‘We were murdered by compromises. No, not those that followed the arrival of Light. Not those born of Shadow. These things were inevitable. They were, by their very nature, necessary.’
‘Yes.’
‘The day we accepted her turning away, Endest, was the day we ran the knives across our own throats.’ Anomander Rake paused, and then said, ‘We are an an cient, stubborn people.’ He faced Endest Silann. ‘See how long it has taken to bleed out?’
And then, to complete the unruly triumvirate, there was the brood of Osserc. Menandore, and that mess of mixed bloods to follow: Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu, Brevith Dreda. The others, the ones outside all of that, how they watched on, bemused, brows darkening with anger. Draconus, you thought you could give answer to all of us. You were wrong.
Were you wrong? He found himself staring at Dragnipur, catching the faintest echo of rumbling wheels, the muted cries of the suffering, and there, yes, that seething storm of chaos drawing every closer.
‘Without the blood of dragons,’ Anomander Rake went on, ‘we would all be dust, scattered on the winds, drifting between the stars themselves. Yes, others might see it differently, but that cold fever, so sudden in our veins, so fierce in our minds-the chaos, Endest-gave us the strength to persist, to cease fearing change, to accept all that was unknown and unknowable. And this is why you chose to follow us, each in our time, our place.’
The chaos in you, yes, a fire on the promontory, a beacon piercing the pro-found entropy we saw all around us. And yet, so few of you proved worthy of our allegiance. So few, Lord, and fewer with each generation, until now here you stand, virtually alone.
Tears were streaming from his eyes now, weeping as did the obelisk, as did the stone on all sides. The one who was worth it. The only one.
‘You will find the strength within you, Endest Silann. Of that I have no doubt.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘As shall I.’ And with that the Son of Darkness reached out, reclaimed the sword Dragnipur. With familiar ease he slid the weapon into the scabbard on his back. He faced Endest and smiled as if the burden he had just accepted yet again could not drive others to their knees-gods, ascendants, the proud and the arrogant, all to their knees. Rake’s legs did not buckle, did not even so much as tremble. He stood tall, unbowed, and in the smile he offered Endest Silann there was a certainty of purpose, so silent, so indomitable, so utterly appalling that Endest felt his heart clench, as if moments from rupturing.
And his Lord stepped close then, and with one hand brushed the wetness from one check.
He could see her dancing out there, amidst dust devils and shards of frost-skinned rock, through shafts of blistering sunlight and hazy swirls of spinning snow. Blood still streamed from his wounds and it seemed that would never cease-that this crimson flow debouched from some eternal river, and the blood was no longer his own, but that of the god standing beside him. It was an odd notion, yet it felt truthful even though he dared not ask the Redeemer, dared not hear the confirmation from the god’s mouth.
br />
‘We were murdered by compromises. No, not those that followed the arrival of Light. Not those born of Shadow. These things were inevitable. They were, by their very nature, necessary.’
‘Yes.’
‘The day we accepted her turning away, Endest, was the day we ran the knives across our own throats.’ Anomander Rake paused, and then said, ‘We are an an cient, stubborn people.’ He faced Endest Silann. ‘See how long it has taken to bleed out?’
And then, to complete the unruly triumvirate, there was the brood of Osserc. Menandore, and that mess of mixed bloods to follow: Sheltatha Lore, Sukul Ankhadu, Brevith Dreda. The others, the ones outside all of that, how they watched on, bemused, brows darkening with anger. Draconus, you thought you could give answer to all of us. You were wrong.
Were you wrong? He found himself staring at Dragnipur, catching the faintest echo of rumbling wheels, the muted cries of the suffering, and there, yes, that seething storm of chaos drawing every closer.
‘Without the blood of dragons,’ Anomander Rake went on, ‘we would all be dust, scattered on the winds, drifting between the stars themselves. Yes, others might see it differently, but that cold fever, so sudden in our veins, so fierce in our minds-the chaos, Endest-gave us the strength to persist, to cease fearing change, to accept all that was unknown and unknowable. And this is why you chose to follow us, each in our time, our place.’
The chaos in you, yes, a fire on the promontory, a beacon piercing the pro-found entropy we saw all around us. And yet, so few of you proved worthy of our allegiance. So few, Lord, and fewer with each generation, until now here you stand, virtually alone.
Tears were streaming from his eyes now, weeping as did the obelisk, as did the stone on all sides. The one who was worth it. The only one.
‘You will find the strength within you, Endest Silann. Of that I have no doubt.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘As shall I.’ And with that the Son of Darkness reached out, reclaimed the sword Dragnipur. With familiar ease he slid the weapon into the scabbard on his back. He faced Endest and smiled as if the burden he had just accepted yet again could not drive others to their knees-gods, ascendants, the proud and the arrogant, all to their knees. Rake’s legs did not buckle, did not even so much as tremble. He stood tall, unbowed, and in the smile he offered Endest Silann there was a certainty of purpose, so silent, so indomitable, so utterly appalling that Endest felt his heart clench, as if moments from rupturing.
And his Lord stepped close then, and with one hand brushed the wetness from one check.
He could see her dancing out there, amidst dust devils and shards of frost-skinned rock, through shafts of blistering sunlight and hazy swirls of spinning snow. Blood still streamed from his wounds and it seemed that would never cease-that this crimson flow debouched from some eternal river, and the blood was no longer his own, but that of the god standing beside him. It was an odd notion, yet it felt truthful even though he dared not ask the Redeemer, dared not hear the confirmation from the god’s mouth.
The crazed weather whirled on out on that plain, and she moved through it ef-fortlessly, round and round, this way and that, but not yet drawing closer, not yet coming for him once more.
‘Why does she wait?’ he asked. ‘She must see that I cannot withstand another assault, that I will surely fall.’
‘She would if she could,’ the Redeemer replied.
‘What holds her back?’
‘Wounds must heal, memories of pain fade.’
Seerdomin rubbed at the grit on his face. There had been dirty rain, gusting up to where they stood, but it had since wandered back down into the basin, a rotted brown curtain dragged aimlessly away.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Redeemer, ‘things leak through.’
Seerdomin grunted, then asked, ‘From where?’
‘Lives of the T’lan. So much was unleashed, so much forgotten only to be lived once again. There was anguish. There was… glory.’
He had not been there to witness that moment. The kneeling of the T’lan Imass. Such a thing was hard to imagine, yet it sent shivers through him none the less. A moment to shake every belief, when the world drew breath and… held it.
‘Did you know what to expect?’
‘They humbled me,’ said the Redeemer.
I suspect it was you who humbled them, Itkovian-yes, a mortal back then, just a mortal No, they were the ones struck mute, filled with awe and wonder. I do not know how I know that, but I do.
… things leak through.
‘The madness of the weather comes from the memories of the T’lan Imass? Can you not summon them? Draw them up in ranks before you? Do you not think they would proudly accept such a thing? A way to pay you back for what you did? Redeemer, summon the spirits of the T’lan Imass-and that woman be-low will never reach you.’