Fall of Light Read online

  Even here, almost three days away from Kharkanas, the power of Mother Dark was visible, with shadows that belonged to an eclipse, and a pervasive glower to the day’s fractured light. Kellaras glanced again at the orchard, wondering at the fate of those trees. Perhaps in darkness, new trees will come, bearing fruit of another kind.

  Or perhaps those trees, and the forest beyond, will simply die.

  Still, it was curious that no such die-back had yet occurred, even within Kharkanas itself. As if plants sensed nothing of light’s loss; as if they held to an older, brighter world. Was that yet another front of the selfsame war? Or was Mother Dark’s sorcery a gift given solely to the Tiste? He wondered if the Azathanai perceived the dying light. He would have to ask Grizzin Farl. And if not? Will it mean that we are all subject to an illusion, our very minds under manipulation by Mother Dark?

  More and more, this faith tastes sour. Mother, is this your darkness upon my mind, stealing away what others can rightly see? And, in surrendering thus to your will, what else must we yield? It is said believers are selective in what they see of the world – do you announce this with blatant metaphor made real? And if so, what is your point?

  Two figures appeared from near the stables. Kellaras angled his mount and rode towards them.

  Gripp Galas wore but the thinnest hide, and steam rose from his shoulders, his thinning hair stringy with sweat. Beside him, Lady Hish Tulla stood with furs wrapped about her form.

  Kellaras reined in before them. ‘Have the servants all fled, then, milady?’

  ‘The house staff remain,’ she replied, eyeing him levelly. ‘In winter’s season, there is little to do here, captain. In any case,’ she added, ‘we prefer the solitude.’

  Kellaras remained in the saddle, still awaiting their invitation. He had expected some difficulty here, and well understood Hish Tulla’s reluctance. ‘This forest surely invites it, milady. Wilderness has indeed become a refuge.’

  ‘And yet,’ she replied harshly, ‘you come to bring word of the war beyond. If I could make the trees iron, captain, and each branch a blade, I would raise every wilderness into an impregnable fortress. Ringed in the blood of unwelcome visitors, it would surely grow vast.’

  In her bold words, he heard the echoes of his own earlier thoughts, and was in no way inclined to challenge her sentiment. And still, he found himself shaking his head. ‘Milady, it is by unnatural privilege that you find yourself in this refuge, and herein, you face no daily struggle to survive. You would arm your imagined defenders of that privilege, as if the war they are to fight is for you alone, rather than, indeed, their own survival.’

  A grunt from Gripp Galas. ‘He has you there, my love. The arrow flew true and sharp, pinning the leaf to the trunk.’ The old man waved. ‘Do dismount, captain, and be welcome in this house.’

  Hish Tulla’s shoulders seemed to slump beneath the furs, and she stepped towards Kellaras. ‘The reins, then, captain. My husband has been cleaning the stables, with something like manic zeal. Winter has him pacing. He will hear your tales, as will I, if I must.’

  As Kellaras dismounted and Hish led his horse into the stables, Gripp stepped closer and said, ‘Come into the house, captain. The guest rooms are presently closed up, but we’ve plenty of wood, and some heat will take the damp from the chamber. I will send you a servant and see that a bath is drawn. We will dine at the seventh bell.’ He turned to lead the way to the house.

  ‘Thank you, Gripp,’ said Kellaras, following. ‘The promise of warmth already loosens my bones.’

  The old man, once Lord Anomander’s most revered servant, cast a glance back at Kellaras. ‘Simple promises,’ he said, ‘of no consequence. Pray we spend this evening in such easy company.’

  To that, Kellaras said nothing, and yet the silence found its own timbre, and the captain was not so benumbed with cold to fail in sensing the sudden tension from Gripp Galas, as the man preceded him towards the estate’s front door.

  As they stepped into the antechamber, Kellaras could hold to his silence no longer. ‘Forgive me, Gripp. I am not here of my own accord.’

  Gripp nodded but made no other reply. They swung left from the main hall and strode down a chilly corridor, dark for most of its length, until they reached a T-intersection where a small lantern glowed on a niche set in the wall. To the right and six paces in, the aisle ended at a door. Gripp pulled on the handle and the portal swung open with a loud squeal. ‘Guests,’ he muttered, ‘have been few and far between.’

  Kellaras followed him into the chamber. Although unlit, he could see it well enough. Sumptuous and welcoming, with two additional rooms just beyond the main one. Gripp set about lighting lanterns.

  ‘It is a measure, perhaps,’ ventured Kellaras, ‘of our wayward notions, that the celebration of a marriage must have a specified duration. A ceremony, a wedding night, a few days allowed beyond that. And then, why, the return to an uncelebrated life.’

  Gripp snorted as he scraped cinders from the hearth. ‘Our commander once made a similar observation, I recall.’

  ‘That he did,’ Kellaras said. ‘Anomander so dislikes the notion of an uncelebrated life. In marriage or otherwise.’

  ‘No wonder, then,’ Gripp said, glancing over, ‘that he left us an entire season.’

  Kellaras shook his head. ‘He did not send me, Gripp.’

  ‘No? And yet, did you not say, you have been ordered here?’

  ‘I have. Forgive me. Perhaps following supper, and in the company of your wife.’

  Gripp’s gaze flattened. ‘That’s not a temper you should test, captain.’

  ‘I know. But to speak to you here, alone, would be a dishonour.’

  Gripp straightened, dusting his hands. ‘I’ll have the servant bring wood and get this started. Oh, and the bath. I’ll send Pelk – she could scrub the stripes off a hyldra, and make you beg for more.’

  Kellaras’s brows lifted. ‘Gripp, I have no—’

  ‘Abyss take us, captain, the woman’s bored half out of her mind. Be a mindful guest, will you? I’d be most obliged.’ Gripp strode to the door.

  ‘This Pelk – is she—’

  ‘Indulge me, Kellaras, I beg you. You’d thought this house quiet, here in winter’s hoary hold. But I tell you, as a man surrounded by women, I’ll appreciate even a night’s inattention, barring that from my wife.’

  ‘Ah. Very well, Gripp. We will see what comes of that.’

  From the door, Gripp eyed him uncertainly. ‘The bath or my wife’s attention?’

  Kellaras smiled. ‘The bath. In the other matter, I shall bear your shield.’

  Gripp Galas nodded, in the manner of a man whose deepest fear has just been confirmed. A moment later the door closed behind him.

  Freeing himself of his heavy woollen cloak, Kellaras walked to the lead-paned windows. The chamber overlooked the courtyard behind the house, where the snow was smeared with dirt on the cobbles, and woodchips made a path from a storehouse up to the servants’ entrance of the main building. He watched small dun-coloured birds hopping about on a heap of kitchen leavings.

  A moment later he saw Gripp Galas appear, still in his thin, sodden shirt. Wood-splitting axe over one shoulder, he crossed the courtyard, heading for the timber shed.

  A short while later there was a scratching at the door, and Kellaras turned away from the window in time to see a woman enter the chamber. She was in her middle years, short-haired, solid of build, and stood upright, straight-backed, as she studied the room.

  Kellaras cleared his throat. ‘You must be Pelk.’

  Flat eyes shifted to him and she nodded. ‘Apologies, sir. There’s some dust. The fire will do for the damp, but the bed needs airing, and drying heat. Gripp’s bringing some wood.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘If you listen carefully, you can hear the axe.’

  Pelk snorted. ‘He’d fell a hundred trees and rebuild this house from scratch, just to keep himself occupied. I’d wager he wears a smile right now, as the sp
linters fly.’

  Kellaras cocked his head. ‘You are a veteran of the wars, Pelk.’

  She had set about wiping down surfaces with a grey rag. ‘Those times are done,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘Were you a Houseblade in Lady Hish Tulla’s company?’

  ‘For a time. Mostly, though, I trained her. Sword, spear, knife, and horse.’

  ‘I am sure I am not alone,’ ventured Kellaras, ‘in admiring your lady’s … comportment. The pride in her stance, I mean to say.’

  She was now studying him in turn, revealing nothing.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me, Pelk. My point is, I can now see from whom she took her guidance.’

  After a moment, Pelk grunted and resumed cleaning.

  ‘There was mention of a bath.’

  ‘Water’s on the coals, sir.’

  ‘I take it that you will lead me to the chamber.’

  ‘We have to go outside and then back in, I’m afraid. A wing’s been closed off, you see. Locked up and sealed.’

  Kellaras collected up his cloak again. ‘Tell me, Pelk, are there any other guests here at the moment?’

  She paused near the hearth, but did not turn to face him. ‘No. Just you.’

  Kellaras hesitated, and then returned to the window. ‘It is just the season,’ he said.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Gripp Galas. He has led a busy life. He’s not used to having little to do. But the season wears on all of us.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ she muttered, leaving Kellaras to wonder what she had meant by that, given that her tone was utterly devoid of sympathy. Then she swung to face him. ‘It’s time. Will you require my attentions in the bath?’

  ‘Not necessary, but I would welcome them.’

  At last, something enlivened her gaze, and she was deliberate as she assayed the man before her. ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘it’s the season. Follow me, then.’

  They set out, and Pelk led him straight down the corridor rather than returning the way Gripp and Kellaras had first come. Reaching a narrow passage of stairs, lit only by a lantern with a wick burned down to a bare nub, they descended to a servants’ run that extended parallel to the back wall. Here the dust was thick underfoot, undisturbed except for their own steps. Every ten or so paces, there was a small door on the left side. Only one, two-thirds of the way down, revealed thin slivers of light from the room beyond.

  They continued on until reaching the end, where a heavy door upon the right opened out into the back courtyard of the house. Pelk led him alongside the outer wall to the corner, and then round to halfway up the side of the house, where another door awaited them. Here, she produced a key and fought for a time with the lock, before managing to push the door open. A cloud of steam billowed out past her.

  ‘Quickly now,’ she said, beckoning him inside, and then closing the door behind him.

  A half-dozen lanterns had been lit. An iron tub dominated the centre of the room, while off to one side was a huge hearth over which sat a grille. A cauldron steamed above the glowing embers, sweat trickling down its flared sides to hiss in the flames below.

  ‘Strip down, then,’ Pelk said, collecting up a bucket to dip into the cauldron.

  Kellaras found pegs to take his clothes, close enough to the hearth to warm them while he bathed. Behind him, he heard water splashing into the tub. He sat on a chair to pull off his mud-crusted boots. There were sensations in the world, in the life’s span, that could only be treasured, and surely one was the anticipation of blessed warmth, after days of chill and damp. It occurred to him, alas, how quickly the memory of such times drifted away, amidst the crush of immediate necessities that seemed so eager to impose themselves. The mind had a way of leaping from comfort into unease, with far greater alacrity than the other way round.

  Musing on these disquieting notions, he pulled off the last boot, and then the filthy gauze strappings that padded and insulated his foot, and stood once more, naked. Turning, he saw Pelk standing beside the tub, similarly disrobed.

  She had a soldier’s build, barely softened by age or inactivity. There was a faint roll of fat encircling her belly, just above the hips, and protruding slightly at the front. Her breasts were full but not disproportionately so. Beneath the left one there was an old scar, a finger’s length, stitching a line between her ribs. Kellaras stared at it. ‘Abyss take me, Pelk, that looks right above the heart. How you survived—’

  ‘I ask myself that often enough,’ she interrupted, a harshness coming to her tone. ‘A cutter told me my heart’s in the wrong place. If it’d been in the right place, I’d have died before I hit the ground. Now, as you can see, the tub’s too big for me to be standing outside it and scrubbing your back – not without putting a vile ache in my spine. So, we get in together.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’

  ‘There’re advantages,’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My heart being in the wrong place. Makes it hard to find, and I prefer it that way. If you understand me.’

  He was not sure that he did, but he nodded anyway.

  Man or woman, few could claim a life lived without regrets. As a child Kellaras had listened, eager as any boy wearing a wooden sword, to tales of great heroes, all of whom – he saw now – strode through a miasma of violence, stern-faced and righteous. The virtues set forth, step by step, were of the basest sort, and vengeance was the answer to everything. It slashed, it carved, it marched monstrously through a welter of blood. The hero killed for love lost, for love denied, for love misunderstood. The delivery of pain to others, in answer to a pain within – a soul wounded and lashing out – ran like a dark current through every tale.

  Still, through it all, the hero remained resolute, or so Kellaras saw it, when looking through his child eyes. As if some aspect of intransigence had made of itself the purest virtue. For such a figure, the notion of feeling – feeling anything but cold satisfaction – in the midst of terrible deeds, and seemingly endless murder, was anathema.

  Few heroes wept, unless the tale was a rarity: one tangled in tragedy, and those stories fought a losing battle against the pathological mayhem of the grand heroes, for whom the world of legend was home, and every victim, deserving or not, served as nothing more than a grand staircase of bones leading to the hero’s own exaltation.

  A child with a wooden sword could find in such tales an outlet for every injustice and outrage perpetrated upon him, or her. This was not so surprising, given the secret concord between immaturity and cold malice. It was only decades later that Kellaras began to comprehend every hero’s childlike thoughts, that bridling rage, that hunger for revenge, and see for himself what they appeased in so many of his companions. Pure vengeance was nostalgic. It winged back like the voice of a god into childhood, home to the first betrayals and injustices, the first instances of blind fury and impotence, and it spoke of restitution in chilling tones.

  Witnessing a tale of heroes, told, written or sung, was like a whispered promise. The betrayers must die, cut down by an implacable iron blade swung by an implacable iron hand. And though betrayal could be found in many guises, including mere indifference, or disregard, or impatience, or a treat denied the grasping hand and its unreasoning demand, yet the incipient storm of violence must be vast. There are times in a child’s life when he or she would happily kill every adult in sight, and this then was the hero’s secret, and the true meaning of his tale of triumph: what I hold inside is the master of all that I survey. Against all that the world flings at me, I shall prevail. In my mind, I never stumble, stagger, or fall. In my mind, I am supreme, and by this sword, I deliver the truth of that, blow upon blow.

  Inside me is the thing that would kill you all.

  Such a world was not one where feelings counted for much. Indeed, they could be deemed enemies to purpose and desire, to need and the pure pleasure of satisfying that need. The heroes, oh, my heroes of childhood, in their shining, blood-spattered worlds of legend – they were, on
e and all, insane.

  Kellaras had stood in a line, had faced an enemy. He had seen the ruinous disorder of battle. He had witnessed breathtaking deeds of heroic self-sacrifice, tragedies played out before his eyes, and nowhere in such recollections could he find a hero of legend. Because true wars are fought amidst feelings. Be they fear or dread, pity or mercy. And each act, driven by answering hatred and spite, explodes in the mind with horrified wonder. At the self, brought so low. At the other, whose eyes match one’s own.

  In the field of battle, our bodies fight with frenzy, but in every face can be seen that appalling tearing loose, disconnecting soul from body, self from flesh. In war, the terrible wonder cries out from a thousand voices. That we are brought to this. That we should lose all that we hold dearest – our compassion, our love, our respect.

  If he thought, now, of those heroic tales, he looked upon the heroes and could find, nowhere within himself, a single shred of respect. Misguided children, every one of you. Slayers of innocents, in the slaying of whom you feel nothing but the cold fire of satisfaction. You play out the vengeance game and with every victory you lose everything.

  And you poets, with the timbre of the awe-filled in your voices, look well to the crimes you commit, with every stirring tale you sing. Look well to the overgrown child you lift high and name hero, and consider, if you dare, the tyranny of their triumph.

  Then, set your eyes upon your audience, to see for yourself the shining rapture in their faces, the glittering delight in their eyes. These are the awakened remnants of the child’s cruel mind, enlivened by your heedless words.