Withal stumbled back in the face of that wind, then he spun to face Nimander. ‘I am going to lie,’ he said in 9 growl. ‘The mad creature ran, flung herself through-do you hear me?’
The door opened and Sandalath charged into the room, behind her the Adjunct’s aide, Lostara Yil, and the priest, Banaschar-and, pushing close behind them, the other Tiste Andii-eyes wide with fear, confusion-and Nimander lurched towards them, one step, then another-
And was pulled round to face Sandalath.
Withal was speaking. A voice filled with disbelief. Expostulations.
But she was staring into his eyes. ‘Did she? Nimander! Did she?’
Did she what! Oh, yes, go through the window.
Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions…’
Mother, wife, Withal’s lover, was still staring into Nimander’s eyes-a look that said loss was rearing from the dark, frightened places in her mind, rearing, yes, to devour the love she held for her husband-for the man with the innocent face; that told him, with the answer he might give to her question, two more lives might be destroyed. Did she? Through the window? Did she… die?
Nimander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Another dead woman screamed in his skull and he almost reeled. Dead eyes, devouring all love. ‘You have lied, Nimander!’
Yes. To save Withal. To save Sandalath Drukorlat-
‘To save yourself!’
Yes.
‘My love, what has happened to you?’
I heard a spinning sound. A whispering promise-we must stay here, you see. We must. Andarist chose me. He knew he was going to die. He knew that there would be no Anomander Rake, no Silchas Ruin, no great kin of our age of glory-no-one to come to save us, take care of us. There was only me.
My love, to lead is to carry burdens. As did the heroes of old, with clear eyes.
So look at my eyes, my love. See my burden? Just like a hero of old-
Sandalath reached up again, those two long-fingered hands. Not to take his face, but to wipe away the rain streaming down his cheeks.
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Withal stumbled back in the face of that wind, then he spun to face Nimander. ‘I am going to lie,’ he said in 9 growl. ‘The mad creature ran, flung herself through-do you hear me?’
The door opened and Sandalath charged into the room, behind her the Adjunct’s aide, Lostara Yil, and the priest, Banaschar-and, pushing close behind them, the other Tiste Andii-eyes wide with fear, confusion-and Nimander lurched towards them, one step, then another-
And was pulled round to face Sandalath.
Withal was speaking. A voice filled with disbelief. Expostulations.
But she was staring into his eyes. ‘Did she? Nimander! Did she?’
Did she what! Oh, yes, go through the window.
Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions…’
Mother, wife, Withal’s lover, was still staring into Nimander’s eyes-a look that said loss was rearing from the dark, frightened places in her mind, rearing, yes, to devour the love she held for her husband-for the man with the innocent face; that told him, with the answer he might give to her question, two more lives might be destroyed. Did she? Through the window? Did she… die?
Nimander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Another dead woman screamed in his skull and he almost reeled. Dead eyes, devouring all love. ‘You have lied, Nimander!’
Yes. To save Withal. To save Sandalath Drukorlat-
‘To save yourself!’
Yes.
‘My love, what has happened to you?’
I heard a spinning sound. A whispering promise-we must stay here, you see. We must. Andarist chose me. He knew he was going to die. He knew that there would be no Anomander Rake, no Silchas Ruin, no great kin of our age of glory-no-one to come to save us, take care of us. There was only me.
My love, to lead is to carry burdens. As did the heroes of old, with clear eyes.
So look at my eyes, my love. See my burden? Just like a hero of old-
Sandalath reached up again, those two long-fingered hands. Not to take his face, but to wipe away the rain streaming down his cheeks.
My clear eyes.
We will stay here, on this island-we will look to the Shake, and see in them the faint threads of Tiste Andii blood, and we will turn them away from the barbarity that has taken them and so twisted their memories.
We will show them the shore. The true shore.
Burdens, my love. This is what it is to live, while your loved ones die.
Sandalath, still ignoring Lostara Yil’s questioning, now stepped back and turned to settle into her husband’s arms.
And Withal looked across at Nimander.
Outside, the wind screamed.
Yes, my love, see it in his-eyes. Look what I have done to Withal. All because I failed.
Last night’s storm had washed the town clean, giving it a scoured appearance that made it very nearly palatable. Yan Tovis, Twilight, stood on the pier watching the foreign ships pull out of the harbour. At her side was her half-brother, Yedan Derryg, the Watch.
‘Glad to see them go,’ he said.
‘You are not alone in that,’ she replied.
‘Brullyg’s still dead to the world-but was that celebration or self-pity?’
Yan Tovis shrugged.
‘At dawn,’ Yedan Derryg said after a long moment of silence between them, ‘our black-skinned cousins set out to build the tomb.’ His bearded jaw bunched, molars grinding, then he said, ‘Only met the girl once. Sour-faced, shy eyes.’
‘Those broken arms did not come from the fall,’ Yan Tovis said. ‘Too bruised-the tracks of fingers. Besides, she landed on her head, bit through her tongue clean as a knife cut.’
‘Something happened in that room. Something sordid.’
‘I am pleased we did not inherit such traits.’
He grunted, said nothing.
Yan Tovis sighed. ‘Pully and Skwish seem to have decided their sole purpose in living these days is to harry me at every turn.’
‘The rest of the witches have elected them as their representatives. You begin your rule as Queen in a storm of ill-feeling.’
‘It’s worse than that,’ she said. ‘This town is crowded with ex-prisoners. Debt-runners and murderers. Brullyg managed to control them because he could back his claim to being the nastiest adder in the pit. They look at me and see an Atri-Preda of the Imperial Army-just another warden-and you, Derryg, well, you’re my strong-arm Finadd. They don’t care a whit about the Shake and their damned queen.’