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‘I would hear them nonetheless.’
Grizzin Farl shook his head, and rose. ‘I have kept the historian waiting too long. My friend, discount my last words. They were ill advised. The days ahead will prove desperate enough, I wager, without the lure of such recourse.’ Bowing to the lord, the Azathanai left the table.
Protector of nothing, not this path, not any path. When next you find me, Silchas Ruin, I will of course yield to your demands, seeing in you the ambition which you will name necessity. The easier path is not one to welcome – I said as much – but in the slaying of fear, my warning will not stop you, will it?
Draconus. Caladan Brood. Unknown sister T’riss. See what we begin here. The wolves are awake, and we drip words in a trail of blood.
Let them find their own hunger, as they must.
But oh, see what we begin here.
Outside the tavern, in the street surrounded by the brittle city, the sky above looked strangely shattered, with dark and light and colours splaying out like shards, as if made of stained glass cast awry. Grizzin Farl studied it with watery eyes.
Cynicism and rage, both drunk upon the other. It’s enough to make one feel young again.
He set off for the Citadel. It was time to speak to the historian.
* * *
Orfantal halted in the doorway. He saw the historian, Rise Herat, seated in a chair that had been positioned near the hearth, which was only now flickering into life. The room was chilly, unlit except for the lapping flames rising around the wood.
‘He’s here,’ said the historian, gesturing to the floor beyond his boots. ‘Do come in, Orfantal. Ribs arrived in such a pant I believe you have worn the beast out.’
Still clutching his wooden sword, Orfantal walked over. The dog lying before the hearthstone was fast asleep.
‘Too many battles for one day, Orfantal. He’s not as young as he once was.’
‘When I’m a warrior, I will have pet wolves at my side. Two of them. Trained for war.’
‘Ah, you see a long war ahead of us, then.’
Orfantal sat down on the edge of the hearthstone, with the heat against his left side. ‘Cedorpul says these things never go away. If not one reason, then another. Because we love fighting.’
‘It wasn’t always so. There was a time, Orfantal, when we loved hunting. But even then, I will grant you, there was a lust for blood. When the time came that we tamed those beasts we would eat, still the hunters went out. They were like children who refuse to grow up – there is a power there, in that ability to decide life and death. The innocence of the prey is irrelevant to such children. Their need is too selfish to consider the victims of their indulgence.’
Orfantal reached down to scratch behind Ribs’s ragged ear. The dog sighed in its sleep. ‘Gripp Galas cut a man’s throat open. From ear to ear. Then he hacked the head off, and carved something on the brow.’
Rise Herat said nothing for a long moment, and then he grunted. ‘Well. We are indeed in a war, Orfantal. Gripp Galas saved your life, did he not?’
‘He killed that man for his horse.’
‘He saw the need, one must assume. Gripp Galas is an honourable man. You were his responsibility. I would wager what you saw there was Gripp’s anger. We’re in a time when to be upon the other side is itself a crime, with death the punishment.’
‘Heroes don’t get angry.’
‘Oh but they do, Orfantal. They most certainly do. Often, it’s anger that drives them to heroic acts.’
‘What makes them so angry?’
‘The unfairness of the world. When it’s made personal, the hero becomes indignant, and filled with refusal. The hero will not abide what it seems must be. These are not thoughts. They are acts. Deeds. Something unutterable made manifest, and in witnessing, our breaths are taken away. We cannot but admire audacity, and the way in which it defies the rules.’
‘I don’t think Gripp Galas is a hero,’ said Orfantal. The fire on his left was building, flames wrapping round the cluttered shafts of wood. Soon it would grow too hot for him to sit where he was, but not yet.
‘Perhaps not,’ the historian said. ‘He is, I fear, too pragmatic a man for heroism.’
‘What are you doing in Grizzin Farl’s chamber?’
‘Awaiting his return. And you?’
