Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

‘And dragons.’

‘And Ardata?’

‘I don’t know, to be honest. I am curious, of course. What holds her there, upon the shores of the Vitr, beneath the gate of Starvald Demelain? Is it simply the loss of the Queen of Dreams? Or is there something else, something more? A web, after all, can be more than just a trap. It can also be a means of holding everything together, keeping it from tearing itself apart.’

‘You ascribe to her motives far too much generosity of spirit, K’rul. She is Azathanai, no different from you or me in our manner of disguising secret purpose, hidden motivations, beneath our laudable gestures.’ A long-fingered, talon-clad hand waved languidly. ‘Like this one, and your unseen Empire of Weakness. I do not comprehend you, K’rul. What ruler seeks to rule an empire by asking for the empathy of its citizens?’

‘And if empathy – and compassion – are that empire’s only source of strength?’

‘Then, my friend, you and it are doomed.’

K’rul considered that. ‘Errastas’s path is a dead end.’

‘Errastas’s path places no value in where it ends, dead or otherwise.’

‘Yes, you may have a point there.’

‘I will help you, but only so far, K’rul. I have no interest in attending your eventual demise. But for what we must do, here and now, Ardata will be essential. And she does not like me.’

‘I will speak on your behalf, Skillen Droe, and seek from her …’ he smiled, ‘a little empathy.’

They turned away from the Vitr then, and set out, angling somewhat inland from the sea’s caustic bite, and continued walking northward.

It was in K’rul’s mind that Ardata would counter his request with one of her own. He wondered if Skillen Droe understood that. But it is the dragons who will decide, and what could be more troubling than to elect dragons as the arbiters of what is just?

Night was settling upon the world, the first stars burning awake overhead. They continued on, both knowing without need for conversation that their walk would not end until they reached Starvald Demelain.

* * *

He had helped Ardata set the Thel Akai’s broken bones, both of them as thick around as his wrists. Looking down upon them, as he pulled on Thrall’s massive foot whilst she guided the bones back beneath the ruptured skin, he had never felt so insignificant. Against a warrior such as this, he was no more than a child, and for all the sting of his sword, Kanyn Thrall could simply sweep him aside, dismissing him as if beneath notice.

It was an ugly feeling, this humility. The deeds of his past, which had seemed vast and weighty, were little more than the small measures of a small life. When she set to tending the punctures in the Thel Akai’s torso, he had gone outside once more, to retrieve Kanyn Thrall’s beloved axe.

Ignoring the two Tiste women – who were anything but – he made his way down to the strand of the Vitr. In the short time that the axe had been lying on the dead sand, the bitter fumes had mottled the iron, stealing its proud polish. He grunted lifting the weapon from the ground, and staggered more than once as he made his way back up the berm.

The temple’s scattered ruins, the tumbled blocks and toppled columns, had the battered appearance of some past violence, as if the resident god or goddess had ended faith in a frenzy of rage. He had found rotted bones here and there, lending weight to his notions. Faith and slaughter all too often settled into a deadly embrace. He had fled Kurald Galain on the cusp of such a war, and had no regrets about that part of his leaving. But that flight had not prevented the transformation of his skin. Initially white as snow, he was now sun-burnished a radiant gold. What had at first appalled him now appealed, though he did find himself looking, with considerable admiration, upon the onyx perfection of Telorast and Curdle.

Leaning the axe against a broken block of limestone, he hesitated, and then settled down on the stone to watch the last of the light drain from the world.

Moments later the two women joined him, each taking a seat, one on either side, both close enough to brush arms and thighs.

‘Bold young warrior,’ murmured Telorast. ‘Tell me you like them nimble. She’d batter you bruised and senseless, while I, on the other hand, display more modest curves, but no less enticing, yes?’

‘I thought you two were lovers.’

‘Lovers, sisters, mother and daughter, these attributions are meaningless. Details from the past, and the past is dead. In this moment, there are only women and men. Mere proximity invites potential. Isn’t that right, Curdle?’

‘We’re always right, that’s true. How could it ever be otherwise? But this Tiste warrior here, he thinks highly of himself.’

‘Or once he did,’ Telorast observed, ‘but, alas, no more. Oh, Kurald Galain! How it delights in the vista of its own navel! Puckered horizons and root long since past drawing sustenance. But here you are, Tiste warrior, painted in Light, godly in youth, with nothing but clouds in your golden eyes.’

‘Blame Ardata,’ hissed Curdle. ‘She won’t use him in the proper way!’

‘She has a Thel Akai’s cock to play with, my love. Think on that.’

‘The prowess of Azathanai knows no bounds,’ Curdle said, nodding. ‘She must veer to fit him. Diabolical genius, but easily spoiled.’

‘Quickly bored.’