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Kellaras backed away from the two men. ‘I await Lord Anomander and Silchas Ruin,’ he said.
Cedorpul grunted. ‘Too late for that. They ride to the Valley of Tarns.’
The words stilled the torment in Kellaras’s mind, and then horror rose in its wake. ‘What? Surely Lord Anomander would have—’
Endest Silann interrupted him. ‘Lord Anomander has been away. He relies upon his brother’s judgement.’
Kellaras looked to each man in turn, and back again, still uncomprehending despite the dread he felt, still lost by this turn of events. ‘Lord Draconus waits,’ he said.
This was a day of revelations, a cruel cacophony of simple words plainly stated. He saw the flush leave Cedorpul’s face. He saw Endest Silann flinch, and then come close to staggering before regaining his balance.
Kellaras turned to the corridor behind him. ‘Here,’ he said, and started walking.
Neither man followed.
The war of fools. And the greatest folly of all, it is now clear to me, is to dream of peace. Faith, with all your promise, and all your betrayal … must I see you as the enemy of hope?
He reached the door and hesitated. Beyond it sat a man bereft of love, a man now profoundly vulnerable to betrayal. And once more, it would be delivered with banal declaration. The world had tilted in Kellaras’s mind. He saw voices, a torrent of words that had done their work, now slowly withdrawing, retreating from what was coming. And by the time this was done, the voices would be without words, reduced to piteous cries.
All to begin again. Born only to die. See what we have made of the time between the two.
Behind him, a priest wept, while another bled. Kellaras reached for the latch.
* * *
Wreneck knew he had nothing to fear as he hurried through the crowds in the street. Ghosts closed tight around him, and it seemed that they blinded most people to the young man slipping between them, rushing fast as his legs could carry him. They made for him a path in ways Wreneck had no hope of understanding.
The shaft of the spear rested heavily across his right shoulder. He held the weapon tilted high, to keep the leather-wrapped iron head away from others. The silver tore that Lord Anomander had given him was tucked under his coat. Among the ghosts he saw warriors, long dead, still bearing their fatal wounds. It was all he could do to avoid their faces, their steady gazes fixed so solemnly upon him. For all he knew, his father was among them.
Something was wrong. He understood that much. The dead of the Tiste belonged somewhere else, a world hidden away from mortals. They had no reason for being here. And yet, he now wondered, perhaps they were always present, and it was only his newfound curse that he could see what others could not. It was possible that such crowds always existed, thousands upon thousands, wherever living Tiste dwelt, drawn like moths, hovering and swarming around what they had lost.
They had nothing to say, or perhaps they could not be heard, which made them nothing more than eyes, trapped in the faint memories of bodies. The thought that death was a prison horrified Wreneck, and he felt his own mind now tracking other, even crueller thoughts. I seek vengeance. I want to hurt the people that hurt Jinia and me. I want to send their souls into this empty ghost-realm. I want them to just stand there, mute, seeing but never able to touch. I want them to suffer.
He had never thought himself evil, but now he wasn’t so sure. Vengeance seemed such a pure notion, a taking away from those who’d done the same. Evening things out, death for death, pain for pain, loss for loss.
Even Lord Anomander believed in vengeance.
But now … what kind of satisfaction would it bring? How was it that even grown-up men and women talked about vengeance, as if it had the power to fix things? But it doesn’t fix much, does it. Yes, the killers and rapists are dead, so they won’t ever do it again. There’s that, isn’t there. Pushing them off the cliff of life, down into the Abyss.
But they don’t go there. They go nowhere. They join every other ghost. They could as easily have died in their sleep, a thousand years old, surrounded by loved ones. It makes no difference, not to them.
But does it make a difference to me? This killing, this justice? I guess … once they’re dead, justice stops mattering to them. So it belongs to the living. It doesn’t belong to any waiting god, because the gods aren’t waiting for those souls. Worse yet, the gods in that realm are themselves dead, no different from anyone else.
Justice belongs to the living.
He imagined driving his spear into the bodies of the soldiers who’d hurt Jinia. Imagined their faces twisting in agony, their bowels spilling out, their boots kicking at the ground. He saw them looking up at him, at his face, at his eyes, with confusion, and all the questions they couldn’t ask. But he’d tell them why they were dying. He’d do that, because that was important if justice was to be served. ‘This is why you’re now dying. I did this, because of what you did.’
He found himself crossing the outer bridge, and then the second, inner one. No one barred his path. He strode under the arch of the open gateway, into the compound, where scores of Houseblades were mounting up, their horses steaming and the hot smell of dung heavy in the air. Even here, ghosts abounded, the dead come to watch, watch and wait. He slipped through the jostling chaos, reached the keep’s entrance, up the steps and then inside.
The ghost of a giant wolf was lying at the foot in the stairs beyond the vast hall, its eyes now fixing on Wreneck as he drew closer. Impulsively, Wreneck said, ‘Take me to Orfantal.’
The beast rose, began climbing the steps. Wreneck followed.
‘You’re one of his,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how I know that, but you are. You died a long time ago, but he brought you back, to keep watch on things. You’re dangerous, but not to the living.’ And now he realized that he had not seen any ghosts within the keep itself. ‘You drive them off. Orfantal sees them, too. He sees them and doesn’t like it.’
The boy was not the boy Wreneck remembered. The Citadel, with its massive walls and hallways, its rituals and worship, had changed Orfantal.
‘I think,’ he said now to Orfantal – as if the boy could hear through the ears of the ghost wolf – ‘you’re going to frighten your mother.’
