How many wealthy nobles, I wonder, see the world in the same way? Was it not, indeed, the means by which they acquired their riches, and with them their unshakable belief in their own superiority?
But, Mother forgive me, it is a cold realm I find.
The smoke warred against it, but feebly. With slurred words, it whispered lazy invitations into a refuge of ennui, to the sodden bliss of the insensate. Floppy limbs half beckoned in her mind, barely seen amidst the grey cloud. Over here … come … here waits oblivion.
Hardly a worthy goal for a spymaster. I lust for knowledge, yet refuse to taste it. I gather news and facts and secrets, and do nothing with them. I am like the Protector, Grizzin Farl, who claims to protect nothing. Just as the historian refuses to record history, and the goddess refuses the comforts of worship.
While arrayed against us, a general who would rather not lead, a commander who follows only his own drunken whims, and a high priestess still awaiting her god.
We are, all of us, nothing but impostors to our cause, because the cause we espouse is nothing more than the blind we raise to hide our own ambitions. This, I now believe, is the secret behind every war, every clash that sees blood spill to the ground.
The ritual of smoke could, on occasion, offer cruel insights.
Faintly, she heard the chime of the bell cord. Again? Am I to be afforded no rest, no luxury of escape? Senses blunted, her body leaden, she forced herself from the divan, found a cloak to hide all that felt exposed, and made her way from the bedroom into the outer chamber.
‘Enter.’
The historian’s appearance was no surprise, but the presence of Grizzin Farl was. Searching his expression, she found little given away. The Azathanai made a profession of secrets. Even so, she did not detect his usual façade of bluff amusement.
‘What brings you here?’ she asked them.
Rise Herat cleared his throat. ‘High Priestess. The Protector has agreed to guide us into the presence of Mother Dark.’
To what end? These words almost spilled from her, but she managed to hold them back. She would not give them the raw extremity of her own despair, or that of her fears. ‘I see. Are we to fling ourselves against her indifference one more time? Very well. Lead us, Grizzin Farl.’
The Azathanai bowed and then retreated into the corridor. Emral and Rise followed.
After a moment, as they walked, the historian spoke to her with atypical formality. ‘High Priestess, it is time to inform Mother Dark of the events occurring in her realm – yes, I well understand her usage of Endest Silann, but even there, we cannot know the fullest reach of her knowledge, or her awareness. More to the point, Endest resides here in the Citadel, and concerns himself little with what goes on beyond its walls. Is it not time for a full accounting?’
The question was doubly edged, and Emral understood that the historian was not unaware of this. He was, after all, one who chose his words carefully. ‘Your desires are ambitious, historian. But we will see. As you say, the effort is timely.’
Before long, they reached the ancient corridor that led to the Chamber of Night. The damage left behind by the Azathanai T’riss was still visible, in cracks and fissures latticing the stonework, in the slumped, uneven flooring. The passage was unoccupied, in itself a bleak statement of affairs. Approaching the door, Grizzin Farl hesitated, glancing back to his companions.
‘There has been a burgeoning within,’ he said. ‘A deeper and more profound manifestation of Dark. No doubt the effects of the Terondai, the Gate’s proximity.’ He shrugged. ‘I sense the changes, but can discern little else. Nevertheless, I hereby warn you both: what lies beyond this door is changed.’
‘Then,’ answered Emral Lanear, ‘it behoves the High Priestess to comprehend such a transformation, don’t you think?’
The Azathanai studied her, and something in his expression hinted of irony. ‘High Priestess, as it turns out, that which cloaks your mind may prove a benison.’
She frowned, but was given no chance to reply, as Grizzin Farl turned to the door, reached out to the latch, and swung wide the portal to the Chamber of Night.
The cold that flowed out was redolent with fecundity, and this alone shocked Emral Lanear.
She heard a grunt from Grizzin Farl, as if in acknowledgement of her own shock, as the darkness within was, from where they stood upon the threshold, absolute.
‘What awaits us?’ Rise Herat asked. ‘My eyes, though gift-given, cannot pierce this shroud. Grizzin Farl, what can you discern?’
‘Nothing,’ the Azathanai replied. ‘We must enter in order to see.’
‘Even the floor is lost to us,’ the historian retorted. ‘We could find ourselves plunging into an abyss. This chamber is negation, a realm devoid of all substance.’ He faced Emral Lanear, his eyes wide with alarm. ‘I now counsel against this.’
But Emral Lanear found herself shrugging, and then she stepped past the historian and, without giving Grizzin Farl a glance, continued on into the Chamber of Night.
She felt compacted earth beneath her feet, damp and cool through the thin soles of her slippers. The smell of deep decay and verdant life swarmed around her, as if the air itself was alive. We are no longer within the Citadel.
Grizzin Farl joined her, standing close upon her left, a presence more felt than seen. ‘He has taken this too far,’ the Azathanai said in a low rumble. ‘Gates possess two sides. By presence alone they divide worlds. The Terondai, High Priestess, issues into this place.’
‘And what place is this?’ Rise Herat asked from directly behind Emral.