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  Ivis nodded. ‘In a moment, milady. For now, let us examine a more common need, perhaps even a counter-argument, and that is one of balance. In the act of observing, should one not seek its measure, if only to ease the soul? The good with the bad, the glorious with the craven? If only to even the weights upon each scale?’

  Prok spoke in a heavy tone. ‘The weights, Ivis, are not equal.’

  ‘Gothos would agree with you, surgeon. Civilization is a war against injustice. In its steps it might stutter on occasion, or even at times bow to exhaustion, but it holds nevertheless to a certain purpose, and that is, most simply put, a desire to defend the helpless against those who would prey upon them. Rules breed more rules, laws abound. Comfort and safety, lives lived out in peace.’

  Prok grunted and Ivis responded with a pointed finger, silencing him. The commander then resumed. ‘Complexity grows ever more complex, but there is a belief that civilization is a natural force, and, by extension, that justice itself is a natural force.’ He paused, and then half smiled, as if at a memory. ‘My lord Draconus was most explicit on this point. That night, he argued as if defending himself, so stern was his regard.’ Then he shook his head. ‘But at some point, civilization forgot its primary purpose: that of protection. The rules and laws twisted round to fashion constraints to dignity, to equality and liberty, and then to the primal needs of security and comfort. The task of living was hard, but civilization was intended to make the task easier, and in many ways it did – and does. But at what cost?’

  ‘Forgive me, commander,’ said Prok, ‘but you return us to the notion of dignity, yes?’

  ‘What value this “civilization”, surgeon, if it dispenses with the virtue of being civil?’

  Prok grunted. ‘There is nothing more savage than a savage civilization. No single man or woman, no band or tribe, could ever aspire to what a civilization is capable of committing, not just upon its enemies, but upon its own people.’

  Ivis nodded. ‘Gothos plunged to the nadir and found those very truths in that dreadful place. How was it possible, he wondered, that justice made for an unjust world? How was it possible that love could breed such hatred? The weights, he saw, were as you said, Prok. No match to the other, not by any conceivable measure. We look to humanity in the face of inhumanity, our only armour frail hope, and how often – in a civilized setting or a barbaric one – does hope fail in protecting the helpless?’

  ‘The pits are filled with corpses,’ Prok muttered, reaching again for the wine, though it had long since gone cold. ‘Prisoners put to the sword, a conquered city put to the torch, and those who are to die are made to dig their own graves. ’Tis an orderly thing.’

  Ivis was studying the surgeon. ‘You attended the sacking of Asatyl, in the far south, didn’t you?’

  Prok would meet no one’s eye. ‘I walked away from the Legion on that day, commander.’

  There was a long silence that was, perhaps, not as long as it felt for Sandalath, who had seen something pass between Ivis and Prok. She did not know the name of Asatyl, nor the event of its conquest, but the surgeon’s response left her chilled.

  Ivis slowly pushed his own tankard away, the gesture strangely deliberate. ‘Gothos walked into the heart of his city, to where the Jaghut who ruled collectively were all gathered. Among them, to be sure, there were great minds, and many who still held to the ideal of civilization. But then Gothos ascended the central speaker’s dais. He began his oration, and when, at last, he was done, he was met with silence. On that day, the Jaghut civilization ended. And in the days that followed, Gothos was named the Lord of Hate.’

  ‘Then well named,’ commented Yalad.

  But Ivis shook his head. ‘Clearly you misunderstand, gate sergeant. The hate was for the truth of Gothos’s words. The title was most bitter, but held no spite for Gothos himself. And even then, Lord Draconus was adamant in insisting that even for Gothos there was no hatred of civilization. It was, instead, a recognition of its doom – the inevitable loss of its original purpose.’

  ‘“Name it a prison / if only to see the bars,”’ quoted Prok.

  Sorca cleared her throat and said, ‘“Then name each bar / and gather them round.”’

  ‘“In the name of friendship,”’ Prok finished, now meeting Sorca’s gaze.

  ‘Civilization will grow until it dies,’ Ivis said. ‘Even without purpose, or corrupted from the same, still it grows. And from its burgeoning complexity, Chaos is born, and in Chaos lies the seed of its own destruction.’ He shifted, as if suddenly embarrassed, and then said, ‘So Lord Draconus concluded. Then we stood, to walk the rows of tents, and gaze into the north, the sky of which glowed from the fires of the Jhelarkan horde.’

  Shivering, Sandalath rose. ‘It is past late,’ she said apologetically. ‘I am afraid my mind has grown too weary to wrestle with such nuances as this conversation yields.’

  Yalad rose and bowed to her. ‘Milady, I will escort you to your room, and check on the guards stationed there.’

  ‘Thank you, gate sergeant.’

  As the others rose to bow to her, Sandalath caught the eyes of Ivis, and saw in them – unaccountably it seemed – nothing but pain. Dismayed, she left the chamber with Yalad at her side. He’d begun talking, but she barely heard a word.

  You loved her that much? It is hopeless, then.

  She thought of the bed awaiting her, and the dreams she would seek on this night. I’ll have you find me there, commander. And must take some comfort in that.

  Outside, the wind moaned like some beast pinned under stone.

  * * *

  As the forest opened out, revealing rough hills pocked with the caves of old mine shafts, Wreneck saw two ravens by the side of the track, picking at the carcass of a third one. Their heads tilted round to fix gazes on the new arrivals, and one voiced a screeching caw.

  Caladan Brood made a gesture. ‘We are invited to an unholy feast,’ he said.

  ‘The burning of the forests has left many creatures to starve,’ Lord Anomander replied.

  ‘Shall we stay the night at Dracons Keep, First Son?’

  ‘Perhaps. In my few visits, as the lord’s guest, I found it amenable enough … with the exception of the three daughters. Beware meeting their eyes, Caladan. Engage in the regard of a snake and you will find a warmer welcome.’

  Caladan Brood glanced back at Wreneck, who trailed behind, already exhausted although barely half the day was done. ‘Children seek their own. Is this a wise choice?’ Then, to Wreneck, he said, ‘Not much further. We are almost there.’

  ‘They keep to themselves, I recall, holding in contempt even their half-brother, Arathan. In any case, I will be placing Wreneck in the care of Sandalath. And Ivis is a man I would trust with my life.’

  ‘I have never seen that before,’ Wreneck said as they walked, leaving behind the ravens. ‘Eating their own, I mean.’

  ‘Nor I,’ the Azathanai replied. ‘They are inclined to grief when one of their kin dies. There is something unpleasant in this air, and its power grows the nearer we get to Dracons Keep. It is possible,’ he continued, but now to Anomander, ‘that something has afflicted our destination.’

  The First Son shrugged. ‘All your talk of sorcery reaches me as would words of a storm whose wind I cannot feel, nor hear. What you name mystery I receive with ignorance. You could well be speaking another language.’

  ‘And yet, First Son, you witnessed its work, when I first came among you, to set the hearthstone for your brother. And on that day, we made vows that bound together our souls.’

  ‘Ah, I wondered when the chains between us would begin to chafe you, Azathanai.’

  ‘I feel no strain, I assure you, Anomander Rake. But this journey, in search of Andarist, well, to my sense of things, I see a circle closing. But only for me. If I am to speak here as your shadow, I say we have strayed far from the necessary path.’

  ‘You counsel my hasty return to Kharkanas.’

  ‘If Kharkanas will sharpe
n your focus, First Son, upon your realm’s most pressing needs, then yes.’

  Lord Anomander halted and turned to Caladan. ‘She has turned from me, the one she would call her First Son. She has made darkness her wall, her unrelieved keep. Where, then, is her focus? Upon her children? Evidently not. Let her indulge as she will in her lover’s arms – I will not step between them. But when she dares ask me to bring this conflict to an end, yet refuses the call to arms, what is a warrior to do with that charge?’ He swung round, resumed marching. ‘For now, I will serve my own needs, if only to match her reflection.’

  ‘And will she make note of your gesture, First Son?’

  ‘When the notion of interest finds her,’ Anomander said in a growl, ‘she might blink to the meaning. It is said,’ he added in a bitter tone, ‘that the darkness does not blind, yet she has made me as blind as Kadaspala.’

  ‘She speaks the truth,’ said Caladan. ‘The darkness does not blind. And Kadaspala, I fear, is a poor comparison, since he is made blind by his own hands. In the name of grief, he sacrificed beauty. And here you walk, Anomander, in the name of vengeance. If not beauty your sacrifice, then some other thing. In each instance, the wound is self-inflicted.’

  ‘As you said,’ Anomander snapped, ‘Kadaspala was a poor comparison.’

  ‘What would you have of Mother Dark?’

  ‘If she is to be our goddess. If, indeed, she is to be my mother, inasmuch as the station is well-nigh vacant. Must I list the expectations? Set aside worship – I know her too well. I fear even the role of the mother struggles in me – she is not too many years older, after all. Thus, what is left to me to consider?’

  ‘The throne.’

  ‘Yes. The throne. The mundane perch upon which we paint prestige and authority like gilt. And from that vantage all faith in order must descend like gentle rain. Knock it askew and the realm totters. Bathe it in blood, and the lands burn. Should one take that seat, the hands must grip tight the arms.’

  They were among the hills now, with the raw stone on either side silvered in frost. Wreneck walked in their wake, listening, understanding little. The sky overhead was the hue of sword blades.

  ‘Assemble for me, then,’ said Caladan Brood, ‘the necessities of proper rule.’

  ‘You invite this game?’

  ‘Indulge me.’

  Lord Anomander sighed. ‘Virtues cannot be plucked from position, Azathanai. Nor worn like gem-studded robes. Justice does not live in the length of a sceptre, and the mere wood, nails and cloth of a throne invests nothing but the illusion of comfort. Pomp and ritual belabour the argument, and far from stirring a soul can more easily be scorned and given the drip of irony.’

  ‘You speak, thus far, as preamble. I will hear your list, First Son.’

  ‘I but voice my dislike of the very notion of rule, Caladan. She has made it too easy to confuse the worship that comes with a god or goddess with that of the honourable choice to serve one who rules, if that rule is worthy of respect.’ Anomander shook his head. ‘Very well. Live as if you believe in the virtues of your people, but rule without delusions, neither of them nor of yourself. Where stands the throne? In a field of poppies, with the boldest and brightest flowers crowding close, eager to numb your every sense. Their whispers will weave about you a poisonous cloud, through which you must strain to pierce the haze, if you can. Ambition has its own nature, and in every measure it proves simple enough to discern. The ruler’s goal is wisdom, but wisdom is as fodder for the ambitious, and given the chance they will pick its bones clean long ere the serving reaches the throne. By such scraps one must raise up a righteous rule. Is it any wonder so many fail?’

  Caladan was silent for a moment, and then he grunted and said, ‘You set an impossible table, upon which no mortal can hope to attend.’

  ‘You think I do not know it?’

  ‘Describe for me, if you can, the nature of this wisdom.’

  Anomander snorted impatiently. ‘Wisdom is surrender.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘Complexity.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘Swallow it down, spit it out in small measures, to make palatable what many may not otherwise comprehend.’

  ‘An arrogant pose, First Son.’

  ‘I do not claim it, Azathanai, just as I refuse for myself the notion of rule. And, in the name of worship, I am lost in doubt, if not outright disbelief.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Power does not confer wisdom, nor rightful authority, nor faith in either of the two. If it offers a caress, so too can it by force make one kneel. The former is by nature suspect, while the latter – well, it can at least be said that it does not disguise its truth.’

  ‘You yearn for liberty.’

  ‘If I do, then I am the greater fool, because liberty is not in itself a virtue. It wins nothing but the false belief in one’s own utterly unassailable independence. Even the beasts will not plunge to that depth. No, if I yearn for anything, it is for responsibility. An end to the evasions, the lies spoken in the mind and the lies spoken to others, the endless game of deeds without blame, and all the causes of seeming justice behind which hide venal desires. I yearn for the coward’s confession, and understand me well here, Caladan: we are all cowards.’

  For reasons Wreneck could not grasp, Lord Anomander’s reply silenced Caladan Brood. They trudged on, and no further words came from any of them. With the sun a pale white orb high to the southwest and the afternoon on the turn towards dusk, they came within sight of Dracons Keep.

  Wreneck studied the high wall and the gate, and then the freshly mounded earth rising here and there in the land surrounding the fortress. Here there were ravens aplenty. With the day’s end, they would rise from those strange hills and make for the forest branches.

  Caladan Brood spoke then. ‘Lord Anomander, what will you do if one day you find yourself in the role of a king, or, indeed, a god?’

  ‘Should such a day ever arrive,’ the First Son replied, ‘I will weep for the world.’

  The gates opened upon their approach. One man emerged, old and worn but wearing the garb of a soldier, and Wreneck saw his pleasure and surprise when Anomander embraced him.

  As they moved beneath the gate, Wreneck also saw how Caladan Brood hesitated, his eyes raised and fixed upon the unknown words carved into the lintel stone.

  Then, a moment later, they were in the courtyard, and he saw Sandalath, who came to him with a cry, as would a mother for her son.

  From a slit in the tower, in the room their brother Arathan had once claimed as his own, Envy and Spite stared down on the newcomers in the courtyard.

  ‘That’s Lord Anomander,’ said Spite.

  Envy nodded. ‘I do not know the other. He has the manner of a beast.’

  ‘The First Son’s found a pet.’

  ‘One day,’ said Envy, ‘I will marry Lord Anomander. And I will make him kneel before me.’

  Spite snorted. ‘If you make him kneel, you will have broken him.’

  ‘Yes,’ Envy replied. ‘I will.’

  ‘That’s an ugly boy,’ Spite observed, through her now endless shivering.

  Envy studied the scene below. ‘He will be staying here. With Sandalath – he must be from Abara Delack.’

  ‘I don’t like him. He makes my eyes sting.’

  Yes. He shines bright, does that one. After a moment, Envy gasped, even as Spite flinched back from the window.

  For an instant, both girls had seen, in the sudden brightening of the aura surrounding Wreneck, a multitude of figures, ghostly, all blending and flowing through one another, and they had then stilled, suddenly, to lift their gazes to the tower.

  Gods! He’s brought gods with him! That boy! A thousand gods!

  They see us! They know us!

  Unwelcome guests had come to House Dracons. The two girls fled for the cracks.

  TEN

  THE COURT POET OF KHARKANAS DEPARTED THE CHAMBER, AND in the silence that followed, it
seemed to Rise Herat that Gallan had taken with him every possible word, every conceivable thought. Sorcery still roiled about in the room, heavy and sinuous as smoke from a brazier. Cedorpul, seated on a bench that lined one wall, had leaned his back against the worn tapestry behind him, closing his eyes. Endest Silann, sallow despite the ebon hue of his skin, sat on the edge of the old dais, his hands cupped in his lap and his eyes fixed upon them with peculiar expectancy.

  Standing opposite the doorway through which Gallan had departed, Lord Silchas studied the swirls of magic that still drifted above the tiled floor. His arms were crossed, his features fixed and without expression.

  ‘The Court of Mages,’ said Cedorpul, his eyes still closed. ‘Well, it was a bold ambition.’

  Rise Herat rubbed at his face, but everything seemed strangely numb to his touch, as if he was no more than an actor upon some stage, truths hidden behind thick makeup, while he stumbled through a play constructed of lies and penned by a fool.

  ‘Why does it still linger?’ Silchas asked.

  ‘Slipped the tether,’ Endest Silann replied after a moment, squinting down at his hands. ‘He left it to wander like a lost child.’

  Silchas turned to the young priest. ‘His reason?’

  ‘To prove the conceit,’ Cedorpul answered when it became obvious that Endest would not. ‘That we can control this power. That we can shape it to our will. It is as elusive as darkness itself, a thing that cannot be grasped. The Terondai bleeds this … stuff. It fills every room in the Citadel. It commands the courtyard and stalks the streets beyond.’ He finally opened his eyes, revealing their red-shot exhaustion, and met Silchas’s stare. ‘Have you seen where it gathers, milord? About statuary, the monuments of the city’s squares, the caryatids shouldering the lintel stones of our proud public edifices. Around tapestries. In the taverns where bards sing and pluck their instruments.’ He waved a plump hand. ‘As if it possessed eyes and ears, and the ability to touch, or, perhaps, taste.’

  ‘The one you would make seneschal to this Court of Mages,’ said Silchas, baring his teeth, ‘simply flings it all back into your face, Cedorpul.’