Steven Erikson - Fall of Light

And Draconus? Nowhere to be seen. His body will never be found.

It is no easy thing to kill an Azathanai.

Herat brought his hands to his eyes, plunging the terrible scene into blessed darkness. And we have done this. Emral and I … Abyss take us.

The standard tilted, and then swept down.

Done. All done.

With a cry, he staggered through the chamber, colliding with statuary, his eyes still covered by his damning hands. He fell more than once, scrambling frantically back to his feet. Disoriented, bruised and bleeding, he set off again, only to find himself lost among the towering figures.

They crowded him. With hands smeared in his own blood, they reached for him. Shrieking, he lunged and staggered about.

The chamber echoed his cries, until a thousand voices wailed in pain and grief.

All in the name of one man.

* * *

‘She will see you now.’

High Priestess Emral Lanear flicked her gaze upward to see the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, standing in the doorway. She lifted the mouthpiece to her lips and drew in another mouthful of smoke. She filled her lungs, feeling the familiar bite, the shock dulled to faint pleasure. Frowning at the huge, bearded man, she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. Who will see me now?’

Almost shyly, Grizzin Farl edged into the room. ‘Mother Dark. Your goddess.’ After a moment, he shrugged and said, ‘The wounded heart contracts, like the closing of a fist. She will see you now, and you in turn will see her. Out from the darkness, a manifestation of flesh, blood and, perhaps, tears.’

Lanear sent out a stream of smoke, and then snorted. ‘A little late for that.’

‘Such things do not pass swiftly, High Priestess, even for a goddess.’

After a moment, Lanear set the mouthpiece down and then rose from her chair. ‘Has word come from Tarns?’

‘Not yet.’

Seeing him hesitate, she cocked her head. ‘Go on. No doubt, you have ways of … seeing things.’

He sighed. ‘Lord Anomander has struck the standard. The battle is over. Triumphant, the Liosan now approach the city. Many have died. That said,’ he added, ‘it could have been worse.’

She sat back down, all strength leaving her legs, and reached a trembling hand to retrieve the mouthpiece. ‘And … Draconus?’

‘Gone.’

‘Not dead?’

Grizzin Farl glanced away. ‘Gone, I think, is a better word.’

‘Mother Dark knows this?’

‘She has known this for some time, yes.’

Lanear smoked, studying the Azathanai through a veil of curling white. ‘And now, she will see her High Priestess.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I would think,’ he ventured, ‘preparations must be made. A wedding, yes?’

After a moment, she stood again, gathering her robes about her. ‘Lead on, Azathanai.’

The journey did not take long. They exchanged no further words, and a short time later they stood before the door to the Chamber of Night.

* * *

Surgeon Prok leaned against the sill of the window and used the palm of his right hand to melt the ice upon the thin, bubbled glass. ‘The tower’s flag has settled,’ he said after a moment. ‘Defeat. Surrender. Occupation. But then,’ he added as he straightened and turned to Sorca, ‘they are foreigners in habit only, and soon that too shall fade. I see an admixture ahead, and cannot but wonder at what spawn such union will yield.’ He lifted up his flask and drank another mouthful of spirit.

Sorca looked around, moved to a plush chair and sat heavily. ‘Beware the torch, lest your breath catch fire.’

‘If my words are fire, it’s a modest flame.’

She took out an iron pick and began cleaning her pipe.

Prok glanced at the door, through which Lady Sandalath and her daughter had departed but moments ago, on their way to that fateful meeting with her son. He had heard that two hostages dwelt in the Citadel, one a girl made mostly feral by neglect. Orfantal was the other. Sandalath’s bastard child. ‘I am fair drunk,’ he admitted with a nod. ‘Yet, what numb relief is offered proves a mockery to feeling. My heart still breaks, but no sharp crack issues forth. Rather, I faintly hear a dull sob. Such is the dubious gift of drink.’

‘You know the signal of the flags for certain, Prok?’

He nodded. ‘For my crimes. Somewhere to the east, the standard has been tilted. The defenders of Mother Dark have been broken.’ He shrugged. ‘Victory and defeat. Both states are frozen in time. The moment is flushed, and yet the bloom quickly fades.’

‘You have seen too many battles,’ Sorca observed.

‘Yes I have, but I assure you, one is too many.’

She sparked alight her pipe. ‘So, now. A wedding.’

Prok nodded. ‘A celebration too solemn, too false. I see husband and wife standing inside a circle of sword-points. Shall they now smile? Clasp hands? Will the thrones indeed sit side by side? A royal chamber one half painted in light, the other drenched in darkness? Drink fails my powers of imagination, as ever, which I deem a blessing.’

‘Is your curiosity as dull?’

‘Not dull, just cold and lifeless. And you?’

‘It will be awkward,’ she said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘Fitful. Uneasy witnesses will struggle for words, strain to conjure the necessary smiles and congratulations. The ceremony strives but fails in the end. I for one am pleased to avoid invitation.’

He smiled at her with little humour. ‘Us commonfolk will be spared the ordeal, although I imagine some public display will be in the offing. These symbols are necessary, if only to ease our anxiety.’

‘Lady Sandalath’s mind is broken,’ said Sorca, squinting at the bowl of her pipe.

‘There is a steep toll to trauma,’ Prok replied. ‘Her mind must distance itself, find a place of retreat. Possibly,’ he mused, ‘a childhood memory, some refuge.’

‘She speaks like no child, surgeon.’

‘No, I suppose not. Something has twisted in her soul.’

‘Do you fear for the child?’

He shot her a glance. ‘Which one?’

Sorca looked away, said nothing as she smoked. Then, abruptly, she spoke again, though her tone was laconic. ‘How fares the ledger, I wonder?’

‘Excuse me? What ledger?’

She made a face. ‘Who died, I mean. Lord Anomander? Captain Ivis? What of Lord Draconus himself?’ When he made no answer, she continued. ‘I like the gate sergeant, Yalad. So very earnest, don’t you think? And considerate, of the lady, and the girl-child. I hope he still lives.’

‘It falls to that, doesn’t it? Details of administration now, with you clerks and list-makers venturing out from the shadowy alcoves. Who gets what, who pays, who gets paid. Missives sent out to families in the countryside, regretful in tone, yet urging an everlasting pride in the ones who sacrificed their lives defending … whatever.’

She studied him through the smoke. ‘You dislike my kind, don’t you?’

He shrugged. ‘The need for organization demands attention, once the dust settles, or, in this case, once the blood sinks into the mud. Do I dislike the clerks, so crucial to civilization’s vitality?’ He let out a breath. ‘Probably. Scratching styluses instead of familiar faces, columns and lists instead of dreams and desires. Life’s sacred wonder, reduced to notations. What do we give up, Sorca, with this need to organize, categorize, summarize?’

‘Granted,’ she said, ‘mine is a soulless task, a task demanding soullessness, a task ensuring a soul’s surrender. You cannot imagine, Surgeon Prok, the soul’s slow death, in the repetitive twitching of a hand.’

Prok studied her for a long moment, and then he stepped close, reached down, and took her hand. She lifted her gaze to him, and managed a broken smile.