The doors swung open and Silchas Ruin strode into the chamber. Eyes alighting on Kellaras, the lord nodded and without pausing his march, said, ‘With me, captain,’ and then was past.
Kellaras fell in behind the tall, white-skinned warrior. The pace was merciless, the man bristling as he strode down the corridor, heading for – Kellaras now knew – the Chamber of Night. He felt somewhat humiliated hastening in the man’s wake, as if tugged along on a leash. Every step was a surrender, a relinquishing of his own will. It made something inside him – grim as a thwarted child, hands closed into fists – yearn to lash out. This was, he realized with a faint shock, true, in all the countless venues of life, the endless tumble of scenes where wills clashed, where hackles lifted and fangs flashed from beneath stretched lips. The cowering dog is the one most likely to bite, isn’t it? They take us at this moment, these unwavering men and women who presume to rule over us, and but point us in the direction of a weaker victim. This is their game, knowing or not, and as ever the assumption is that we’ll never turn on our masters – so long as an enemy remains within reach of our blunted, frustrated fury.
And what, then, did the soldiers of Urusander’s Legion discover, when the last enemy retreated over the horizon? Nowhere left for that angry child within. The game had ended, the leaders told them to go home.
But see us now, see how we make scenes inviting that old humiliation. And see how we rush to that rage, so familiar, so simple. This child within us never grows up. And, Abyss take me, it doesn’t want to.
Along the narrow corridor with its cracked, uneven floor. Reaching the recently repaired door of warped blackwood, Silchas Ruin set his hand upon the latch, and then paused to look at Kellaras. ‘Stay close to me, captain.’
Kellaras nodded, the gesture deepening his humiliation, his thoughts in a turmoil of something edging towards self-hatred. This, Mother forgive me, is the curse of the one who salutes. One wolf leads the pack, the rest of us expose our throats.
Silchas Ruin opened the door and strode into the Chamber of Night. Kellaras followed.
No preternatural gifts of sight could conquer the darkness within. Even the faint gloom from the doorway fell off only a few steps beyond the threshold.
‘Close the door,’ said Silchas Ruin.
Kellaras pulled it shut behind him, the new latch making no sound.
Now, his eyes might as well be closed. His remaining senses quested, and then contracted, reducing his world to the slow beat of his heart, the rasp of his breath, the feel of lifeless air against his skin.
Silchas Ruin spoke, startling him. ‘Lord Draconus! The time has come!’
The echoes fell away.
‘Urusander’s Legion approaches the Valley of Tarns! Tell me, Draconus, where are your Houseblades? Pray you surrender them to my command. Pray you understand the necessity of your absence on the day of battle.’
Silence answered him.
Kellaras heard Silchas Ruin shifting his stance – the soft click of a ring against the pommel of a sword, the scuff of boot heels on the gritty clay. ‘She does not understand,’ he said. ‘We must speak, Draconus, as one man to another.’
A moment later, Lord Draconus emerged, ethereal and limned in fragmented silver light, as if parts of him reflected something unseen, too cold to be born of flame, too brittle to belong to moonlight. ‘Silchas,’ he said with a smile softening his features.
‘Draconus. Thank you for acceding to my request.’ Silchas Ruin paused, and then said, ‘Even here, sir, you must sense the closing of this noose – we are moments from strangling our own realm, moments from seeing the death of far too many Tiste. They will see another throne, Draconus. They will see a Father Light at the side of Mother Dark.’
Draconus seemed to lose interest halfway through Ruin’s warning, his gaze shifting away, glancing briefly over Kellaras before continuing on, as if something off to the right had caught his attention. ‘You said that she does not understand,’ he said when Silchas had finished.
‘This is a matter of a man’s honour.’
Draconus looked back, brows lifting.
‘None will accept you, sir,’ Silchas said. ‘Even should she marry you, you will ever remain a Consort in the eyes of the highborn. Among Urusander’s Legion, you will be the man who humiliated Lord Urusander, at the very gates of Kharkanas. The followers of Liosan will see you as the thief of their Throne of Light. The High Priestess—’
‘And all this,’ Draconus interjected, ‘arrayed against the simple gift of love.’
Silchas Ruin was silent for a moment. ‘Honour, sir, stands before all else. Should it fail you, the gift you speak of will falter. Poisoned, corrupted by weakness—’
‘Weakness?’
‘Love, sir, is surely that.’
‘It has never touched you, then, Silchas Ruin.’
‘Am I the one holding the realm hostage to it?’ Silchas seemed to struggle for a few breaths, and then he said, ‘I said we must speak, you and me. Please hear my words, Draconus. Her love for you is undeniable – not even your enemies question it. How could they? She defies everyone for you – her children, each one estranged, abandoned by her closed heart. This is obstinacy. It is plunging the realm into destruction—’
‘It is simply love, Silchas.’
‘Then why will she not marry you?’