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‘You’ve not the audience,’ Renarr replied.
After a moment, Urusander sighed. ‘No. I have not.’
‘In any case,’ she continued, ‘I am less forgiving of the notion that all opinions are equally valid. Some are just plain ignorant.’
Urusander grunted. ‘Leave me now,’ he said to the servants, and watched as they hurried from the room. He faced Renarr. ‘My mind is diminished with age. I lack the verisimilitude of years past. Worse yet, my fires have ebbed. Awaiting me now, Renarr, is the desire to dispense with contemplation. Have done with the musings that so afflict the artist who sees too much, who knows too well, who would defy the rush of base appetites. A battle awaits us. Let us ride to meet it.’
She rose then, collecting her own cloak. ‘You have set your mind as well as your sword.’
Urusander paused, and then sighed. ‘No matter the outcome, this battle will be my last.’
She studied him, but said nothing.
He stood, still possessing all his airs of command, the grace of competence, while beneath all the gilt, the surficial propriety, something broken hid its swollen face.
Duty, it seems, is a harsh mistress to this man. We are invited to sympathy.
But see him march to the river of blood.
‘Will you ride at my side?’ he asked.
‘Father, from this moment on, I’ll not leave it.’
The swollen face lifted then, revealed itself to her, and she saw it clearly.
Well, that is no surprise, is it? We hide our own, each and every one of us. Bruised and beaten by injustice.
And in that child’s face, so bloated with tears, she saw hope.
Oh, how the lessons of betrayal are so quickly forgotten.
* * *
From the high wall of the keep, High Priestess Syntara had looked down upon the curled snake of Urusander’s Legion, watching how it seemed to ripple in the dawn. Steam rose from it as if the entire creature had just crawled out from the earth, mixing with the smoke from the town’s forge, where a fire had burned the building and its yard to the ground, taking with it at least four people, including the Legion’s blacksmith. Townsfolk had fought that fire through the night, finally quenching it just before dawn.
The Legion’s tail half encircled the town, but its blunt head was angled facing south. The image remained with her as she led her procession down into the courtyard, cutting through the gathered officers awaiting the arrival of Urusander.
She was not inclined to join them. While the soldiers of the Legion still turned to their commander in all things, the faith and its sacred servants did not bow to that now insufficient military structure. Until Urusander was made Father Light, he was nothing more than the leader of an army.
This serpent is mine, and we holy servants of Light shall lead the van. With blinding venom, we shall be its fangs. Best Urusander understand this immediately. Best this lesson be delivered to every officer here, and every soldier down below.
Their petty lust for wealth and land is too base for the righteousness awaiting us.
Still Hunn Raal was nowhere to be seen.
If he’ll not be first, surely he’ll be last. The Mortal Sword desires a vast audience, presumably. Or, perhaps, he’s lying insensate in some alley … though I should not hope for such an unlikely ignominy.
I will find me a destriant of the faith. I must choose my champion, a worthy foil to our Mortal Sword. Perhaps among the highborn, or in the Citadel itself.
Passing through the gate in solemn silence, the High Priestess and her flock, one and all brocaded in white, set out down the cobbled track.
* * *
‘The whore has airs,’ murmured Tathe Lorat, watching the procession pass. Torches and lanterns, fine flowing robes of bleached and crushed wool threaded in starburst patterns, and skin so pale as to be cadaverous. She grunted. ‘See how bloodless we seem.’
Infayen Menand set her hand against her mount’s muzzle, letting it breathe in her scent. It had been too long since they had last ridden to battle. The horse was getting on. She might even fail beneath me. A fitting demise for us both. But she’ll taste my eagerness to take down Houseblades – those privileged betrayers so quick to sell their blades to the highborn. She’ll answer me one more time.
‘I set little weight to this faith,’ Tathe Lorat continued in a low voice. ‘Not enough, fortunately, to see this porcelain tarnished. It seems kind to indifference.’
