Steven Erikson - Fall of Light

* * *

‘Hello, Mother,’ said Orfantal, rising from the bench. ‘This is her? My sister.’

Sandalath stood near the door, holding the hand of the small girl with the raven-black hair and luminous eyes. Her eyes remained fixed upon her son, wondering what it was about him that frightened her. The steadiness of his solemn gaze seemed to drain all certainty from her, and she felt a burgeoning desire to abase herself before him, seeking forgiveness.

He strode forward then, smiling at Korlat. ‘I’m Orfantal,’ he said to her. ‘Your brother. I’m here to take care of you.’ He glanced up at Sandalath. ‘Isn’t that right, Mother?’

She shook her head. Waking nightmares had begun plaguing her. Something was stirring inside, all cruel edges and stinging rebuke, as if some part of her now hovered overhead, whispering down a host of unpleasant truths. ‘You weren’t good enough for any of them. The children he dragged from you, one failure after another. He pushed them through -’ She shook her head a second time. He was a god, she now replied to her other self. He chose me. Me!

‘Mother?’

Sandalath nodded. ‘No. She will protect you, not the other way round. Even if it takes her life, Orfantal, she will protect my perfect, beautiful child.’ She paused. ‘I may not always be there, you see. I may have to go away again.’ She pulled her hand free of Korlat’s grip, and it proved easier to do than expected. ‘Take her now,’ she said to Orfantal. ‘I am going to my room.’

‘Your room?’

‘I have lived in the Citadel before, you know!’ Her harsh retort made both children flinch, and Korlat hurried to Orfantal, and he took his sister into his arms and lifted her, anchoring her on one hip.

Sandalath saw Korlat’s small, pudgy arms wrap themselves tight about her son’s neck. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s better. I never planned on you, Orfantal. It was all a mistake. But now I see. There was a reason, after all, a reason for you. You count, but she doesn’t.’

‘I love her already,’ said Orfantal.

‘She’ll grow past you-’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘And she will protect you for ever.’

‘Soon,’ he said, ‘I will be as her younger brother. There is the blood of an Azathanai in her.’

‘No. A god.’

He tilted his head.

‘A god, Orfantal! One who expects things from you, just as I do. This god – you must understand this – this god has no patience. He despises weakness. If we’re weak, he’ll hurt us. Tell me you understand!’

‘I understand.’

‘Good.’ Sandalath returned to the door. ‘I have a safe place, a place for hiding. I’m going there, and locking the door.’

‘Yes. Goodbye, Mother.’

She halted, glanced back at him. ‘When everything burns, come and find me. In the tower.’

He nodded again. Satisfied, despite the tremble of panic behind her thoughts, she left the chamber. In the corridor she stood motionless for a moment. The Citadel. I’m home. Smiling, she set off for the tower, and her secret room.

* * *

It was the duty of one who failed in protecting anything to linger, kneeling in the ashes, and give some thought, once so much has been lost, to what little remains. Grizzin Farl was well experienced with this modest compensation. After all, if one could draw breath, then all was not lost. If one could find some remnant of hope, then the pain of grief was but transitory, and what burdens awaited settling would find shoulders capable of sustaining them.

But few of these platitudes did much to lessen the pain of acute loss, and all too often they could be raised up as barriers to feeling anything. At the very least, he reminded himself, Azathanai had not clashed in the Valley of Tarns, although it had been close. Nor had the dragons manifested into a storm of chaos, content merely to witness from the swirling clouds overhead. The magic unleashed on the field of battle had been modest, all things considered, but even this revelation had its price. A man was dead, after all.

‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ Emral Lanear asked him as they hesitated before the door to the Chamber of Night.

‘What do you wish me to say?’

‘You have been in her presence, Azathanai. Is she … is she reconciled to what must be?’

Grizzin Farl frowned. ‘She … acknowledges the necessity. Understands the value of the symbol, that is. Liosan exists now. The Tiste fall upon Light or upon Dark. The manner in which the two manage to co-exist, here in one place, remains to be seen.’

‘This was a civil war,’ Lanear snapped. ‘No one invited a new religion to the mess! But there, perhaps I am wrong. Your sister brought this Liosan – tell me, Grizzin Farl, how far you Azathanai intend on taking this?’

‘Taking what?’

‘Your manipulation of the Tiste. Or shall you now step back, denying the blood on your hands?’

‘Denial is a waste of time, High Priestess. And, alas, there is no stepping back. Indeed, it is the very opposite. We are drawn.’

She blinked. ‘And who is responsible for that?’

He looked away, found himself studying the blackwood door before them, this beaded barrier still to be breached. ‘Not “who” as such, High Priestess. More like … what .’

‘Very well, then what is responsible for your sudden interest in us?’

‘We are poor at the finer emotions. An unveiling of all that is vulnerable in a mortal heart draws us in the manner of moths to a flame. Perhaps we seek some incidental warming of the soul. Or our curiosity is rather more clinical. Perhaps you but awaken forgotten appetites. Our natures are not unified, High Priestess. Each Azathanai is unique.’ He shrugged. ‘We have come to witness the breaking of a heart.’

He weathered the growing horror in her eyes, offering no defence.

A moment later, with a sudden gesture, she opened the door and strode into the Chamber of Night.

The Throne of Darkness awaited them, and the woman seated on it was expressionless, her eyes clear and cold as they fixed upon Emral Lanear.

The High Priestess knelt, head bowing. ‘Mother,’ she whispered.

‘Stand. Face me.’ Her voice was flat.

Emral Lanear straightened.

Mother Dark continued, ‘Grizzin Farl, leave us now.’

‘As you wish. High Priestess, I will await you in the corridor.’ He turned and departed, closing the door behind him.

‘Mother, Lord Anomander-’

‘Is not of your concern,’ the goddess interrupted. ‘You shall place two high-backed chairs in the old throne room. I believe the raised dais is broad enough to accommodate them. One shall be of blackwood, the other bonewood. On the outside of the white chair you will set an embrasure. On the outside of my chair, an empty brazier, blackened inside and out. Also upon the outside of each chair, affix a scabbard for a sceptre. Coordinate these details with High Priestess Syntara. Lord Urusander and I will take upon ourselves the authority of this union, in the name of the realm. You and Syntara will attend as witnesses. For the ceremony itself, none other shall be present. A formal announcement afterwards will constitute the only public acknowledgement of the marriage. Three days of feasting will follow. Each and every Greater or Lesser House will give freely of its largesse.’

Emral Lanear listened to these instructions, delivered with an utter absence of warmth, and looked upon a face devoid of emotion. It was better than she had expected. ‘Lord Urusander leads his legion to the city, Mother. How soon do you wish this private ceremony?’

‘As soon as possible. Inform Lord Anomander that the highborn must convene. It is expected that Lord Urusander will wish to advance reparations on behalf of his soldiers, although it is likely that he will delegate in that regard. The Greater Houses must yield land, wealth and labour, but these are matters of administration and, one presumes, bargaining. Bring no details to my attention – I have little interest in how the carcass is apportioned.’