arguments dragging you into a quagmire, beloved sister.’

  She strummed the strings again, making Rancept wince. ‘Language keeps us in our place. And, when necessary, puts us in our place. Let’s go back to that question of compensation. The poor legion out there, even now marching down upon helpless Kharkanas. Land. Wealth. In answer to the sacrifices made. The castellan speaks of that sacrifice: the killing, the wounds, the friends lost. Name me the number of coins sufficient to compensate for being made into a murderer. How high the stack to match a lopped-off limb, or a lost eye? How broad the stretch of land needed to keep the ghosts of fallen comrades at bay? Show me, I beg you, the coin and the land sufficient to ease a soldier’s anguish and loss.’

  Slowly, Horult Chiv leaned back.

  Sekarrow’s smile was soft. ‘Brother, the man who loves you fears your wounding. Your death. Against that, land is worthless, coin an insult to the soul. He hesitates, because he sees clearly what he might lose. For love, he will do nothing. And, perhaps, love is the only valid reason for doing nothing.’ She shifted her attention to Rancept. ‘What think you on that, castellan?’

  He wiped again at his nose. ‘I would hear you play,’ he said.

  Snorting again, Horult Chiv stood. ‘She can’t,’ he said, moving off to collect a new jug of ale, and two tankards.

  Sekarrow shrugged apologetically. ‘No talent.’

  ‘The arguments begin in yonder hall,’ said Hor
ult, sitting back down and pouring ale into all three tankards. ‘Let us drink, and in silence – such as we can manage here – bemoan the cruel misuse of horsehair, wood and glue.’

  Rancept squinted at the siblings, and decided he liked them both. He reached down for his tankard.

  * * *

  Families were sordid things, Lady Hish Tulla reflected as she looked upon the uncle she had not seen in decades. The curse of estrangement burned like a brand when its subject made a game of sudden, unexpected appearances, bearing an expression of amusement and expectation, as if past crimes could settle like sand. In the moment of seeing the tall, thin form of Venes Turayd, however, as he brushed snow from his furs just within the entranceway, the storm within her ignited with all the fury of its shocking birth.

  An uneasy truce had been achieved in their protracted dance of avoidance in the managing of family lands and interests. Although, upon belated consideration, Hish Tulla realized that this meeting was inevitable. Venes commanded a considerable element of her Houseblades, and she would need them for the battle to come. Her summons had made no provision against his attending.

  Berating herself, she stepped forward. ‘Venes, have you brought the company?’

  ‘Ensconced nearby, milady. The summer high pasture camp upon the slopes of Istan Rise.’ He paused, and then said, ‘If not for my many spies, I could have hoped to find you with your new husband at your side. Gripp Galas, who once stood upon one flank of the First Son of Darkness, less a sword than a dagger, I gather. But then, the court of the Citadel was always an insipid, venal place. You reached down far, dear niece, to win Anomander’s favour.’

  ‘Oh, Uncle Venes, how it stings you to find yet another man between us. How fares the old wound in this long winter? Do you greet every morning aching deep beneath that scar? I trust it burns you still.’

  ‘As does your perennial regret, milady, that your blade missed what it sought.’ He drew off his gauntlets, glancing around. ‘The others?’

  ‘In the dining hall. We’ll consider you the last and begin immediately.’

  His smile was hard and cruel. ‘If votes are tallied, I will oppose you.’

  ‘On principle.’

  He nodded. ‘Just so.’

  ‘I will have your company nonetheless, as is my prerogative.’

  ‘My dogs are now wolves, milady. Consider yourself warned. More to the point,’ he added, ‘I will twist your every order.’

  ‘Come to my room tonight, Uncle, and I can finish what I started, and to announce my satisfaction I will nail your severed cock above the door.’

  He laughed as he tucked the gauntlets into his sword-belt. ‘Drunken appetites had their way with me in my youth, but no longer. As for past regrets, I believe I can continue to rely upon your discretion.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘If you hadn’t been discreet, surely Gripp Galas would have found me by now. Dagger or sword? The former, I should think, as my prowess with the latter has not diminished with the years.’

  ‘Nor his.’

  Shrugging, Venes moved past her. ‘This house … as cold as ever.’

  She followed her uncle into the dining hall.

  * * *

  Under the baleful glare of Rancept, Sukul Ankhadu collected a goblet and poured some wine; then, nodding to the castellan’s two companions at the kitchen table, she made her way out into the dining hall.

  The vast hearth crackled and spat sparks, flames fiercely devouring the split logs of pine. Smaller braziers squatted in the corners and flanked every entranceway leading into the huge chamber. Lamps hung from hooks high on walls and from ceiling rafters, turning the smoky air amber. For an instant Sukul searched among the dozen or so dogs scuffling here and there, seeking Ribs, but then she recalled, with a pang, the animal’s loss.

  Not dead, thankfully. The boy, Orfantal. They’re in the Citadel now. I would have liked him under my wing, that boy. To learn the art of being unseen. It was not so displeasing, too, his obvious adoration of me. There was so much I could have done with that.

  And might still. We are sworn to each other, and Orfantal’s not one to cast aside such promises. Future alliances will see sweet fruition, when it is us who stalk the halls of power.

  Water-pipes had been set out, adding spice to the bitter woodsmoke and the acrid taint of wine that had been spilled on the table’s wooden surface. Sukul sauntered closer, eyes upon a hunting hound that had accompanied Lord Baesk of House Hellad. The beast looked as old and grey as its master, but its eyes were sharp as they tracked her.

  Lady Manalle was speaking, her tone defensive and somewhat despairing. ‘Infayen’s treachery is a family matter, and we should think no better of her daughter – none of us has seen Menandore since Mother Dark’s investiture.’

  ‘Infayen will see you ousted should the Legion triumph,’ said Lord Trevok of House Misharn in his cracked voice. The scar on his neck, running from beneath his left ear down to the breastbone, was livid, making a track for the sweat that seemed to plague the man even in the cold. ‘Urusander will see us all replaced, by lesser cousins and the like – all those disaffected from our own class who flocked so eagerly to his banner in the wars—’

  ‘Because,’ cut in Lady Raelle of House Sengara, ‘these waters are far from clear. We must simply accept that this battle will see kin set upon kin. No matter what the outcome, the highborn will lose family members, thus weakening us for generations to come.’

  Sukul drew close to the hound, smiled at the slow sweep of its tail.

  Vanut Degalla had twisted slightly to regard the woman beside him. ‘Your point, Raelle?’

  ‘Is this. If we are to be made weaker, our enemies must be made weaker still. Urusander and his legion must be broken. That means ensuring the death of Hunn Raal, Tathe Lorat and Hallyd Bahann. And Infayen Menand, for that matter.’ She leaned her slender frame back, using both hands to sweep away her long hair until it was clear of her shoulders. ‘In such congress, dear Manalle, disloyal highborn cease to be family matters.’

  Degalla set down the mouthpiece of his water-pipe and moved his hand to rest upon Raelle’s forearm. ‘My dear, we know how you grieve over the murder of your husband, and this now feeds an obsession to see Hunn Raal dead. In your place, I would feel the same, I assure you. But too much confusion surrounds Ilgast Rend – what he was doing there, how he came to command the Wardens in Calat’s absence, or even why he thought to challenge the Legion without any support. Even a commander can die in battle—’

  ‘But he didn’t,’ Raelle said in a tight voice, eyes half-lidded as she regarded the man’s hand on her wrist. ‘He didn’t die in the fighting. Raal had him beheaded.’

  Glancing over at Vanut Degalla’s wife, Sukul saw a pallid hue to Syl Lebanas’s dark face, her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Degalla withdrew his hand, making its departure a caress. He then leaned back, retrieving the mouthpiece. ‘I have heard the same rumours, Raelle.’

  ‘Not mere rumours, Vanut. I am telling you what happened. All this wringing of hands over Urusander, when it is Hunn Raal we should be concerned about. It’s now said he has come into magic—’

  ‘This talk of sorcery is a distraction,’ Trevok said in a rasp. ‘Leave Hunn Raal to his conjuries and cantrips. Urusander cannot be allowed to ascend a throne. Lop off the head and the beast dies – Urusander’s death will see Hunn Raal driven in flight from Kharkanas, with all his murderous cronies tucking tail and joining him.’

  ‘I think not,’ said Drethdenan, his soft voice cutting across the heated words of the others, all of whom now faced him. Clearing his throat, the slight man continued, ‘Hunn Raal is of the Issgin line. With Urusander dead, he will advance his own claim. For the throne. Indeed, he might well be delighted to hear of the bloodlust some of us here now hold for Urusander.’ Drethdenan offered Lord Trevok a sad smile. ‘You, old friend, have never forgiven Urusander’s failure to protect your family in the Summer of Raids. Hunn Raal knows this
as well as any of us, and no doubt anticipates and perhaps even relies upon such feelings among us. Not just you, Trevok, but also Manalle and Hedeg Lesser, both of whom blame Urusander for Infayen’s betrayal of the House.’ He waved a hand. ‘Whilst Raelle finds herself virtually alone in recognizing Hunn Raal as the real threat here.’

  ‘Hardly,’ snapped Manalle. ‘Hunn Raal is a seducer of men and women both, with his whispers of indulgence, his sodden smiles and wild promises. Lord Drethdenan sees well the threat posed by Raal.’

  ‘I would hazard,’ ventured Hish Tulla from where she sat at the head of the table, ‘none of us is so foolish as to ignore Hunn Raal. By the same measure, we must also recognize the threat presented by High Priestess Syntara, who would see Mother Dark’s pre-eminence ended. Whosoever believes that two sides in opposition achieve a lasting balance that stands superior to a single, undivided loyalty knows nothing of history.’

  Degalla hissed out a thick stream of smoke. ‘Lady Hish Tulla, what we seek here is the unity of the highborn. Leave Mother Dark to her own concerns, and with them her precious First Son and House Purake.’

  Venes Turayd thumped down his goblet, having just drained it, and said, ‘My niece seeks to make a single bowstring of these precious strands here, to send arrows into the heart of more enemies than we dare count. What value our privileged standing when there are few left to kneel before us?’

  Hish Tulla sat back, gaze fixed on Vanut Degalla as she elected to ignore her uncle’s words. ‘Vanut, the matter before us most certainly concerns our position with respect to House Purake and its central role in the defence not just of Mother Dark, but of Kharkanas itself. Urusander will see the highborn reduced, our holdings cut away. Our own blood in his ranks will be elevated into our places at the head of each family.’