Throne of Night. He settled back into his blanket and stared up at the stars overhead. Their twisted pattern made him think of fevers, when nothing was right with the world and the wrongness was terrifying — tormenting a small boy who was already filled with confused visions of icy cold water and shards of ice and who cried out for a mother who never came and never answered.
He had been that boy once. But even questions had a way of going away, eventually, when no answers were possible. He thought of the gift he would bring to the Lord of Hate, and knew it to be paltry, useless enough to be an insult. But he had nothing else to give.
Raskan believed that Olar Ethil was Arathan’s mother, but he knew that she was not. He had no reason for his certainty; still he did not question it. If anything, the witch reminded him of Malice, when she was younger and fatter — in the days when the girl first walked and was in the habit of wandering everywhere, smiling and singing since she did not yet know the meaning of the name she had been given. Something in their faces, young and old, seemed to be the same.
Bootsteps sounded and he tilted his head to find his father standing over him. After a moment Draconus sank into a crouch. He was holding in his hands a clay figurine, a thing that seemed to cry out sex, in an excess of sensuality that struck Arathan as grotesque. One of the witch’s gifts.
‘For you,’ Draconus said.
Arathan wanted to refuse it. Instead he sat up and took it from his father’s hands.
‘It will be light soon,’ Draconus went on. ‘Today I send back Rint, Feren and Raskan.’
‘Back?’
‘You and I shall ride on, Arathan.’
‘We leave them behind?’
‘They are no longer needed.’
And somewhere ahead, you will leave me behind, too. No longer needed. ‘Father,’ he said, hands clutching the figurine, ‘don’t hurt her.’
‘Hurt who?’
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Throne of Night. He settled back into his blanket and stared up at the stars overhead. Their twisted pattern made him think of fevers, when nothing was right with the world and the wrongness was terrifying — tormenting a small boy who was already filled with confused visions of icy cold water and shards of ice and who cried out for a mother who never came and never answered.
He had been that boy once. But even questions had a way of going away, eventually, when no answers were possible. He thought of the gift he would bring to the Lord of Hate, and knew it to be paltry, useless enough to be an insult. But he had nothing else to give.
Raskan believed that Olar Ethil was Arathan’s mother, but he knew that she was not. He had no reason for his certainty; still he did not question it. If anything, the witch reminded him of Malice, when she was younger and fatter — in the days when the girl first walked and was in the habit of wandering everywhere, smiling and singing since she did not yet know the meaning of the name she had been given. Something in their faces, young and old, seemed to be the same.
Bootsteps sounded and he tilted his head to find his father standing over him. After a moment Draconus sank into a crouch. He was holding in his hands a clay figurine, a thing that seemed to cry out sex, in an excess of sensuality that struck Arathan as grotesque. One of the witch’s gifts.
‘For you,’ Draconus said.
Arathan wanted to refuse it. Instead he sat up and took it from his father’s hands.
‘It will be light soon,’ Draconus went on. ‘Today I send back Rint, Feren and Raskan.’
‘Back?’
‘You and I shall ride on, Arathan.’
‘We leave them behind?’
‘They are no longer needed.’
And somewhere ahead, you will leave me behind, too. No longer needed. ‘Father,’ he said, hands clutching the figurine, ‘don’t hurt her.’
‘Hurt who?’
‘Feren,’ he whispered. And the child she carries. My child.
He could see his father’s frown, and how it slowly twisted into a scowl. It was, he realized, never too dark to see such things. ‘Don’t be foolish, Arathan.’
‘Just leave them alone, please.’
‘I would do no other,’ Draconus said in a growl. He quickly straightened. ‘Go back to sleep if you can,’ he said. ‘We have far to ride today.’
Arathan settled back on to the hard ground once more. He held the figurine like a baby against his chest. He had stood up to his father. He had made a demand even if it had sounded like a plea. A true son knew to draw lines in the sand and claim what he would for himself, for his own life and all that he deemed important in it. This was what growing up meant. Places to claim, things owned and things defended. It was a time of jostling, because the space was never big enough for the both of them, for both father and son. There was pushing and there was pulling, and comfort went away if it had ever existed; but maybe someday it would come back. If the father permitted it. If the son wanted it. If neither feared the other.
Arathan wondered if he would ever stop fearing his father, and then he wondered, as he studied the swirl of stars fading in the paling sky overhead, if there would come a time when his father began fearing him.
He thought he heard the witch whisper in his mind.
For the fire, boy. When your love is too much. Too much to bear.
For the fire.
The smooth curves of the figurine felt warm in his hands, as if promising heat.
When he closed his eyes the nightmare returned, and this time he saw a woman at the bottom of the pool, reaching into her belly and dragging free babies, one after another. She bit through the ropes and sent the babies away with a push. They thrashed until they drowned.
Along the edge of the pool now, women had gathered, reaching down to collect the limp, lifeless forms. He watched them stuff those bodies inside their bellies. And then they walked away.
But one woman remained, and the water before her was clear — no corpses in sight. She stared down into it, and he heard her singing in a soft voice. He could not understand the words, only the heartbreak in them. When she turned away and walked, he knew it was to the sea. She was going away and she was never returning to this place, and so she did not see the last boy rise up, still thrashing, fighting shards of ice, reaching for a hand that was not there.
And upon a stone, overlooking all this, sat his father. Cutting ropes. Into, Arathan surmised, manageable lengths.
Raskan woke late in the morning, the sun’s light lancing into his brain like jagged spears. Cursing his own fragility, he slowly sat up.