Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

We look upon this same torrent and see the silts of flood waters, of banks breached, and islands of detritus crowded with shivering refugees. To steal a palm’s worth is to look down upon a cloudy, impenetrable world, a microcosm of history’s messy truth. And in the anguish and despair with which we contend, upon observing our dubious prize, we can hardly call our vision a virtue.

Virtue. Surely, of all words that might belong to Lord Vatha Urusander, it is that one. Such clear justice, in hand as it were, must indeed be a worthy virtue. So, Urusander was a man who longed to cleanse the waters of history, through the sluice of hard judgement. Must we fault him in that noble desire?

There is that old saying, couched as a truism, and to utter it is to assert its primacy: justice, we say, is blind. By this we mean that its rules defy all the seeming privileges of the wealthy and the highborn. Laudable, without question, if from the rules of justice we are to fashion a civilization worthy of being deemed decent and righteous. Even children can be stung in the face of what they perceive to be unfair. Unless, of course, they are the ones profiting from it. And in that moment of comprehension, of unfairness to the other also being a reward to oneself, that child faces – for the first but not the last time – the inner war we all know so well, between selfish desire and the common good. Between injustice, clutched so possessively deep in the soul, and a justice that now, suddenly, stands outside that child, like a stern foe.

With luck, the regard of others will force submission upon the child, in the name of fairness, but make no mistake, it is indeed forced. Wrenched from small hands, and then indifferent to the child’s raging impotence. Thus in our childhoods we learn the lessons of strength and weakness, and violence delivered in the name of justice. We deem this maturity.

Father Light. Such a bold title. Sire to the Tiste Liosan, observing all of his children from a place of clear, unopposed light. A place of purity, then, eternal bane to darkness. A father to lead us into history. The god of justice.

Of course he adored the Forulkan, barring those hundreds who slid lifeless down the blade of his sword. After all, their worship of justice was intransigent in the virtue of its purity. As unassailable, whispers this poet, as a blind man’

s darkness. But then, we poets suffer our imperfections, do we not? We are seen, in our seeming equivocations and indecision, as weak of spirit. Gods help a kingdom ruled by a poet!

What? No, I do not know King Tehol the Only. Will you interrupt me again?

So. I sense you manning still the ramparts of your admiration for the Son of Darkness. Will I never scour that romance from your vision? Must I beat you about the head with his flaws, his errors in judgement, his obstinacy?

You are eager for the tale. No patience left for an old man trying to make a point.

Kadaspala etched his god, in the end. Did you know that? He etched that god into life, and then, appalled at the long-awaited perfection of his talent, he killed them both.

What are we to make of that?

No matter. We have already seen Kadaspala find the promise of peace, delivered by his own hands, in a time of unbearable grief. The visionary is the first to be blinded, if a civilization is to fall. Set him aside. He is no longer relevant. Leave him to his small chamber in the Citadel, muttering his madness. His work is done. No, another artist must be dragged to the fore. Another sacrifice necessary to advance a people’s suicide.

In this tale, then, look to the sculptor’s hands …

… as he carves his monument. I leave the choosing of its title to you, my friend. But not yet. Hear the tale first. There is only so much we can indulge, before the chorus grows restless, and gives voice to its displeasure.

I am known to flirt with impatience? Now, surely, that is an unjust accusation.

TWO

BARELY A SMUDGE AGAINST THE GLOOM, THE SUN WAS FADING IN the sky over the city of Kharkanas. The two lieutenants from the Houseblades of Lord Anomander, Prazek and Dathenar, met on the outer bridge and stood leaning on one of its walls, forearms on the stone. Like children, their upper bodies were tilted forward as they looked down upon the waters of the Dorssan Ryl. To their right, the Citadel stood like a fortress of night, defying the day. To the left, the city’s jumbled buildings crowded up against the flood wall as if caught in the act of marching over the edge.

Below the two men, the river’s surface was black, twisting with thick currents. Even now, the occasional charred tree trunk slid past, like the swollen limb of a dismembered giant. Ash-grey mud crusted the sheer walls that made up the banks. The boats moored to iron rings in the walls, near the stone steps that reached down into the water at intervals, looked neglected, home to dead leaves and murky pools of rainwater.

‘There is discipline lacking,’ murmured Prazek, ‘in our sordid post upon this bridge.’

‘We are looked down upon,’ Dathenar replied. ‘See us from atop the tower. We are small things upon this frail span. Witness as we betray errant curiosity, not suited to sentries at all, and in our pose you will find, with dismay, civilization’s slouching departure from the world.’

‘I too saw the historian at his lofty perch,’ Prazek said, nodding. ‘Or rather, his hooded regard. Did it track us out here? Does it fix still upon us?’

‘I would think so, as I feel a weight upon me. At least an executioner’s shroud offers mercy in hiding the face above the axe. We might splinter here under Rise Herat’s judgement, bearing as it does no less sharp an edge.’

Prazek was of no mind to argue the point. History was a cold arbiter. He studied the black water below, and found himself distrusting its depth. ‘A force to splinter us into dust and fragile slivers,’ he said, hunching slightly at the thought of the historian looking down upon them.

‘The river below would welcome our sorry fragments.’

The currents swirled their invitation, but there was nothing friendly in the sly gestures. Prazek shook his head. ‘Indifference is a bitter welcome, my friend.’

‘I see no other promise,’ Dathenar said with a shrug. ‘Let us list the causes of our present fate. I will begin. Our lord wanders lost under winter’s bleak cloak, and makes no bold bulge in his struggle – look out from any tower, Prazek, and you see the season unrelieved, settled flat by the weight of snow, where even the shadows lie weak and pale upon the ground.’

Prazek grunted, his eyes still fixed on the black waters below, half his mind contemplating that mocking invitation. ‘And the Consort lies swallowed in a holy embrace. So holy is that embrace, that there is nothing to see. Lord Draconus, you too have abandoned us.’

‘Surely, there is ecstasy in blindness.’

Prazek considered that, and then shook his head again. ‘You’ve not dared the company of Kadaspala, friend, else you would say otherwise.’