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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.’
