Fall of Light (40 page)

‘Ah, yes, of course.’

‘There’re advantages,’ she said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘My heart being in the wrong place. Makes it hard to find, and I prefer it that way. If you understand me.’

He was not sure that he did, but he nodded anyway.

Man or woman, few could claim a life lived without regrets. As a child Kellaras had listened, eager as any boy wearing a wooden sword, to tales of great heroes, all of whom – he saw now – strode through a miasma of violence, stern-faced and righteous. The virtues set forth, step by step, were of the basest sort, and vengeance was the answer to everything. It slashed, it carved, it marched monstrously through a welter of blood. The hero killed for love lost, for love denied, for love misunderstood. The delivery of pain to others, in answer to a pain within – a soul wounded and lashing out – ran like a dark current through every tale.

Still, through it all, the hero remained resolute, or so Kellaras saw it, when looking through his child eyes. As if some aspect of intransigence had made of itself the purest virtue. For such a figure, the notion of feeling – feeling anything but cold satisfaction – in the midst of terrible deeds, and seemingly endless murder, was anathema.

Few heroes wept, unless the tale was a rarity: one tangled in tragedy, and those stories fought a losing battle against the pathological mayhem of the grand heroes, for whom the world of legend was home, and every victim, deserving or not, served as nothing more than a grand staircase of bones leading to the hero’s own exaltation.

A child with a wooden sword could find in such tales an outlet for every injustice and outrage perpetrated upon him, or her. This was not so surprising, given the secret concord between immaturity and cold malice. It was only decades later that Kellaras began to comprehend every hero’s childlike thoughts, that bridling rage, that hunger for revenge, and see for himself what they appeased in so many of his companions. Pure vengeance was nostalgic. It winged back like the voice of a god into childhood, home to the first betrayals and injustices, the first instances of blind fury and impotence, and it spoke of restitution in chilling tones.

Witnessing a tale of heroes, told, written or sung, was like a whispered promise. The betrayers must die, cut down by an implacable iron blade swung by an implacable iron hand. And though betrayal could be found in many guises, including mere indifference, or disregard, or impatience, or a treat denied the grasping hand and its unreasoning demand, yet the incipient storm of violence must be vast. There are times in a child’s life when he or she would happily kill every adult in sight, and this then was the hero’s secret, and the true meaning of his tale of triumph:
what I hold inside is the master of all that I survey. Against all that the world flings at me, I shall prevail. In my mind, I never stumble, stagger, or fall. In my mind, I am supreme, and by this sword, I deliver the truth of that, blow upon blow.

Inside me is the thing that would kill you all.

Such a world was not one where feelings counted for much. Indeed, they could be deemed enemies to purpose and desire, to need and the pure pleasure of satisfying that need.
The heroes, oh, my heroes of childhood, in their shining, blood-spattered worlds of legend – they were, one and all, insane.

Kellaras had stood in a line, had faced an enemy. He had seen the ruinous disorder of battle. He had witnessed breathtaking deeds of heroic self-sacrifice, tragedies played out before his eyes, and nowhere in such recollections could he find a hero of legend.
Because true wars are fought amidst feelings. Be they fear or dread, pity or mercy. And each act, driven by answering hatred and spite, explodes in the mind with horrified wonder. At the self, brought so low. At the other, whose eyes match one’s own.

In the field of battle, our bodies fight with frenzy, but in every face can be seen that appalling tearing loose, disconnecting soul from body, self from flesh. In war, the terrible wonder cries out from a thousand voices. That we are brought to this. That we should lose all that we hold dearest – our compassion, our love, our respect.

If he thought, now, of those heroic tales, he looked upon the heroes and could find, nowhere within himself, a single shred of respect.
Misguided children, every one of you. Slayers of innocents, in the slaying of whom you feel nothing but the cold fire of satisfaction. You play out the vengeance game and with every victory you lose everything.

And you poets, with the timbre of the awe-filled in your voices, look well to the crimes you commit, with every stirring tale you sing. Look well to the overgrown child you lift high and name hero, and consider, if you dare, the tyranny of their triumph.

Then, set your eyes upon your audience, to see for yourself the shining rapture in their faces, the glittering delight in their eyes. These are the awakened remnants of the child’s cruel mind, enlivened by your heedless words.

So tell me, dear poet, at evening’s end, the story told, the ashes drifting from the cold hearth, does the blood still drip from your hands? More to the point, does it ever stop?

Her hands, upon his flesh, were hard with calluses. The harsh soap scraped him with grit, and he could feel the weight of her, and her heat, and when she moved round to settle over him, guiding him inside, he pushed from his mind the memory of heroes, and reached instead for the reality of this moment shared, between two veterans of too many battles.

Here, then, were feelings. Beyond the tactile, beyond the sensual. Here, then, was the language that spoke against tyranny in all its guises. But the world he found, in her arms, was a world for adults, not children.

Though she had spoken of her hidden heart, he found his own easily enough, and gave it to her that night. Unexpectedly, wrapped in his own sense of wonder. He knew not what she would do with it, or even that she understood what he had done. There was the risk, so very real, that she would cast it aside, mocking him with harsh laughter, as a child lacking understanding discards the important things which, when offered, so often prove troubling.

He whispered no words, as the gift he gave seemed, for that moment, beyond language. And yet, in his mind, he reached out to close his hand about the throat of the nearest poet. Dragged the fool close, and hissed,
‘This, you bastard, is where you grow up. Now, sing to me of love, like one who knows it, and at last I will hear from you a true tale of heroes.’

Love lost, love denied, love misunderstood. Woman or man, few could claim a life lived without regrets. But such regrets dwelt in the realm of the adult, not the child. They were, in truth, the essential difference between the two.

Sing to us of true heroes, so that we may weep, for something no child will ever understand.

  *   *   *

‘My uncle, Venes,’ said Hish Tulla, ‘commands my Houseblades. They wait in Kharkanas.’ Her eyes, so startling in their beauty, were now cold as coins. ‘But no word comes from the Citadel.’

Kellaras nodded, reaching for his wine. He paused when Pelk, leaning in to collect up his plate, brushed close. He could smell the soap on her still, sweet and soft as a kiss. Momentarily discomfited, he sipped the wine, and then said, ‘Silchas readies the Hust Legion, milady.’

‘He is with them, then?’

‘No. Following Commander Toras Redone’s incapacitation, Galar Baras now conducts the assembling and training of the new recruits.’ He glanced briefly at Gripp Galas, who was still picking at his meal. ‘I have made acquaintance with Galar Baras. We travelled together on a journey out to Henarald’s forge. Should Toras remain … sheltered, he will serve in her place, with honour and distinction.’

Hish Tulla leaned back slightly, her gaze remaining fixed and predatory as she studied Kellaras. ‘A messenger from Venes brought the tale. Prisoners from the mines? What manner of army does Silchas imagine from such a dubious harvest? Loyalty to Mother Dark? Filial duty towards those who happily and righteously imprisoned them? What of the victims of their crimes, those who mourn the ones lost?’ She collected a jug from the table and poured herself another goblet’s worth of the strong, tart wine. ‘Captain, Hust weapons in the hands of such men and women invites a third front to this wretched war.’

‘Prazek and Dathenar have been sent to assist Galar Baras,’ Kellaras said.

Gripp Galas pushed his plate aside, the food upon it barely touched. ‘He had no right, captain. Anomander’s Houseblades! What was so wrong with the officers of his own Houseblades?’

Hish Tulla set the goblet down and rubbed at her eyes, then looked up, blinking, and said, ‘I was there, upon the Estellian Field.’

Kellaras slowly nodded. ‘Would that I had seen it, milady—’

‘Oh, Gallan made decent shape of it, and to hear him tell the tale you would swear he was there, in the midst of that battle. And saw what I saw, what Kagamandra saw, and Scara Bandaris, too. Those two chattering fools, Prazek and Dathenar—’ She shook her head. ‘If ever legend’s heroes walked among us, then we can name them here and now.’

‘Silchas had no right,’ Gripp said again, and Kellaras saw the fists the man had made of his hands, heavy as stones on the table.

‘One hopes,’ Hish added, ‘Galar Baras sees to their proper use. Sees past their prattle, that is. When I think on them, captain, an image comes to my mind. The Dorssan Ryl in winter, so heavily sheathed in ice, and upon the ice the blandest snow from nights of gentle falling. Where, in this scene I describe, will we find Prazek and Dathenar? Why, they are the black current beneath, strong as iron, that courses on, hidden away from all our eyes. But listen well and you will hear …’ she suddenly smiled, ‘that prattle.’

‘By my order,’ Kellaras said, ‘did I send them from Kharkanas.’

‘You?’ Gripp demanded.

‘My order, but Silchas Ruin’s command. Lord Anomander is gone, Gripp, and if his shadow alone remains, it is white, not black.’

‘What of Draconus?’ Hish demanded. ‘If any should assume overall command in Anomander’s absence, it is the Consort.’

Kellaras eyed her, bemused. ‘Milady, he attends Mother Dark, and makes no appearance.’

‘Still? What madness indulgence has become! Upon your return, captain, pray pound upon that door. Awaken the warrior and, if need be, physically drag him from Mother Dark’s arms! He is needed!’

Now Gripp too was looking at Hish, as if in wonder.

Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘Milady, it seems your confidence in Lord Draconus arises from deeds of which I am not aware. Certainly, he fought well in the wars, and even turned a battle’s tide—’

‘Lisken Draw, that was,’ Gripp cut in. ‘The Jhelarkan’s second season. With my own eyes, I saw him meet the charge of a wolf that was as big as a pony. Bare-handed, he took hold of its neck, lifted it high – I was close enough to hear the bones of the beast’s throat crunch, like a sparrow’s wing. It was dead long before he drove it into the ground.’ He glanced up at Kellaras. ‘A clan’s war-master, that wolf. Broke the enemy’s will there and then. The rest of the season was one long pursuit into the north.’

None spoke for a time. Kellaras replayed in his mind the scene Gripp Galas had just described. He barely fought off a shiver. And then, once again, he looked across to Hish Tulla. ‘Few would welcome Lord Draconus as commander, milady. Indeed, I cannot think of a single highborn who would acknowledge his authority.’

‘I would,’ she snapped. ‘And not hesitate.’

‘Then you see beyond his advantage, milady, which the others cannot.’

‘Base envy – such fools! The choice was Mother Dark’s! Think any of them the better suitor? Then by all means present the case to her, and dare her mockery. But no, this desire of theirs paces behind the curtain – we but witness the shuffling feet and bulges in the fabric.’

‘What they cannot hope to possess, milady, makes all the more savage their jealousy. Resentment is an acid upon every blade, but as you say, they dare not confront the woman for the choice she made. So who remains for their ire? Why, Draconus, of course. And now, with the battle against the Borderswords—’

‘Oh indeed,’ Hish snarled, ‘such a paltry deceit!’

‘Some remain unconvinced.’

‘So they choose to, feeding an already fatted pig.’ She then waved a hand, as if to push away the subject, and collected her goblet again. ‘We were host to Captain Sharenas, a week or so ago. The word she brought to us from Neret Sorr, and Vatha Urusander, made no sense. He asserts his innocence in all things – the pogrom, the slaughter of House Enes, even the annihilation of the Wardens – none by his doing!’

Kellaras sighed. ‘This baffles me, milady. It is difficult to imagine Hunn Raal given so free a rein. Vatha Urusander—’

‘Is a broken and bowed man, captain. There is no other explanation. Even Sharenas was at a loss to explain … well, much of anything. Still, she sought assurances, none of which I would give.’

Kellaras glanced away. ‘This holding of yours, milady, proves not as isolated as I had imagined.’

‘You are not alone in that,’ she answered bitterly. ‘Still, I have issued an order to my western estate. That fortress is to hold, if only to protect young Sukul Ankhadu. I have faith in Rancept and will keep him where he is. Still, tell me, how fares young Orfantal?’

‘He remains a child finding his place, milady. It is unfortunate that Silchas is now his lone guardian among the Purake. Still, I have from Orfantal this message: he misses you terribly.’

There was a soft grunt from Gripp. ‘He saw too much of me upon that escape from the hills. It was a foul thing that he witnessed the blood on my hands. I expect him to hold me at a distance from now on, and perhaps that is just as well.’

‘His words and sentiment, Gripp, were for you and Lady Hish Tulla both.’

‘A fair effort, captain, but beware that your generosity here may risk impugning him.’

Kellaras fell silent. He well recalled the flash of fear in Orfantal’s face upon mention of Gripp Galas.

‘Abyss take us, Pelk,’ said Gripp in a low growl, ‘do find a cup and join us, will you?’