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He recalled little. Standing upon the threshold to the main chamber, and then … awakening out beyond the wall, his hands shredded and torn and full of slivers.
Yalad told him that he had walked out from the raging flames, with Wreneck in his arms. But not even his clothes were singed, and the boy was also miraculously untouched. Still, there had been horror and grief in the camp when it was discovered that Lady Sandalath was missing. Yalad had clawed at his face, as the weight of a dead hostage crashed down upon him – the man given the responsibility for her safety.
The storm had moved on in the night, and now there was no wind to stir the icy air. The household of Lord Draconus, and all the Houseblades, were now homeless.
Ivis frowned at the small flickering flames of the cookfire, as if some part of him was waiting to see something in those bright, dancing tongues. Lord Anomander, how am I to take this? You challenged the Azathanai, upon a matter of respect. See the cost of that, milord. A house in ruin, a hostage lost to the flames. Two daughters? Well … there is that, I suppose.
Pride will undo us all, I fear.
If he cared to, he could lift his gaze from the flames, look across the camp to where stood Lord Anomander, with Caladan Brood at his side. Their guests, bearers of unbearable gifts. It was said of the High Mason, in the night just past, that he stood to witness the collapse of the edifice built by his own hands, and how he had then spoken of the lintelstone above the gate, with its secret words carved into it, and how he had muttered, as if to himself, of a bitter truth in such a hopeful sentiment.
What this meant, Ivis could not guess.
If he looked the other way, to the figure crouching at the next campfire, he would see young Wreneck, whose eyes were now closed but only on the inside, revealing a regard like blank glass. Upon emerging from the burning estate, the boy had been quiescent in Ivis’s arms, at least until he heard the terrified horses, upon which he had thrashed as if fevered, kicking and pushing until Ivis had no choice but to release him.
It had been Yalad who then grasped Wreneck, even as the boy lunged back towards the flames of the house, screaming his need to save the horses – even though the beasts were already being driven through the gate behind them.
Well. This winter’s seen its share of madness. We can agree on that, can we not?
He was slow to react to the cries of alarm, and then amazement, and then the sudden descent of shocked silence, but at last, as each detail registered in his mind, assembling into a progression, he looked up.
A crowd, led by Yalad, had rushed across the field, only to halt halfway. Upon the far side, climbing weakly from the ditch, was Lady Sandalath. At first, Ivis thought her wearing a crimson skirt – one that he did not know she possessed – but then he saw how it was a stain, spilled out from between her legs. And he saw that she carried a small shape, pressed against her bared chest.
He thought it a doll, until he saw a tiny hand curling tight into a fist.
As Yalad and the others backed away, as Lord Anomander and the High Mason moved towards her only to stop again after but a few strides, as Ivis himself rose to watch as Sandalath drew closer – the crowd parting before her – and approached him, only one man stepped into her path.
‘Milady,’ said Surgeon Prok, tilting his head. ‘I must attend to you, I’m afraid. To you both, in fact.’
She halted before the surgeon, and said, ‘If you insist.’
He stepped closer. ‘May I see the child, milady?’
‘A girl,’ she said.
‘I’d wager … four, perhaps five weeks old, but that—’
‘She is mine,’ cut in Sandalath, her tone oddly without inflection. ‘The one that lived. Her name,’ she added, ‘is Korlat.’
‘Milady—’
‘She is filled with love,’ Sandalath continued, ‘but not mine.’ She then pulled the babe away from her breast and held it out to Prok.
Only then did the surgeon falter, and the look upon his face, as he turned to meet Ivis’s gaze, was a crumpled ruin of grief.
As no one moved, as no one spoke, as all stared at Sandalath who offered the babe with outstretched arms, a small figure moved past Ivis and edged around Surgeon Prok.
‘Can I hold her, milady?’ Wreneck asked, and without awaiting a reply he accepted the babe, drawing his own blanket up around the naked child. ‘Orfantal has a sister,’ he said, ‘and she’s big!’ He reached down with one finger, which the babe suddenly grasped.
Smiling, Wreneck turned to Ivis. ‘Master, she’s a strong one.’
Wretched, anguished beyond words, Ivis found himself staring at them both, through a veil of sorrow.
BOOK THREE
The Gratitude of Chains
SEVENTEEN
