Fall of Light Page 17

  Thel Akai, you are brutes among flowers.

  The cold water washed away the blood, slowed the ooze from the wounds. Naked and chilled down to his aching, bruised bones, Hanako returned to the camp.

  He found both Erelan and Lasa crouched at the fire, slicing greasy strips from the charred meat. Lasa’s brows lifted upon seeing him. ‘So this was tongue after all,’ she said as she licked her fingertips, and then she cocked her head, ‘leaving me to wonder at my ambivalence.’

  Erelan frowned up at him. ‘Have you no other clothes?’

  ‘I have … some few scraps,’ replied Hanako. ‘But I need sewing up.’

  Lasa rose and drew close. She set to examining his wounds, touching here and there, standing all too close – close enough to have something brush her thigh. Glancing down, Lasa hummed under her breath. She lifted her gaze and arched one brow. ‘Not a mountain’s mantle of bitter snow can shrivel bold Hanako. I pronounce you fit and in no need of awl and gut.’

  ‘Do you mock me?’ he asked.

  ‘If one scar entices,’ she said, stepping back, ‘then your thousand will win you a launching of lust such as the world has never before seen. See how I struggle to constrain myself, young warrior? And I, a woman with three husbands!’

  ‘You would keep me at your knee, Lasa Rook.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Ah, now! You are right to chastise me. You have indeed grown – why, from thigh to knee, I should say, and more.’

  Erelan Kreed laughed, but it was an uncertain laugh.

  With a bright, sidelong glance, Lasa turned away. ‘We should be going. I will make a play of purpose to this wayward impulse, and shake the reins of my two work-horses.’

  Frowning, Hanako knelt at his pack and drew out what little spare clothing he’d thought to bring with him. Overhead, the morning sun was already warm upon his torn back, making each gash sting. Yes, she was right to call them hers, although thus far neither he nor Erelan advanced any claim to an inviting caress. Three husbands left behind and Lasa Rook was yet to betray any greed to add others to her night beneath the furs. Work-horses indeed.

  Gingerly, he drew on a worn hemp-woven shirt, and then leggings of the same coarse material.

  ‘Be sure to bring that fur,’ Erelan Kreed said as Hanako gathered up his gear. ‘It is a warrior’s way to wear their conquests, and to accept gifts from the Lord and Ladies of the Wild. By that cloak, Hanako, you honour the slain.’

  Lasa kicked her way through the coals of the hearth, stamping each one underfoot. ‘Your way, Kreed, and none other’s. You’ll wear honour as if it fits, even as it stretches and tears to the swell of pride. The slain crowd your wake, and their realm is no more and no less than resentment. That you breathe in their stead. That your hearts still pound in your chest. That you move in flesh and bone and make nothing of the ghosts that haunt you. All of this gnaws their souls without resolution.’

  But Erelan was humming again, as he tied up his bedroll.

  Drawing close to Hanako once more, Lasa Rook dropped her voice. ‘Oh, do take the fur, Hanako. You wrestled it off the lord, after all. And all for want of a decent night’s sleep.’

  ‘I would have yielded,’ said Hanako, ‘had he given me the choice.’

  ‘It’s said that fear eats at a soul, but I would say it differently. Fear eats away at the choices before you, Hanako, until but one remains. The Lord of Temper knew that fear.’

  ‘He emerged to find me blocking his escape from the cave, Lasa Rook.’

  She nodded. ‘And in nature he is no different from us. We do not understand the notion of retreat.’ She turned then to study the way ahead and below. The mountainside tumbled away in ridges, down into a forested valley. A glittering lake was awakening to the rising sun in the valley’s deep basin. ‘Even this march,’ she continued, ‘is ridiculous.’ The thought brought a bright smile to her as she swung back to grin at Hanako. ‘What direction? Where lies death, brave young warrior? To the east, where the sun is reborn each dawn? To the west, where it falls away each dusk? What of the south, where fruit rots on the branch and insects swarm without rest upon the ground, in daily tasks of dismemberment? Or perhaps the bitter north, where a sleeping woman awakens to find the corpse-serpent has stolen half her body? Or awakens not at all, and lies unchanging for all time? In each direction, death stands triumphant. We seek to join the Jaghut-with-ashes-in-his-heart. We march here to join his march there – but where is there?’

  Hanako shrugged. ‘This I would know, too, Lasa Rook. I would see how this Jaghut answers.’

  ‘Is it a worthy war?’

  He glanced away, down into the verdant valley, down to that silver blade of a lake, remembering the conversation that had begun this journey. The tale, arriving on unseen wings, of a grieving Jaghut, railing against the death that took his wife, and the terrible vow that came of that. Was it not the fate of the living to struggle with the feeling of impotence that came in the witnessing of death? Was there not, in truth, nothing to be done, nothing but weathering the weight, the clawing anguish, the fierce anger? How bold could this Jaghut be, in declaring war upon death itself?

  There had been mocking laughter, as if all present would test each other, would beat as if with swords on the mettle of the Thel Akai and their perverse appreciation of delicious, maddening absurdity. And yet. How quickly the derision gave way to that dark current in their souls, as remembered grief rose like ghosts in the night, as each and every instance of impotence bled anew. And so the conversation curled in on itself, all humour lost, and in its place emerged a blackened, scorched gleefulness. A delight sweeter than any other. A burgeoning astonishment at the Jaghut’s glorious audacity.

  Many dreams were offered up, beckoning, inviting a soul to follow. Few were mundane. Fewer still were even possible. But in each, Hanako knew, there was a taste of something like hope, sufficient to lure one on to that path, if only in the realm of the wishful. Dreams were to be tolerated, year after year the flavour dulling with pity and diminished by bitter experience, until they burned holes in the gut. He knew that all too well, even when he was mocked for his youth – since when, after all, did dreams belong only to the old and wise, who knew them solely by the disappointment left behind? Was it not the realm of children that still beckoned, crowded, as it was, to the heavens with dreams – dreams not yet slashed to ribbons, not yet torn down, or rotted from within?

  Death was the reaper of ambition, the devourer of hope. So muttered the ancients in every village, around the night’s hearth-fires, with the flames animating the death-masks of their faces. Only memories could live in such faces, when the nights ahead promised so little.

  Still … born with ambition and knowing only hope, children knew nothing of death.

  Conversations such as the one Hanako had witnessed in his village had no doubt burst up like wildfires among all the Thel Akai settlements, from mountain to coast and in all the valley settlements that huddled between the two. The Jaghut had called for an army, in the name of a war that could not be won.

  The Thel Akai gave their answer with the drumbeat of heavy, bitter laughter, and said, That is a war we can wage.

  The pathos of such a claim was enough to make one drunk. He felt that loose, wild surge rising up again in his chest as he pondered Lasa Rook’s question. Its taste was a fool’s triumph. ‘A worthy war? It is, I think, the only worthy war.’

  Her laughter was low, with a kind of intimacy that made Hanako’s skin prickle with sweat beneath his clothes. ‘You will speak for me, then,’ she said, ‘in my defence.’

  He frowned. ‘I do not understand. Your defence against whom?’

  ‘Why, my husbands, of course, once they figure out where I went.’ She turned then and squinted expectantly back up the mountain trail, before once again flashing him that smile. ‘But let us lead them a fair chase! What say you, bold slayer of the Lord of Temper?’

  Hanako looked across to Erelan Kreed. The huge warrior appeared to have been stricken by
Lasa Rook’s revelation. ‘Damn you, Lasa Rook!’ he growled.

  Her brows lifted. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Leave it to you,’ Erelan said, ‘to make even this war a complicated one.’

  In a sudden surge of appreciation, Hanako smiled across at Erelan Kreed, and then he burst out his laughter. Upon seeing the flare of pride in the warrior’s eyes, Hanako’s laughter redoubled.

  A war upon death? Why, what could be complicated about that?

  ‘Follow me, my brave guardians!’ cried Lasa Rook. ‘I will swim in that lake by noon!’

  * * *

  Even after centuries, in which the chaos of the love between them coruscated in wild ebbs and flows, the fever of desire could take them in an instant. In hissing savagery, talons scored deep, tearing loose scales that spun earthward. Jaws snapped and sank fangs into the thick muscles of the nape. The wings hammered in confusion, and Dalk Tennes, gripping tight, would feel her terrible weight dragging them both to the mountain peaks far below.

  Beloved wife, I felt you twist away – once the fury was spent in us both. I saw you slide along a strong current, finding at last an updraught that sped you away. Moments later, Iskari Mockras, you were little more than a speck, but still I trembled to your heat, and knew that you did the same to mine, as it lingered on within you.

  We are fragments of Tiam. Something like children, but too wise for that title. We preen with the air of ancients, but remain too foolish to hold that pose. The winds we ride – this sea of endless sky – hold us aloft, neither too high nor too low. We are in the middle of our lives, in the age of walking backwards.

  Since the opening of the gate, since that sudden torrent that was either escape or a summons that could not be denied, Dalk had flown a wild cavort, striving to distance himself from his dragon kin. There had been clashes, mindless as ever, as each dragon raged against its own splintered nature. The histories and bloodlines that bound them all, heavier than any chain, tighter than any skin, made a fever of companionship.

  Yet he had taken his lover anyway, high above these mountains, and after weeks of stalking. And he had then left her to fall away, satiated and wounded, wanting only to sleep in some solitary place. Where she could heal, and muse on the snarling spawn to come.

  Was this instinct, this need to so claim a new world? So the rocks and earth would tremble to the sharp cries of the newborn, to make a home of the unknown. Or was every desire no less than the caged soul deafened by its own cacophony? Instincts could make for a host of regrets, and Dalk was still undecided on what flavour this deed would take. The voice within the mind that spoke to some other, and that other none but itself. In spiralling dialogue of endless persuasion, entire realms could be swallowed up, encompassed, mapped with delusions, and so claimed for one’s own. And yet, for all this, the cage door does not open.

  And so, we rule what we have always ruled, and every border beyond the limits of our skull is but an illusion. Now watch us fight for them. Watch us die for them. This is not majesty that fills graveyards, but sophistry.

  We are new in this world, and yet have nothing new to offer it.

  My eyes guide me, from one unfamiliar place to the next, but I cannot escape the place behind my eyes, this cage of self, and these words – these endless words!

  Escape, or summons. The matter was yet to be determined. Magic burned bright in this strange realm, but flowed untethered. Currents charged nowhere, clashed without purpose.

  In hissing savagery, talons scored deep, tearing loose scales that spun earthward. Jaws snapped and sank fangs into the thick muscles of the nape. The wings hammered in confusion, and I, gripping tight, felt her weight …

  He would hunt anew.

  I shall make this sorcery mine.

  Moments later, as he sailed the high winds rising from the walls of mountains that faced the western sea, Dalk Tennes caught the scent of freshly spilled blood. Turning, he banked, and then began a lazy spiral earthward. Desire’s spending made for fierce hunger.

  * * *

  ‘There is some witchery in a wife’s silence,’ said Garelko.

  ‘It was the lure of a few more moments in bed,’ Ravast replied, nodding. ‘Had she forgotten us? Did she tend the garden, unmindful of how the morning lengthened? Why charge this sleep – so gleefully snatched – with her curse that is our guilt? I was restless in my somnolence.’

  Tathenal laughed behind Ravast. ‘But not enough to prise open an eye! To look about, wondering, flinching at the cold hearth, hearing – with burgeoning consternation – the snores of Garelko.’

  ‘Ah, but those I am used to,’ Ravast said. ‘No more jarring than your beastly grunts. Still, what you say is true enough. We rejected the signs of amiss.’

  ‘Husbands live under that cloud with unceasing trepidation,’ Garelko said, as he led the small troop down the steep, rocky trail. ‘As upon a frozen lake, the ice beneath us is of unknown thickness. As in a forested trail, with the scent of cat all about, where every tautberry glows feline eyes to our overwrought imaginations. As upon a cliff’s edge, with the dread shadow of some winged monster sliding over us.’

  At that last observation, Ravast snorted heavily. ‘So you go on about that, an event neither I nor Tathenal did witness. The sky was clear, the morning fresh, and if there was indeed a shadow, then some condor mistook the top of your head for a rival’s nest. But, upon closer inspection – the shadow that made you start – the wise bird saw no eggs worth mentioning.’

  ‘We are men,’ grunted Garelko. ‘Eggs are for breaking.’

  ‘We are husbands,’ corrected Tathenal. ‘Eggs are for juggling.’

  Ravast sighed. ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘I was speaking of the witchery of a wife’s silence, my beleaguered brothers. Have you not seen her standing at the door, her back to you? Did your knees not tremble, as your mind scampered like a stoat back through the day, or was it last week? When you might have with blind bliss committed some slight?’

  Ravast shrugged. ‘The heart that questions its own love will stew in the mildest season. Our bellies have been on fire for months now.’

  ‘Back to that again, Ravast?’ Tathenal drew closer and slapped Ravast on one shoulder – the one that did not bear the weight and show the edge of the slung battleaxe. ‘Her love for us is gone! Your moans will make felt from handfuls of wool, and so suffocate the very virtue whose death you fear.’

  ‘I wish you’d not mentioned wool,’ Ravast said in a growl. ‘Stapp was too eager to promise taking our flocks into his care. I do not trust that man.’

  ‘And when she stands beside you,’ Garelko resumed, ‘yet says nothing? Is that the warmth and comfort of companionship? Shall we bathe in her moment of sentimental foolery? That roaringly impossible instant when she’s forgotten all our past crimes? In saying nothing, she wields a menagerie of power. For me, why, I’d rather the whip of her words, the tirade of her temper, the crash of crockery against the side of my skull.’

  ‘You are a beaten dog,’ Tathenal said, laughing again. ‘Garelko, first of her husbands, first to her bedding. First to flutter and fold to the slightest wind of her displeasure.’

  ‘Let us not speak of her displeasing winds,’ said Ravast.

  ‘Why not?’ Tathenal asked. ‘A subject we three can share in a welter of mutual sympathy! The true curse of our union is her love of cooking, so dispiritingly mismatched to her talent. Have we not eaten better these three nights upon the trail? Is this not why not one of us has suggested we hasten our pace and so catch up to her? Are we not, in fact, revelling in the glory of well-made repast? My stomach is too dumb to lie, and my how easy it sits right now!’

  ‘Women,’ said Garelko, ‘should be barred from every kitchen. Our wife’s enthusiasm keeps her slim, when better she wallow in fat with grease painting flabby lips.’

  ‘Hah,’ growled Tathenal. ‘Even Lasa cannot bear too much of Lasa’s cooking. This is none other than her conspiracy that ensures her svelte demea
nour. You have the truth there, Garelko. Should we ever catch her, we’ll turn this table. We’ll truss her up and chain her well away from the kitchen. We’ll give her a taste of decent food, and watch how she billows to our ministrations.’

  ‘This seems a worthy vengeance,’ said Ravast. ‘Shall we vote on this course of action?’

  Garelko halted on the trail, forcing the other two to do the same. He swung round to face them, offering up an expression of disdain. ‘Listen to you bold whelps! A vote, no less! A course of action! Why, with such resolve we three could throw back a thousand charging Jhelarkan. But see her regard slide over us, and all resolve crumbles like a well-made pie!’ He wheeled round again, shaking his head as he resumed the march. ‘The courage of husbands is directly proportionate to the proximity of the wife.’

  ‘It need not be that way, Garelko!’

  ‘Ah, Ravast, you are a fool. How things need to be weigh as nothing to how they are. Hence, our bowed dispositions, our harried reflections, the flighty birds of our eyes.’

  ‘Not to mention your nestly hair.’

  ‘Assuredly that, too, Tathenal. And it’s a wonder I have any left.’

  ‘Less a wonder than a nightmare. Were you prettier in your youth, Garelko? It must have been so, since I am still waiting to witness a single moment of pity in our wife.’

  ‘Before marriage,’ Garelko said, ‘I was desired far and wide. I caught the eyes of mothers and daughters alike. Even our man-lover of a king could not keep his hands from me – and who among us could deny his eye for beautiful men?’

  ‘He’s the lucky one,’ muttered Ravast. ‘Or, was. Famous lovers should never grow too old. Better they die of burst hearts in a thrash of supple limbs and leaking oils. Such swans creep into the sordid.’