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Silchas Ruin growled under his breath. ‘A slain Houseblade of House Purake. Confound the rest, but this crime stands unchallenged.’
‘With regret.’
The lord settled one white hand upon his grip of the sword at his side. Iron began sliding from the scabbard, then halted at a sound from the doorway behind them.
‘Belay that, lord,’ said Emral Lanear, stepping into the now crowded cell. Kellaras saw the priest, Endest Silann, edge in behind her, his hands devoid of cloth or bandage, the wounds dripping freely to paint his fingers. His face belonged to that of an aged man.
‘House Purake claims the right of punishment,’ Silchas Ruin said to the High Priestess.
‘No doubt,’ she replied, eyeing Caplo Dreem. ‘But I would question him first.’
‘You waste your time,’ Silchas replied. ‘He is all riddles.’
‘I have no interest in Mother Dark,’ said Caplo Dreem to Lanear. ‘I have never represented a threat to her.’
‘And yet, you trespass.’
‘My argument was with Lord Draconus. We had it out, and now we are done with each other.’
‘With at least one corpse in your
wake,’ she pointed out.
‘Release him,’ said Endest Silann.
All turned to face the priest. The command seemed to have momentarily left Silchas Ruin speechless. Emral Lanear glanced back at her companion. ‘By your command, Endest?’
‘No,’ he replied.
‘She makes her wishes known to you? You had led me to believe that Mother Dark’s attendance upon you yielded nothing of her will. Has that changed?’
‘Draconus is wounded, and this angers her,’ Endest replied. ‘Nonetheless, Caplo Dreem is to be banished from Kharkanas. That is all.’
‘What of justice for the House of Purake?’ Silchas Ruin demanded. ‘Is that not a virtue to be defended by our goddess? We, who are sworn to her service? Will she deny us this as well?’
No response came from Endest Silann. He turned to leave, and Kellaras distinctly heard the priest mutter, ‘Come along now, boy, this was not for you.’
Even the High Priestess seemed at a loss. ‘Lord Silchas, I am sorry,’ she said.
He glared at her, and then made a sharp gesture with one hand. ‘No matter.’ He shot her a look and added, ‘How does it sit with you, High Priestess? Being … superfluous?’
Her expression tightened, but she said nothing.
‘Oh, Kellaras,’ sighed Silchas Ruin, ‘free the man.’
* * *
Rise Herat stood in the unlit corridor, staring at a tapestry. The absence of light proved no obstacle to his study of the dragons woven into the scene. He had been atop the tower when the Eleint sank down from the heavy clouds in a spiralling descent that took it into the heart of Kharkanas. It was well, he reflected yet again, that he was not a believer in omens.
Still, even I must lend credence to the notion of harbingers. We are in difficult times to be sure, but our disputes seem petty in the face of such powers loose once again in the world. There are forces at work far beyond our frail borders.
But anger and fear make an enemy of humility, and of all the emotions within reach of a desperate mind, they loom closest.
If only desperation was not a plague among mortals. If only our lives were not spent rushing from one breach to the next.
There had been word of Endest Silann’s blessing of peace in the Winter Market, and the anguish left in its wake. But how many now denied the simple truth of that aftermath, its rattling lesson of despair? Peace haunts us like a dream, an echo half forgotten, but still whispering its perfect promise.
The ancient tapestry offered no lies, no inventions of the imagination. The dragons depicted were accurate. In the scene seven of the creatures whirled above a burning city. There was no attribution to this work of art – even the age that spawned it was lost to memory, and nothing of the city itself was recognizable. Nothing but the river running through it, black as a fissure in bedrock.
