Fall of Light

‘They’re dead, Arathan,’ Korya said behind him. ‘Or as good as. Whoever you wanted to find there, beyond those gates, well, she’ll still be there, no matter how long it takes you to finally join her.’

  He shot her a glance, and then shook his head. ‘It’s not – you don’t understand. Never mind.’ He pulled his cloak tighter and glared at the sky. ‘So where in the Abyss has the spring gone, anyway?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE VALLEY OF TARNS WAS BROAD IN ITS BASIN, A SPAN THREE hundred paces across and twice as long. Its ends were marked by narrow gorges, carved out by fast waters long vanished. Upon the north ridge the land behind the crest formed a gentle slope studded here and there with saplings that had been planted a half-dozen years past. None had fared well and what remained of them would pose little obstacle to the enemy’s command of that side.

  Closer to hand, the south slope was steeper, rocky, untreed. But the crest line where the three Andii had halted their horses was broad and even. Slumped in his saddle, Rise Herat watched Silchas Ruin survey the impending field of battle. In bearing Lord Anomander’s brother epitomized all the virtues necessary in a commander. Straight and regal in comportment, severe in expression, he and his white horse could well have surmounted a pedestal, a mounted figure rendered in bronze or marble – indeed, marble, white as snow, white as the skin of our enemy. A triumphal statue, ambivalent in what it celebrates. Even the side upon which it resides is ambiguous. But let us invite this enigmatic hesitation and leave it for posterity. ‘Sir, Lord Urusander will delight in this site.’

  Silchas glanced at him, as if irritated by the interruption to his contemplation. ‘As do we, historian. See the faint track of the old stream upon that level floor? It divides the valley as would a heartline. Upon that gauge we will measure this battle’s tide.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Describe this well, sir. Was this not the legendary first camp of the Tiste? Down from the ash-filled sky, our first nest?’

  ‘Our exhausted refuge,’ Herat said, nodding.

  ‘And did we not feed from the flesh of dead dragons? Perhaps, historian, if there is any truth to such legends, those brittle burned bones remain beneath the earth and snow.’

  To be soon joined by countless others. Already, I see the pyre we must make. Our refuge befouled, our nest unravelled. ‘I would think, commander, on the day of battle we will hear the weeping of ghosts upon the wind.’

  Silchas Ruin studied him for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Send your arrow again, historian, when next you face Vatha Urusander. It is fitting, I think, that we both bear that wound.’

  High Priestess Emral Lanear cleared her throat as she edged her mount between the two men. ‘You are too generous in meting out blame, commander, to so inflict the Andii, when the cause of this rests with the Liosan.’

  ‘Blame? High Priestess, forgive me for misunderstanding the historian. I thought we referred to grief, not blame. In that, surely, we must share?’

  ‘I doubt Hunn Raal would agree,’ Lanear replied, the lines of her face stark in the pale morning light.

  ‘Nor,’ added Rise Herat – against the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth – ‘Lord Draconus.’

  Silchas frowned. ‘Draconus?’

  All too aware of Lanear’s level gaze upon him, Herat shrugged and said, ‘Repository of the highborn’s ire, obstacle to a peaceful union of the Andii with the Liosan, his refusal to engage with anyone has, as much as anything else, incited this civil war.’

  ‘I would not think of it that way,’ said Silchas Ruin uncertainly.

  ‘A cruel assessment, historian,’ opined Lanear, ‘and yet, sadly accurate.’

  ‘Lord Draconus is an honourable man,’ said the white-skinned commander. ‘He well comprehends the precariousness of his position. In his stead, I wager I would do much the same as he, under these trying circumstances.’

  ‘Indeed?’ the High Priestess said in some surprise. Then she nodded. ‘Ah, I understand. His appearance on the field … here, would prove disastrous. For us. While Hunn Raal would delight in it. If not for the opportunity to slay the Consort, then for the very real possibility of seeing the Houseblades of the highborn abandon the field.’

  Herat cleared his throat, and then said, ‘Well stated, High Priestess. But we can be certain that Lord Draconus understands this dilemma. That, as you say, his sense of honour will win out over his stung pride, and so he will make no appearance, but will remain with Mother Dark.’

  ‘If not pride to see him unleashed, then the desire for vengeance,’ Lanear added, to Herat’s mind unnecessarily. He could see the agitation and uncertainty in Ruin’s expression. He could see, plainly enough, the doubts he and Lanear had sowed.

  ‘Pride is the enemy,’ Herat announced. ‘Had Lord Draconus stepped aside – had he chosen to surrender his position as Consort to Mother Dark, well, how vastly different would be this day, and those to come.’

  ‘And now,’ said Lanear with a sigh, ‘it is too late.’

  Silchas Ruin said nothing for a time. He remained upright on the saddle, his red eyes seeming to scan the valley floor below. His horse dipped its head, stamped occasionally at the frozen ground. The statue contemplates, as all statues must. Their moment now trapped in eternity, their eternity not quite as long as they thought it would be. Stony eyes fixed well upon a crumbling future. ‘Perhaps it isn’t,’ he finally said.

  It was a struggle to keep his attention on the commander, rather than casting a triumphant look to Emral Lanear. The historian’s breath was suddenly tight in his chest. ‘Milord?’

  ‘Too late,’ Silchas Ruin explained. ‘I shall go to the Chamber of Night. I shall demand to see Lord Draconus. I shall appeal to his honour.’

  ‘An honourable man,’ Lanear said slowly, as if searching for words, ‘would not abide the spilling of so much blood in his name.’

  And what of Mother Dark? What of her love, wrapped like chains about Lord Draconus? Consort or husband – the distinction means so much less than so many would have it. It has become the weapon, a thousand hands upon the grip. She holds him close to ease the pain in her heart. The pain of a realm bent upon self-destruction. The pain of her children torn apart, of Light bleeding into the Dark, rich as blood, thin as tears.

  I’ll not write of this. I’ll not record our venal manipulations. Centuries from now, my ilk will ponder this day and the silence embracing it. They’ll devise theories, they’ll plumb the nadir world of motivations and all the fears we keep hidden. They will even defend Silchas Ruin, whilst others condemn him.

  Go now, commander, poke the serpent in its lair. Lord Draconus does not flee, because she does not permit him the luxury. This is not his pride at work, but hers. Pride and love, the power of the former grants sanctity upon the latter. We venture now, commander, into a place where none of us belong.

  He stared down at the heartline of the valley.

  For we have made a woman’s love our field of battle, and now will see her lover dragged forth in sacrifice.

  No, I will not write of this.

  Silchas Ruin gathered up his reins. Then he hesitated. ‘I am a warrior,’ he said. ‘I do not shy from necessity. If we are to fight Vatha Urusander and his legion, then I will lead us into that battle.’

  ‘None doubt your virtue,’ said Lanear.

  They waited.

  ‘And yet,’ said Silchas, ‘if peace can be won, here on the cusp of slaughter, by the will of a single man …’

  ‘Appeal to his honour,’ said Lanear. ‘Lord Draconus is an honourable man.’

  ‘The will,’ said Herat, ‘not of one man, commander, but of two men. Such a thing will be remembered, and celebrated.’

  Silchas scowled, and Herat wondered if he’d pushed too far, or indeed, if he had erred in his judgement of the man’s vanity. ‘In this,’ Silchas then said in a growl, ‘I am but the messenger of his conscience. When the echoes of my horse’s hoofs have passed, little else will linger.’ He faced the historian with a stern visage. ‘I trust tha
t is understood.’

  Rise Herat nodded.

  All three turned then at the sound of approaching horses. A pair of riders, coming up from the track that led back to Kharkanas. Cedorpul and Endest Silann.

  Lanear spoke. ‘Best ride on, milord. These priests of mine are my business, not yours.’

  ‘Cedorpul promises sorcery,’ Silchas said.

  ‘At a battle we may well avoid, milord.’

  Silchas Ruin swung his mount around. He would pass the two priests on the narrow track, but Herat was certain that few, if any, words would be exchanged. ‘I ride to the Chamber of Night,’ the commander announced. ‘But that business, as you say, High Priestess, is not theirs to debate. Blunt them. Confound them if you must, but ensure my path remains clear.’

  ‘I shall do as you say, milord,’ said Lanear.

  Silchas Ruin set off, gathering his horse into a quick canter.

  Rise Herat glanced back at the valley. ‘We have done with it, then,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Dispense with that tone,’ Lanear snapped. ‘Condemnation avails us nothing. We cannot predict what words may pass between him and Draconus. What comes is now out of our hands, historian.’

  But he shook his head. ‘And does that smoke suffice, High Priestess, to fill your body and blind you to guilt? If so, I’m of a mind to join you next time you imbibe. We can wallow in opaque insensibility, and deem all that races past us scant distraction. Let the clouds find our veins, swell the chambers of our hearts, and whisper sweet promises of oblivion.’

  If she intended a retort, she bit back on the words with the arrival of Cedorpul and Endest Silann.

  ‘High Priestess!’ cried Cedorpul as he reined in. ‘I was dismissed with but a single word! Have we not a battle to discuss? To where does he ride?’

  ‘Take no offence,’ Lanear replied. ‘There is time still. Our commander attends to many things. Tell me, have you brought word of the Hust Legion?’

  Cedorpul frowned, and then shook his head. ‘Nothing from the south, and it is indeed worrisome. We cannot hope to defeat the Liosan with only the Houseblades defending us.’

  ‘Then what manner of plans did you think to discuss?’ Rise Herat asked him.

  ‘My sorcery, of course! It finds shape.’

  ‘Shape?’

  ‘I have mastered malice, historian. I will be ready to face Hunn Raal.’

  Herat turned to Endest Silann. The man was gaunt, aged, harried. Herat suspected that he had not come here of his own will. The priest’s hands were tightly bound in strips of linen, stained red in blooms and edged in pallid gold. He wore coarse wool to fend off the cold, but his head was bare. ‘Endest Silann, do you bring Mother Dark’s blessing to this newfound magic of Cedorpul’s?’

  ‘It has the flavour of darkness,’ the man replied, not meeting the historian’s eyes.

  ‘Bestowed by her, then?’

  After a moment, he shook his head.

  ‘Myriad are her aspects,’ Cedorpul said, his round cheeks fiery red, his face that of a glutted child. ‘Many forces lie beneath or beyond her notice. I have drawn from such, ensuring not to stir her equanimity.’

  Endest glanced across at Cedorpul, as if unimpressed with this explanation, but voiced no opinion.

  Lanear cleared her throat, something she did often of late, and then said, ‘Your journey was wasted, alas, and has proved trying for Endest Silann. Your gestures are riddled with haste, Cedorpul, leaving me concerned. One would think eagerness anathema to the control of magic—’

  ‘One would if speaking from a place of utter ignorance!’

  ‘Mind your manners, sir!’ said Herat.

  Cedorpul turned on him with a sneer. ‘And you comprehend even less, historian. Your pondering ways are in for a shock. Indeed, the entire world is due its rude awakening.’

  ‘Then do ring the discordant bell, priest,’ replied Herat wearily, ‘and delight in our fleeing its clamour.’

  Teeth bared, Cedorpul pulled his mount around and kicked savagely at its flanks. The startled beast leapt forward, hoofs biting at the frozen road.

  ‘Pray it throws him,’ muttered Endest Silann as they watched Cedorpul ride away. ‘Swift be night’s sudden setting, to defy his newfound dawn. Pray his neck breaks, to leave lolling his interrupted ambition. Pray his limp body rolls beneath indifferent hoofs, to give lie to nature’s horror at what he contemplates.’

  ‘A potent curse,’ Rise Herat said, chilled by the dry venom of the man’s tone.

  Endest Silann shrugged. ‘Nothing potent resides in my words, historian. Like yours, my breath sings useless warnings, bestirring a fistful of air, all too quickly swept away. What we have to say wins us less perturbation than a sparrow’s leap from a twig.’

  Rise Herat could find little with which to disagree in that assessment.

  But Emral Lanear spoke, ‘You may be surprised, then, priest. Words alone have ushered in civil war, after all, and our fates now reside in the words soon to be spoken, either here or in the Citadel.’

  Offering up a second shrug, Endest Silann said nothing. Then he nudged his horse to the crest, and once there he halted the beast and let drop the reins. He began unfolding the strips of cloth binding his hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Lanear demanded.

  ‘I am showing her the field of battle,’ Endest answered without turning.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see winter’s end, High Priestess. The unsullied snow of the basin. The empty slopes, the unoccupied ridges. The muted blessing of a simple breeze. The world delivers its own gifts.’ He held up and out his hands, from which blood now dripped. ‘It is our common flaw to make the wondrous familiar, and the familiar a thing bound in the tangled wire of contempt.’

  ‘You would torture her,’ accused Lanear.

  Endest slowly lowered his hands. ‘Her?’ he asked.

  They watched him wrap up his hands once more. It was more difficult now, with all the blood that had streamed down from the wounds. Herat was thankful that the priest had not turned those crimson eyes upon him. She would see too much. My goddess, witness to my guilt.

  Lanear looked up the track. ‘If Cedorpul should catch up with Silchas Ruin …’

  ‘Pray,’ said Rise Herat, ‘he cuts him down for his temerity.’

  At that, Endest Silann twisted in his saddle to regard the historian. Then he nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you?’ Herat asked.

  ‘Yes. You will lay her out on the altar of her love, and make a knife of your unwelcome cock.’ He raised his hands again, now bound, now blind. ‘She will never forgive him.’

  ‘Better him than thousands,’ Lanear said, but her onyx skin was ashen.

  Endest faced her, and then bowed. ‘Alas, High Priestess, for all your machinations, he won’t be the only man to fall. Her will is not to be scorned.’

  The warning chilled Rise Herat, while Lanear looked away to make plain her dismissal. ‘Endest Silann,’ she said, sighing again. ‘Your name is cursed in the city’s markets. Your misguided blessings summoned a dragon. And people went hungry for a time. The very faith of Mother Dark sustained damage in the eyes of the commonfolk, and her blessing has been seen to fade among more than a few of them. You have made yourself an unwelcome prophet, and accordingly, I know not what to do with you, barring a diminishment of your rank in the priesthood.’ She fixed her gaze upon him. ‘You are an acolyte once more, sir. With a difficult path to redemption awaiting you. Indeed, it may prove impossible for a mortal man to achieve.’

  If she sought to sting, his sudden laugh crushed that hope. He bowed again. ‘As you will, High Priestess. Then, by your leave, I will return to the Wise City, seeking the glimmer of its namesake.’

  ‘Do not expect to be welcome to council,’ she said in a hiss.

  He smiled. ‘But I never have been, High Priestess. Still, I take your meaning and will abide by it. I embark on a welcome return to being forgotten and, indeed, beneath notice.’ Fumbling at t
he reins, he managed to pull his horse back on to the track, where he set off at a slow trot.

  Neither the historian nor the High Priestess spoke for a time, and yet neither seemed eager to begin the return journey. Finally, Lanear said, ‘If Cedorpul proves his power, he will be most useful in opposing Syntara and Hunn Raal.’

  ‘Then you had best mend that bridge and be the first to cross,’ Herat said.

  ‘I shall bribe him with privilege.’

  The historian nodded. ‘Among tactics, nothing else proves as successful. Feed his vanity, make costly his ire.’

  ‘Such efforts would fail with Endest Silann.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He remains dangerous.’

  ‘Indeed. While Mother Dark continues to make use of him.’

  ‘I will think on what to do about that,’ she said, drawing out a clay pipe and a pouch: rustleaf mixed with something else.

  ‘He kept her attention away from us.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘He knew, even then. What she might see.’ Then he shook his head. ‘Look at us, hiding from our goddess, and relieved by her continued ignorance. As prophet, Endest Silann walked among the commonfolk. He opened his hands so that she could not turn away, could not blink. You think by this act did he condemn the faithless, the misguided, the banal selfishness of each person who suffered that regard. But I think, now, the one he sought to condemn was her.’

  To that she had no reply. He watched her tamping the herb into the bowl. She then tipped in some embers from a silver and enamel box that was now part of her regular attire, tied to her sash by a leather string. We are creatures of ritual and habit, repeating patterns of comfort. Alas, too often we also repeat patterns of disaster. As every historian cannot help but comprehend. From the minuscule and mundane to the monumental and the profound, we draw and redraw the same maps, enough to make a book, enough to make a life.

  Smoke plumed on the breeze.

  Clouds inside and out. Obscure me from myself, that I might imagine my demeanour noble, my stance statuesque. Yes, I will have some of that.

  * * *