Fall of Light (141 page)

Surgeon Prok leaned against the sill of the window and used the palm of his right hand to melt the ice upon the thin, bubbled glass. ‘The tower’s flag has settled,’ he said after a moment. ‘Defeat. Surrender. Occupation. But then,’ he added as he straightened and turned to Sorca, ‘they are foreigners in habit only, and soon that too shall fade. I see an admixture ahead, and cannot but wonder at what spawn such union will yield.’ He lifted up his flask and drank another mouthful of spirit.

Sorca looked around, moved to a plush chair and sat heavily. ‘Beware the torch, lest your breath catch fire.’

‘If my words are fire, it’s a modest flame.’

She took out an iron pick and began cleaning her pipe.

Prok glanced at the door, through which Lady Sandalath and her daughter had departed but moments ago, on their way to that fateful meeting with her son. He had heard that two hostages dwelt in the Citadel, one a girl made mostly feral by neglect. Orfantal was the other. Sandalath’s bastard child. ‘I am fair drunk,’ he admitted with a nod. ‘Yet, what numb relief is offered proves a mockery to feeling. My heart still breaks, but no sharp crack issues forth. Rather, I faintly hear a dull sob. Such is the dubious gift of drink.’

‘You know the signal of the flags for certain, Prok?’

He nodded. ‘For my crimes. Somewhere to the east, the standard has been tilted. The defenders of Mother Dark have been broken.’ He shrugged. ‘Victory and defeat. Both states are frozen in time. The moment is flushed, and yet the bloom quickly fades.’

‘You have seen too many battles,’ Sorca observed.

‘Yes I have, but I assure you, one is too many.’

She sparked alight her pipe. ‘So, now. A wedding.’

Prok nodded. ‘A celebration too solemn, too false. I see husband and wife standing inside a circle of sword-points. Shall they now smile? Clasp hands? Will the thrones indeed sit side by side? A royal chamber one half painted in light, the other drenched in darkness? Drink fails my powers of imagination, as ever, which I deem a blessing.’

‘Is your curiosity as dull?’

‘Not dull, just cold and lifeless. And you?’

‘It will be awkward,’ she said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘Fitful. Uneasy witnesses will struggle for words, strain to conjure the necessary smiles and congratulations. The ceremony strives but fails in the end. I for one am pleased to avoid invitation.’

He smiled at her with little humour. ‘Us commonfolk will be spared the ordeal, although I imagine some public display will be in the offing. These symbols are necessary, if only to ease our anxiety.’

‘Lady Sandalath’s mind is broken,’ said Sorca, squinting at the bowl of her pipe.

‘There is a steep toll to trauma,’ Prok replied. ‘Her mind must distance itself, find a place of retreat. Possibly,’ he mused, ‘a childhood memory, some refuge.’

‘She speaks like no child, surgeon.’

‘No, I suppose not. Something has twisted in her soul.’

‘Do you fear for the child?’

He shot her a glance. ‘Which one?’

Sorca looked away, said nothing as she smoked. Then, abruptly, she spoke again, though her tone was laconic. ‘How fares the ledger, I wonder?’

‘Excuse me? What ledger?’

She made a face. ‘Who died, I mean. Lord Anomander? Captain Ivis? What of Lord Draconus himself?’ When he made no answer, she continued. ‘I like the gate sergeant, Yalad. So very earnest, don’t you think? And considerate, of the lady, and the girl-child. I hope he still lives.’

‘It falls to that, doesn’t it? Details of administration now, with you clerks and list-makers venturing out from the shadowy alcoves. Who gets what, who pays, who gets paid. Missives sent out to families in the countryside, regretful in tone, yet urging an everlasting pride in the ones who sacrificed their lives defending … whatever.’

She studied him through the smoke. ‘You dislike my kind, don’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘The need for organization demands attention, once the dust settles, or, in this case, once the blood sinks into the mud. Do I dislike the clerks, so crucial to civilization’s vitality?’ He let out a breath. ‘Probably. Scratching styluses instead of familiar faces, columns and lists instead of dreams and desires. Life’s sacred wonder, reduced to notations. What do we give up, Sorca, with this need to organize, categorize, summarize?’

‘Granted,’ she said, ‘mine is a soulless task, a task demanding soullessness, a task ensuring a soul’s surrender. You cannot imagine, Surgeon Prok, the soul’s slow death, in the repetitive twitching of a hand.’

Prok studied her for a long moment, and then he stepped close, reached down, and took her hand. She lifted her gaze to him, and managed a broken smile.

  *   *   *

‘Hello, Mother,’ said Orfantal, rising from the bench. ‘This is her? My sister.’

Sandalath stood near the door, holding the hand of the small girl with the raven-black hair and luminous eyes. Her eyes remained fixed upon her son, wondering what it was about him that frightened her. The steadiness of his solemn gaze seemed to drain all certainty from her, and she felt a burgeoning desire to abase herself before him, seeking forgiveness.

He strode forward then, smiling at Korlat. ‘I’m Orfantal,’ he said to her. ‘Your brother. I’m here to take care of you.’ He glanced up at Sandalath. ‘Isn’t that right, Mother?’

She shook her head. Waking nightmares had begun plaguing her. Something was stirring inside, all cruel edges and stinging rebuke, as if some part of her now hovered overhead, whispering down a host of unpleasant truths.
‘You weren’t good enough for any of them. The children he dragged from you, one failure after another. He pushed them through
—’ She shook her head a second time.
He was a god,
she now replied to her other self.
He chose me. Me!

‘Mother?’

Sandalath nodded. ‘No. She will protect you, not the other way round. Even if it takes her life, Orfantal, she will protect my perfect, beautiful child.’ She paused. ‘I may not always be there, you see. I may have to go away again.’ She pulled her hand free of Korlat’s grip, and it proved easier to do than expected. ‘Take her now,’ she said to Orfantal. ‘I am going to my room.’

‘Your room?’

‘I have lived in the Citadel before, you know!’ Her harsh retort made both children flinch, and Korlat hurried to Orfantal, and he took his sister into his arms and lifted her, anchoring her on one hip.

Sandalath saw Korlat’s small, pudgy arms wrap themselves tight about her son’s neck. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s better. I never planned on you, Orfantal. It was all a mistake. But now I see. There was a reason, after all, a reason for you. You count, but she doesn’t.’

‘I love her already,’ said Orfantal.

‘She’ll grow past you—’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘And she will protect you for ever.’

‘Soon,’ he said, ‘I will be as her younger brother. There is the blood of an Azathanai in her.’

‘No. A god.’

He tilted his head.

‘A god, Orfantal! One who expects things from you, just as I do. This god – you must understand this – this god has no patience. He despises weakness. If we’re weak, he’ll hurt us. Tell me you understand!’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Sandalath returned to the door. ‘I have a safe place, a place for hiding. I’m going there, and locking the door.’

‘Yes. Goodbye, Mother.’

She halted, glanced back at him. ‘When everything burns, come and find me. In the tower.’

He nodded again. Satisfied, despite the tremble of panic behind her thoughts, she left the chamber. In the corridor she stood motionless for a moment.
The Citadel. I’m home.
Smiling, she set off for the tower, and her secret room.

  *   *   *

It was the duty of one who failed in protecting anything to linger, kneeling in the ashes, and give some thought, once so much has been lost, to what little remains. Grizzin Farl was well experienced with this modest compensation. After all, if one could draw breath, then all was not lost. If one could find some remnant of hope, then the pain of grief was but transitory, and what burdens awaited settling would find shoulders capable of sustaining them.

But few of these platitudes did much to lessen the pain of acute loss, and all too often they could be raised up as barriers to feeling anything. At the very least, he reminded himself, Azathanai had not clashed in the Valley of Tarns, although it had been close. Nor had the dragons manifested into a storm of chaos, content merely to witness from the swirling clouds overhead. The magic unleashed on the field of battle had been modest, all things considered, but even this revelation had its price. A man was dead, after all.

‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ Emral Lanear asked him as they hesitated before the door to the Chamber of Night.

‘What do you wish me to say?’

‘You have been in her presence, Azathanai. Is she … is she reconciled to what must be?’

Grizzin Farl frowned. ‘She … acknowledges the necessity. Understands the value of the symbol, that is. Liosan exists now. The Tiste fall upon Light or upon Dark. The manner in which the two manage to co-exist, here in one place, remains to be seen.’

‘This was a civil war,’ Lanear snapped. ‘No one invited a new religion to the mess! But there, perhaps I am wrong. Your sister brought this Liosan – tell me, Grizzin Farl, how far you Azathanai intend on taking this?’

‘Taking what?’

‘Your manipulation of the Tiste. Or shall you now step back, denying the blood on your hands?’

‘Denial is a waste of time, High Priestess. And, alas, there is no stepping back. Indeed, it is the very opposite. We are drawn.’

She blinked. ‘And who is responsible for that?’

He looked away, found himself studying the blackwood door before them, this beaded barrier still to be breached. ‘Not “who” as such, High Priestess. More like …
what
.’

‘Very well, then
what
is responsible for your sudden interest in us?’

‘We are poor at the finer emotions. An unveiling of all that is vulnerable in a mortal heart draws us in the manner of moths to a flame. Perhaps we seek some incidental warming of the soul. Or our curiosity is rather more clinical. Perhaps you but awaken forgotten appetites. Our natures are not unified, High Priestess. Each Azathanai is unique.’ He shrugged. ‘We have come to witness the breaking of a heart.’

He weathered the growing horror in her eyes, offering no defence.

A moment later, with a sudden gesture, she opened the door and strode into the Chamber of Night.

The Throne of Darkness awaited them, and the woman seated on it was expressionless, her eyes clear and cold as they fixed upon Emral Lanear.

The High Priestess knelt, head bowing. ‘Mother,’ she whispered.

‘Stand. Face me.’ Her voice was flat.

Emral Lanear straightened.

Mother Dark continued, ‘Grizzin Farl, leave us now.’

‘As you wish. High Priestess, I will await you in the corridor.’ He turned and departed, closing the door behind him.

‘Mother, Lord Anomander—’

‘Is not of your concern,’ the goddess interrupted. ‘You shall place two high-backed chairs in the old throne room. I believe the raised dais is broad enough to accommodate them. One shall be of blackwood, the other bonewood. On the outside of the white chair you will set an embrasure. On the outside of my chair, an empty brazier, blackened inside and out. Also upon the outside of each chair, affix a scabbard for a sceptre. Coordinate these details with High Priestess Syntara. Lord Urusander and I will take upon ourselves the authority of this union, in the name of the realm. You and Syntara will attend as witnesses. For the ceremony itself, none other shall be present. A formal announcement afterwards will constitute the only public acknowledgement of the marriage. Three days of feasting will follow. Each and every Greater or Lesser House will give freely of its largesse.’

Emral Lanear listened to these instructions, delivered with an utter absence of warmth, and looked upon a face devoid of emotion. It was better than she had expected. ‘Lord Urusander leads his legion to the city, Mother. How soon do you wish this private ceremony?’

‘As soon as possible. Inform Lord Anomander that the highborn must convene. It is expected that Lord Urusander will wish to advance reparations on behalf of his soldiers, although it is likely that he will delegate in that regard. The Greater Houses must yield land, wealth and labour, but these are matters of administration and, one presumes, bargaining. Bring no details to my attention – I have little interest in how the carcass is apportioned.’

‘And in matters of faith, Mother?’

The goddess seemed to flinch at the question. ‘I offered you all an empty vessel, or so you imagined it. I was witness, then, to your varied ways of filling it. Yet what was hidden within, which none of you chose to see, is now displaced, and now, perhaps, must be considered dead.’ She raised a thin hand. ‘Are you eager for a list of prohibitions? For prescribed positions and holy ordinances? Am I to tell you the way to live your life? Am I to lock doors, draw close shutters? Am I to guide you like children, with all the maternal needs of a mother upon whose tit you will all feed, until your dying day? What words do you wish from me, Emral Lanear? A list of all the deeds that will earn the slap of my hand, or my eternal condemnation? What crimes are acceptable in the eyes of your goddess? Whose murder is justified by your faith in me? Whose suffering shall be considered righteously earned, by virtue of what you judge a failing of faith, or indeed sacrilege? Describe to me the apostate, the infidel, the blasphemer – for surely such accusations come not from me, but from you, High Priestess, you and all who will follow you, in your appointed role of speaking for me, deciding for me, acting in my name, and justifying all that you would do in your worship of your goddess.’

‘From faith,’ replied Emral Lanear, ‘do we not seek guidance?’

‘Guidance, or the organized assembly and reification of all the prejudices you collectively hold dear?’

‘You would not speak to us!’

‘I grew to fear the power of words – their power, and their powerlessness. No matter how profound or perceptive, no matter how deafening their truth, they are helpless to defend themselves. I could have given you a list. I could have stated, in the simplest terms, that
this
is how I want you to behave, and
this
must be the nature of your belief, and your service, and your sacrifice. But how long, I wonder, before that list twisted in interpretation? How long before deviation yielded condemnation, torture, death?’ She slowly leaned forward. ‘How long, before my simple rules to a proper life become a call to war? To the slaughter of unbelievers? How long, Emral Lanear, before you begin killing
in my name
?’