Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy 2)

‘If I stand aside, sword not drawn, will you seek to convince me that none of the blood to be spilled will stain my hands? I should hope not. If I choose peace for myself, Brood, stolid as a stone in a stream, will I not make the currents part? How minor this perturbation – my paltry will? Or will the stream divide, split asunder, to seek different seas?’

Caladan Brood cocked his head. ‘Does it matter? Does what you choose make any difference?’

‘This is what I am asking you, Azathanai.’ Anomander waved back at the forest edge. ‘Does your healing?’

Brood considered for a moment. ‘I appease the ego. The goodness that comes of it is incidental to a dying forest, a fatally wounded earth. Nothing talks back to me. Nothing voices its gratitude. Though I would have it otherwise, if only to make myself feel—’

‘Better?’

‘Useful.’

The distinction seemed to have some impact on Anomander, for he flinched. ‘Off you go, then, until you are … needed.’

With a faint bow, Caladan Brood swung round and made his way towards the spindly treeline where even now the Houseblades were preparing camp.

At that moment, two riders emerged from the city, horses cantering up the Forest Track Road. Eyes narrowing, Ivis identified Lord Silchas Ruin – astride a white mount – and an officer of Anomander’s own Houseblades.

Now, there would be words. The notion – its obviousness – struck him as nonetheless ominous. This is the madness of it all. Mundane conversations, fragments of meaning and dubious import. All the things left unsaid. If we could assemble our words, merge those inside and out, we would be startled to find that we speak but a tenth of what we think. And yet, each of us presumes to expect tha

t the other understands – indeed, hears both the spoken and the unspoken.

Mad presumption!

‘Milord?’

‘Ivis?’

‘Pray you free the words, let them tumble, with not one left unspoken.’

Anomander’s gaze narrowed as he studied Ivis. ‘My brother approaches, along with my captain, Kellaras.’

‘Just so,’ Ivis replied, nodding. He saw Gripp Galas studying him. Pelk, too. He wondered what they saw, what they thought they saw. He wondered at his own log-jam of unuttered words, and his reluctance to kick it loose.

My own courage in this matter fails me. Yet I ask of it him. Lord Anomander, you are the First Son of Darkness. The time has come to show it. I beg you, sir, make us all braver than we are.

* * *

Wreneck climbed down from the carriage, almost slipping on the ice coating the slatted step. He turned about quickly and drew his small knife, to begin hacking away the sheath of ice. ‘Beware, milady,’ he called up as Sandalath prepared to dismount, her bundled daughter crooked in one arm.

‘I see, child,’ she said, evincing once more the new haughtiness that had come to her.

Wreneck chipped away, eager to finish and turn about – eager to set his eyes at last upon the great city of Wise Kharkanas. But that glory would have to wait. The last flat sheet of white ice broke free, slipped away. ‘There, milady,’ he said, returning the knife to his belt and reaching up to offer her his arm.

She took it delicately, and then settled much of her weight upon it, making Wreneck come near to staggering as he adjusted his footing. A moment later she stood beside him, her gaze bright upon the city behind him. ‘Ah, I can see my tower. The Citadel beckons. I wonder, is Orfantal at a window? Can he see his mother at last? I am sure that he can – I feel his gaze upon me, his wonder at what I carry. My present to him.’

Korlat looked three years old now, though she voiced no sounds, sought nothing that might be words in that mysterious language of babies. Yet her eyes never rested, and even now she peered out from the folded blanket, like a thing feeding on all that it saw.

Surgeon Prok stood nearby, watching both the mother and the daughter. He had resumed drinking wine, growing drunker the closer they had come to Kharkanas, and the journey’s end. A clay jug hung loosely from his right hand, and he was swaying slightly. ‘Milady, the child needs to walk.’

Frowning, Sandalath glanced across at the man, and it seemed a moment before she recognized him. ‘She walks already,’ she replied. ‘In realms not seen by you. Realms you cannot even imagine. Her spirit explores the night, the place of all endings, the place moments from rebirth. She walks in the world that exists before the first breath is drawn, and the one that comes when the last breath falls away. They are one and the same. Did you know that? A single world.’ Sandalath straightened, adjusting her cradling arm, and smiled at Prok. ‘She will be ready.’

Wreneck now looked to the city. He saw its low wall, the crowds lining it. He saw the wide street awaiting them, the broad double gate with its massive blackwood doors swung open and tied in place. He saw more people than he’d thought existed, and all were facing him. They see Lord Anomander. They wonder at his hesitation.

But now comes the white-skinned brother with the eyes of blood – that must be him. He looks … terrifying.

Retrieving his spear and his small bundle of possessions from a side-rack on the carriage, Wreneck moved forward. He wanted to be close enough to hear the brothers greet one another. He wanted to know when the battle would start, so he could take up his spear and be ready for it. He saw Captain Ivis approaching. ‘Sir? When do we ride into the city? I must visit the Citadel and speak to Orfantal. It is important.’

Distracted, Ivis moved past, but then said, ‘Tomorrow, perhaps.’