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The wine flowed sweet on that day, in torrents upon the tiled floor, gushing round the artfully carved legs of the benches and pews. It splashed high against precious tapestries, and into the niches housing the marble busts of famous adjudicators and philosophers. The Great Court was transformed into a drunkard’s paradise.
Rivers of wine, as red and deep as the throats slashed open, as the stumps of severed limbs, as flesh sliced away. Rage itself had recoiled from its lover’s sudden, inexplicable fury, as if in an instant a mirror had been thrown up between them, and rage saw itself truly for the first time. Whilst, behind the barrier, the cynic stalked the halls, wielding a dripping axe, and with a dry laugh announced a terrible freedom.
The Azathanai who would years later become the Protector, Defender of Nothing, was born in the wake of that slaughter. He had stepped out from the Great Court as a child from a bloodied womb, painted in all the hues of justice, gasping at the shock of cold air as it swept in from shattered windows, with stained glass crunching under his feet and distant cries from the streets below.
Play me with words, my friends, and see what comes of it. Mock my ideals, whisper of the fool before you, who came with such hopes. Behold this summoned tantrum, this child’s incandescence. Surely, by your wilful arts, your clever dismemberment of once lofty ideals, and by your own brand of cynicism, so filled with contempt, you gave birth to me, your new child, your Innocent. And should I bring flame to your world, be not surprised.
I walk as a lover spurned.
Until the moment of this vow, which I hold still. Never again will my heart arrive in innocence. Never again will I make the foolish loves of youth into a man’s ideal, and so suffer a longing for something that never was. Speak not to me of the balance of possessions, the imperatives of restitution, the lie of retribution and the hollow lust of vengeance.
In this denial, I pose no imposition. Do what you will. Ashes await us all. This lover of the world has set aside his love, for now and for ever more. See me as your protector, but one who values nothing, who yields with this eternal smile, and leaves you to glory in everything but justice. For justice you do not own.
When you brought down the hands of a god, I drenched them in mortal blood.
Pray the god found the wine bitter.
He had heard that in the decades since that time a cult had risen among the Forulkan, worshipping Grizzin Farl as a vengeful god. Indeed, as a god of justice. There would always be, he now understood, those for whom violence was righteous.
Sudden motion before him made the Azathanai lift up his head, though it seemed to weigh too heavy for this world. He saw Lord Silchas, sinking down into a chair the Tiste had drawn close. The pallid face seemed thin as paper, the red eyes like ebbing coals. ‘Are you drunk,
Azathanai?’
‘Naught but memories, lord, to set a man’s mind afire.’
‘I imagine,’ said Silchas as he poured a tankard full from the pitcher on the table, ‘you have a surfeit of those. Memories.’
Grizzin Farl leaned back, only now hearing the muddy noise of the tavern crowd surrounding them. ‘My humour is plucked on this night, lord,’ he said. ‘A flower’s bud, wingless and without colour.’
‘Then you suit my demeanour well enough, Azathanai. The historian, Rise Herat, is looking for you.’
‘To the past I have nothing to say.’
‘Then you should find him equitable company. He awaits you in your quarters, I believe.’
Grizzin Farl studied the highborn. ‘There is a fever in this city.’
‘Kharkanas was never easy with winter,’ Silchas replied. ‘Even in the time before the darkness, the air would feel harsh, making our bones seem brittle. Alas,’ he added, pausing to drink, ‘I fared worse than most. I still do. Each winter I spend yearning for summer’s heat.’
‘Not all welcome the season of contemplation,’ Grizzin agreed.
Silchas snorted. ‘Contemplation? It gives rise, as you say, to fevered thoughts.’ Then he shook his head. ‘Azathanai, there is more to it. I would shake loose my limbs, and take hold of sword or lance. A lightness to come to my steps. Pale I may be, but my soul is drenched in summer’s flame.’
Grizzin glanced across, catching the blood-gleam in the warrior’s eyes. ‘It is said that Lord Urusander is expected to march before the thaw.’
‘Then I will raise my own heat, Azathanai.’ After a moment, in which he seemed to contemplate the prospect with avid anticipation, Silchas shrugged, as if dismissing the notion. ‘But I come here to you,’ he said, ‘with more purpose than just announcing the historian’s desire to speak to you. On this day I have witnessed sorcery, an unfurling of magical power. It seemed … unearned.’
Grizzin Farl collected up the jug and refilled his tankard. ‘Unearned?’
‘Need I explain that? Power too easily come by.’
‘Sir,’ said Grizzin, ‘you are a highborn. Noble in title, within an aristocracy of privilege in which the premise of what is earned or unearned matters not. Chosen by birth is no choice at all. Yet your kind cleave the child, by rules unquestioned, to cast one into privilege and the other deprivation. This civil war of yours, Silchas Ruin, poses a challenge to all of that. And now … sorcery, at the hands of anyone, provided they apply discipline and a diligence in its mastery … why, I see Urusander’s cause bolstered, at the expense of your own.’
Baring his teeth, Silchas said, ‘I am not blind to the imbalance! This magic will undermine us, perhaps fatally so. There is order in hierarchy, after all, and it is a necessary order, lest all fall into chaos.’
‘Agreed, chaos is most unwelcome,’ said Grizzin Farl. ‘Surely a new hierarchy will emerge, but by its own rules. You will see your old aristocracy shattered, sir. Will Lord Urusander take the magic into his own embrace, or simply seek out those adepts most likely to become masters? Will the new age see the rule of sorcerer kings and queens? If so, then any commoner can take the throne. Kurald Galain, my friend, totters upon a precipitous brink, yes?’
‘I still await words that comfort, Azathanai.’ Silchas drank from his tankard, and then, as a server arrived with a new pitcher, the lord reached across to drag it near. ‘You perturb the waters for your own amusement, I suspect.’
