Fall of Light (124 page)

‘Like that, then.’

‘No,’ Gethol replied, ‘nothing like that. Most buried people are dead, after all. Death seems to insist upon a solemn mien. Then again, in choosing an eternal expression, I imagine peaceful is preferable to, say, the rictus of terror.’

‘And yours, brother?’

‘Oh, I would suggest … disappointment?’

Gothos sighed and rubbed at his face with ink-stained fingers. ‘We all volunteered, Gethol. It was just ill-luck that—’

‘My fateful misstep, yes. It was, perhaps, more a case of my unexpected downturn in fortune. One does not rise in the morning, say, considering ending the day in black soil and bound by the roots of a tree, or, for that matter, being imprisoned for five centuries.’

‘Yes, that does seem unlikely,’ Gothos replied. ‘Still, the contemplation of what the fates hold in store must surely accompany each morning’s greeting.’

‘You always were the one obsessed with solemn contemplation, brother, not me.’

‘I deem it a measure of intellect.’

‘A failure I am proud to acknowledge,’ Gethol replied, baring his blackened tusks.

‘Hence the misstep.’

The grin fell away.

‘It is invariably those lacking in intellect,’ Gothos expounded, ‘who unceasingly rue their misfortune. The curse of the witless is to beat one’s head against the obstinate wall of how things really are, rather than what they insist upon their being. Thud, thud, thud. I envisage indeed an expression of dull disappointment, year upon year, century upon century.’

‘I blame Hood,’ Gethol growled.

‘Of course you do.’

The brothers nodded in unison, and then fell silent.

Arathan leaned back in his chair, looking at each one in turn. He crossed his arms. ‘You two are ridiculous,’ he said. ‘I believe the time has come to take my leave of you. Gothos, my gratitude for your … forbearance. The food, drink and the work you had me do. While I gather you and Haut have decided on where I am to go now, I humbly point out that I am of an age to make my own decisions. And I will now walk to Hood’s side, there to await the opening of the gate.’

‘Alas,’ Gothos said, ‘we cannot permit that. You made yourself a gift to me, after all, on behalf of your father. I don’t recall relinquishing my possession of that gift. Gethol?’

Gethol returned to eyeing Arathan speculatively. ‘I have only just arrived, but you’ve made no mention of anything like that.’

‘Just so. As for Haut, Arathan, bear in mind that young Korya Delath, who must now return to Kurald Galain, will be without a protector.’

‘So find someone else,’ Arathan snapped. ‘Why not Gethol here? It’s not as though he has anything to do.’

‘Curiously,’ mused Gethol, ‘I am of a mind to do just that. Accompany you and Korya, that is.’

‘Then she has an escort and you two don’t need me tagging along! Besides, Father sent me here to be beyond the reach of his rivals in the court of the Citadel.’

Gothos cleared his throat. ‘Yes, about that.’

‘You have heard something?’ Arathan sat forward. ‘How? You’ve never left this damned chamber!’

‘Perturbations in the ether,’ Gothos said, frowning.

‘Perturbations in the what?’

The frown deepened at Arathan’s incredulity.

Gethol snorted.

Sighing, Gothos said, ‘A Forulkan traveller arrived in Hood’s camp yesterday. A delightfully dour female named Doubt. She spoke of events to the east.’

‘What kind of events?’

‘Oh, let me not imply that they have already occurred. Rather, a path has been set upon that has but one destination.’ He blew out his breath. ‘In keeping with my unassailable observations on the inherent self-destructiveness of civilization—’

‘Not again,’ Gethol groaned as he climbed to his feet. ‘Now at last we come to the reason why I dived beneath that tree in the house’s yard – the only escape left to me. I believe I will pay one last visit to Hood, if only to partake in the joy of stinging awake his shame.’ He eyed Arathan. ‘You may join me there, assuming you survive the imminent monologue.’ He strode from the chamber.

‘Milord,’ said Arathan to Gothos, ‘spare me the lecture, if you please. I would know the details of what has happened, or is about to happen.’

‘Well, that is just it, young Arathan. By the time you and Korya return to Kurald Galain, the smoke will have cleared as it were. The dust settled, the mass burial trenches filled in, and so on and so forth. From this it is probably safe to assume the ousting of your father. Indeed, I would be surprised to find him anywhere in that realm.’

‘Then, what will I be returning to?’

‘Ashes and ruin,’ Gothos replied, with a satisfied smile.

  *   *   *

‘I advise against this,’ Korya said, studying the Azath House with its freshly mangled, sapling-crowded yard. ‘The guardian is a ghost, and a miserable one at that. Truly, Ifayle, nothing of wisdom will come from that thing.’

‘And yet,’ said the Dog-Runner, ‘he was once of my kind.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, as I told you.’

‘Then I would speak with him.’

‘The house may not let us in. It’s stronger now … more potent. Can you not feel it?’

He glanced at her with his startling blue eyes. ‘I am not a Bonecaster. My sensitivities lie elsewhere.’ His attention sharpened on her. ‘Mahybe. Vessel. Yes, I see that you share something with this house.’

‘What?’

‘A similarity of purpose, perhaps.’ Abruptly he turned about to stare northward with narrowed intent. ‘My grieving kin are on the move.’

‘How – how do you know that?’

Shrugging, he said, ‘It is near time, isn’t it?’

Korya hesitated, unable to meet his gaze when at last he faced her again.

‘Ah,’ he said softly, ‘you wanted to get me away.’

‘Where they’re going is not for you,’ she said. ‘Now, will you speak with Cadig Aval or not? We’ve come all this way, after all.’

When she walked through the yard’s gate and on to the winding pathway, Ifayle followed.

‘You have a devious mind, Korya Delath. But you misapprehended. I am but an escort, a keeper of sorts. My mother forbade me to enter the realm of death.’

‘When did she do that?’

‘Not long ago. Her pronouncement upset me, but I understand. Grief cannot be borrowed. And yet, with her soon gone from me, it seems that I will come to know my own grief. It is, I think, like a flower passed from one to the next, generation upon generation. A solemn hue, a poignant scent that stings the eyes.’

They stood before the door. Korya nodded and said, ‘It seemed too easy, persuading you to come with me.’

‘Mother knew you for a sly one,’ Ifayle said, with a sad smile. ‘We have made our parting. I do not expect to see her again.’

‘Come with me,’ she suddenly offered, her breath catching as the notion took hold in her mind. ‘Come with us, me and Arathan, to Kurald Galain!’

He frowned. ‘And what awaits me there?’

‘No idea. Does it matter?’

‘My people—’

‘Will still be there, whenever you decide it’s time to go home.’
If you decide to go home at all, that is,
she silently added.
After all, with you along, fair Ifayle, I can take my time deciding.

‘I have seen this Arathan,’ Ifayle said musingly, ‘but we have not spoken. Indeed, it seems he deliberately avoids me.’

‘Haut says he is to be my protector,’ Korya said, ‘but to be honest, it’s probably the other way round. He’s led a sheltered life, has seen and experienced little. I see little future for Arathan, to be honest. It may be that our family will have to take him in.’ She sighed. ‘Your company on the journey, Ifayle, would be most welcome. Indeed, a relief.’

‘I will consider it,’ he said after a moment.

Heart thudding, Korya quickly nodded, and then reached for the door’s handle.

It opened to her.

‘He knows we’re here,’ she whispered.

‘Good,’ Ifayle replied, stepping past her and entering the Azath House.

She followed.

As before, the narrow alcove was dimly lit by some unknown source of light, the air cool and dry. The stone wall opposite glistened with something like frost, and an instant later the apparition of the long-dead Bonecaster stepped out from the roughly cut wall.

Before it, Ifayle bowed. ‘Ancient one, I am Ifayle, of the—’

The voice that cut him off was dry and weary. ‘Some tribe, yes, from some plain, or forest, or crag, or perhaps a shoreline, a cave set high above the crashing waves. Where one year blends seamlessly into the next, the sun rising each morning like a new breath, settling each night like a hint of death.’ The ghost of Cadig Aval waved an ethereal hand. ‘From this, to that. Will it ever end? The food is plentiful, the hunt dangerous but fruitful and, of course, exciting. Strangers pass in the distance, revealing new ways of living, but what matter any of that? Still, the winters grow colder, the winds from the north harsher. There are times of hunger, when the animals do not come, or the sea retreats and the bounteous tidal pools disappear. And those strangers, well, more and more of them appear. It seems they breed like maggots. In the meantime, distant kin fall silent, and you sense their absence. Many have left the mortal earth, never to return. A few others now walk among the strangers, who shock the world with mercy. Blood thins. They lose the ways of the earth and the threads of the Sleeping Goddess. They lose the power to see the magic in the hearth-fires. Everything dwindles. You rise one morning and look at your cave, your precious home, and see only its poverty, its exhaustion, and the pale, dirty faces of the few children left to you shatter your heart, because the end is nigh. And then—’

‘Oh for crying out loud!’ Korya snapped. ‘Why don’t you just give him the knife to slash open his own throat!’

Cadig Aval fell silent.

Turning to Ifayle, Korya said, ‘I tried to warn you. He has nothing of worth to say to the living.’

‘Not true,’ the guardian said. ‘To my mortal kin here, I will speak words of dread import. Ifayle, son of whomever, from this tribe or that, dweller of cave or forest or plain, the fate I described will never come to you. The Dog-Runners shall not vanish from the world. When the tyrants come among you, the Strangers in Hiding, look to the dreaming of the Sleeping Goddess. Within, a secret hides.’

When he paused, Ifayle tilted his head. ‘Ancient one?’

Korya crossed her arms. ‘He’s just making the most of the moment,’ she said. ‘After all, he’ll have scant few of these.’

Cadig Aval said, ‘Sadly, the truth of your words, Tiste maiden, is like a knife-thrust into my soul. Then again, I already weary of discourse, and long for the interminable silence of my unending solitude. Thus, the secret. Ifayle, at the core of a dream there is something that cannot be broken. Indeed, it is deathless. Reach into this core, Dog-Runner, to seek the makings of a ritual. Call as well upon Olar Ethil, seeking the spark of Telas – the Eternal Flame – to enliven what remains of you.’ This time, the ghost’s pause was much briefer. ‘But be warned. The deathless gift of the Sleeping Goddess’s dream will end your own dreams. The future loses all relevance and so is made powerless. In escaping death, you must all die, sustained by naught but the spark of Telas.’

Something trembled through Korya and she shivered. ‘Ifayle,’ she said in a low whisper, ‘none of that sounds good.’

‘No,’ Cadig Aval said to her, ‘you are correct, Tiste. A terrible fate awaits Ifayle and his people.’

‘Besides,’ she said, ‘I don’t believe in prophecy.’

‘You are wise,’ the guardian replied. ‘Blame Hood. Time has ceased. Past, present and future are, here and in this frozen instant, all one. Those of us of sufficient power can make use of this, reaching far with our vision. Oh, and it helps being dead, too.’

Ifayle bowed before the guardian. ‘I will remember your words, ancient one.’

‘Stop that. I’m not that ancient, you know. Not really. Not in the vast scheme of things. As old as a world? The lifeline of a star? Understand: we exist for the sole purpose of being witness to existence. This and this alone is our collective contribution to all that has been created. We serve to bring existence into being. Without eyes to see, nothing exists.’

‘Then indeed we have purpose,’ said Ifayle.

Cadig Aval shrugged. ‘Assuming all that exists has purpose, an assumption of which I remain unconvinced.’

‘What do you need to be convinced?’ Korya demanded.

‘Persuasion.’

‘From whom?’

‘Yes, that is the frustrating part, isn’t it?’

With a faint snarl, Korya took Ifayle by the hand, pulling him back towards the door. ‘We’re leaving now.’

‘Well,’ said Cadig Aval behind them, ‘it was fun while it lasted. Perhaps,’ the ghost added, ‘that is all the purpose required.’

Outside, on the pathway once more, Ifayle asked, ‘Where are we going now?’

‘To collect Arathan, of course,’ she answered, pulling him along. ‘We need to get away from here – away from this gate of death. Can’t you feel this stopping of time reaching for us? It crawls under my skin, trying to burrow deeper. We stay too long, Ifayle, it will indeed kill us.’

‘And where shall we find Arathan?’

‘With Gothos, I expect.’

‘I think,’ Ifayle said after a time, ‘we need a better reason to exist.’

She considered his words, seeking an argument against his assertion, but could not find one.

  *   *   *

Fourteen Jaghut gathered round Hood, Haut among them, waiting. At last and with a sigh, Hood withdrew his hands from the pale flames – none of which flickered, the thin tongues motionless, suspended above the embers – and looked up. After a moment he nodded. ‘It begins.’

‘Well that sounds portentous,’ Varandas offered as he adjusted his loincloth. ‘As if summoned by solemn gravity, his vanguard now surrounds their fearless and fearful leader. Hood, grief-shrouded, eye-hollowed, revenant of sorrow. Does he now rise to his feet as his mournful army draws close on all sides? Breaths are held with expectation—’

‘No,’ cut in Burrugast. ‘Just held. Your words, Varandas, are more gravid than grave. In any case, it is poor form to speak of graves—’

‘But of graven visages,’ interjected Gathras, ‘why, we are legion. Does the dirge now commence, O shrouded hollow Hood? We are the eye of the frozen world, and lo, it does not blink. Let us remember this moment—’