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‘A cruel assessment, historian,’ opined Lanear, ‘and yet, sadly accurate.’
‘Lord Draconus is an honourable man,’ said the white-skinned commander. ‘He well comprehends the precariousness of his position. In his stead, I wager I would do much the same as he, under these trying circumstances.’
‘Indeed?’ the High Priestess said in some surprise. Then she nodded. ‘Ah, I understand. His appearance on the field … here, would prove disastrous. For us. While Hunn Raal would delight in it. If not for the opportunity to slay the Consort, then for the very real possibility of seeing the Houseblades of the highborn abandon the field.’
Herat cleared his throat, and then said, ‘Well stated, High Priestess. But we can be certain that Lord Draconus understands this dilemma. That, as you say, his sense of honour will win out over his stung pride, and so he will make no appearance, but will remain with Mother Dark.’
‘If not pride to see him unleashed, then the desire for vengeance,’ Lanear added, to Herat’s mind unnecessarily. He could see the agitation and uncertainty in Ruin’s expression. He could see, plainly enough, the doubts he and Lanear had sowed.
‘Pride is the enemy,’ Herat announced. ‘Had Lord Draconus stepped aside – had he chosen to surrender his position as Consort to Mother Dark, well, how vastly different would be this day, and those to come.’
‘And now,’ said Lanear with a sigh, ‘it is too late.’
Silchas Ruin said nothing for a time. He remained upright on the saddle, his red eyes seeming to scan the valley floor below. His horse dipped its head, stamped occasionally at the frozen ground. The statue contemplates, as all statues must. Their moment now trapped in eternity, their eternity not quite as long as they thought it would be. Stony eyes fixed well upon a crumbling future. ‘Perhaps it isn’t,’ he finally said.
It was a struggle to keep his attention on the commander, rather than casting a triumphant look to Emral Lanear. The historian’s breath was suddenly tight in his chest. ‘Milord?’
‘Too late,’ Silchas Ruin explained. ‘I shall go to the Chamber of Night. I shall demand to see Lord Draconus. I shall appeal to his honour.’
‘An honourable man,’ Lanear said slowly, as if searching for words, ‘would not abide the spilling of so much blood in his name.’
And what of Mother Dark? What of her love, wrapped like chains about Lord Draconus? Consort or husband – the distinction means so much less than so many would have it. It has become the weapon, a thousand hands upon the grip. She holds him close to ease the pain in her heart. The pain of a realm bent upon self-destruction. The pain of her children torn apart, of Light bleeding into the Dark, rich as blood, thin as tears.
I’ll not write of this. I’ll not record our venal manipulations. Centuries from now, my ilk will ponder this day and the silence embracing it. They’ll devise theories, they’ll plumb the nadir world of motivations and all the fears we keep hidden. They will even defend Silchas Ruin, whilst others condemn him.
Go now, commander, poke the serpent in its lair. Lord Draconus does not flee, because she does not permit him the luxury. This is not his pride at work, but hers. Pride and love, the power of the former grants sanctity upon the latter. We venture now, commander, into a place where none of us belong.
He stared down at the heartline of the valley.
For we have made a woman’s love our field of battle, and now will see her lover dragged forth in sacrifice.
No, I will not write of this.
Silchas Ruin gathered up his reins. Then he hesitated. ‘I am a warrior,’ he said. ‘I do not shy from necessity. If we are to fight Vatha Urusander and his legion, then I will lead us into that battle.’
‘None doubt your virtue,’ said Lanear.
They waited.
‘And yet,’ said Silchas, ‘if peace can be won, here on the cusp of slaughter, by the will of a single man …’
‘Appeal to his honour,’ said Lanear. ‘Lord Draconus is an honourable man.’
‘The will,’ said Herat, ‘not of one man, commander, but of two men. Such a thing will be remembered, and celebrated.’
Silchas scowled, and Herat wondered if he’d pushed too far, or indeed, if he had erred in his judgement of the man’s vanity. ‘In this,’ Silchas then said in a growl, ‘I am but the messenger of his conscience. When the echoes of my horse’s hoofs have passed, little else will linger.’ He faced the historian with a stern visage. ‘I trust tha
t is understood.’
Rise Herat nodded.
All three turned then at the sound of approaching horses. A pair of riders, coming up from the track that led back to Kharkanas. Cedorpul and Endest Silann.
Lanear spoke. ‘Best ride on, milord. These priests of mine are my business, not yours.’
‘Cedorpul promises sorcery,’ Silchas said.
‘At a battle we may well avoid, milord.’
