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From beneath veiled lids, High Priestess Syntara watched the self-proclaimed official historian of the Liosan. Here in this sanctified temple on wheels, she could read his innermost thoughts and with idle ease she plundered them. Each one was bright with outrage and venom, swirling madly around a vortex of betrayal, for betrayal was at the core of everything for poor Sagander. He blamed Lord Draconus. He blamed now dead Borderswords. He blamed Draconus’s bastard son Arathan. But she saw for herself the blow he sent to Arathan’s head, the boy reeling in his saddle, stunned into witlessness. She saw Arathan’s horse attack, saw its hoofs stabbing savagely down, heard the snapping of bones.
No one else was to blame for the loss of that leg – no one but Sagander himself, and of course that was something he could not – could never – admit. It was pathetic, the raving accusations of an ego blind to its own lies. And the manner in w
hich a thousand exculpatory words could drown out a simple truth was something that made her thoughtful, as they drew ever nearer to the Valley of Tarns.
They were fast approaching the time when the shout of words would give way to the shout of swords. She would finally discover the extent of Hunn Raal’s sorcerous power, and that was the source of some trepidation. No matter how certain her own faith and no matter the vast reach of her own magic, the Mortal Sword of Liosan posed a threat, and with this recognition she discovered a new irony, in that the only obstacle blocking Hunn Raal’s true ambitions was Lord Vatha Urusander.
Our reluctant Father Light, who already moves like a puppet, confounded by a tangle of strings. Still, a throne waits for him, and once Urusander is seated in it, Hunn Raal can reach no higher.
Her secret missives with Emral Lanear made it clear that both High Priestesses understood the politics of what was coming. This very evening I shall ride into Kharkanas, and in the company of Urusander’s Legion shall cross the bridges and claim the Citadel. And I shall be met by Emral Lanear, and before all we will embrace like old friends.
And in the Chamber of Night, Mother Dark will have to acknowledge us. She will have to face us, and accede to the inevitable.
‘This battle shall be glorious,’ said Sagander suddenly, startling both Syntara and a dozing Sheltatha Lore. Tathe Lorat’s daughter had been injured while on the march, when a slipping horse inadvertently stepped down on her foot, breaking bones. She now sat directly opposite Sagander, her bandaged foot occupying the space where his missing leg would have been, and Syntara knew well that the pose was not accidental.
Venal child. I am of a mind to give her to Emral Lanear, as she’d make a fine temple whore. Her and her new tutor, Renarr. Such women are worthy of contempt and little else. But they have a value nonetheless, as things to be used.
‘I shall witness,’ Sagander went on. ‘And record, as befits a proper historian.’
‘There may be no battle,’ said Syntara.
Sagander frowned, then took another sip from the flask and licked his lips. ‘Winter’s dry air is a curse,’ he muttered, and then shook his head. ‘High Priestess, of course they will fight. Their backs are to the wall – hah, the city’s wall, in fact.’
‘The highborn still hold their lands and their wealth,’ Syntara pointed out. ‘To gamble all that upon a single field … no, they are not all fools, historian. They’ll not make it so easy to dislodge them from their privilege. I would hazard,’ she concluded, ‘they will choose to bide their time. Once we crowd in, and days turn into months, they will begin sowing discord.’
‘The Legion’s loyalty—’
‘Ends when the Legion is dissolved,’ she said. ‘Once that happens, avarice and acquisitiveness will burgeon. Friends will fall out.’
‘We need only pronounce an expansion of our borders,’ Sagander said. ‘This will ensure there is enough land to go round.’
Sheltatha Lore snorted. ‘Historian, look at a map before speaking so foolishly. Our borders are rough things for a reason. We are surrounded by poor land, once home to wild herds that are no more. Wherever settlers tried to break the soil, they failed. To the north are the Jheleck, already pushed as far as they can go – if we renew that war, sir, we will be facing a most desperate enemy and it will be a fight to the death with no quarter possible. But oh, that’s right, we won’t have our legion any more, will we? The east belongs to the Vitr’s foul influence, while the Forulkan are to the south. West? Ah, but you know that path well enough, yes?’
Sagander’s frown was now a scowl. ‘Do not presume to know more than your betters, child. I am well aware of our geographical limits. The push must be south and west. As you say, I do know, firsthand now, the land of the Azathanai, and I tell you: they have yielded it. And to the south, well, the Forulkan are defeated. They live in fear of us.’ He waved a hand. ‘The fighting that may come of that we can leave to the Hust Legion.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Sheltatha smiled. ‘And it will be most informative, I should think, watching them today, these embittered prisoners and cast-offs.’
‘In any case,’ Sagander said, ‘we need only clear the forests to find more arable land.’
‘And the fate of the Deniers?’
‘You have not been paying attention,’ Sagander snapped. ‘Most of the women and children have been slaughtered. No, their time is done, and like so many other forest creatures, they will fade away.’
‘And you admit no pity for them, historian?’
‘Pity? A waste of effort.’
‘Yet not,’ Sheltatha said, ‘when it comes to your own infirmity.’
Sagander glared at her.
‘Be silent, Sheltatha,’ said Syntara with a weary sigh. ‘We all have our appointed roles, after all, to occupy our thoughts. Look to yourself instead, and the destiny soon to find you.’ She smiled across at the young woman. ‘I see you already spreading your legs in a temple cell – shall we make you a gift to Mother Dark?’
‘Well, Syntara, who knows? I’ll see if your old cell is still there, shall I? Though I imagine the sheets will need a thorough washing, with a nice flat rock to beat out the worst of the stains, if such a thing is even possible.’
In cold fury, Syntara lashed out, a sorcerous eruption of raw power meant to strike Sheltatha in the face. Instead, it was somehow shunted aside, slamming into the carriage door’s shutters. Splintered wood exploded within the confines, slivers striking both Sagander and Syntara. Crying out, the High Priestess reached up to her face and felt splinters jutting out from her cheeks. Uncomprehending, she pulled her hands away and stared at the fresh blood covering them.
Sagander, in the meantime, was clutching at his throat, where a large shard of wood jutted out, and blood pumped in fast spurts, spilling down into his lap. Syntara frowned across at the historian. That was too much blood, and there was horror in the man’s eyes.
