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‘No. A god.’
He tilted his head.
‘A god, Orfantal! One who expects things from you, just as I do. This god – you must understand this – this god has no patience. He despises weakness. If we’re weak, he’ll hurt us. Tell me you understand!’
‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ Sandalath returned to the door. ‘I have a safe place, a place for hiding. I’m going there, and locking the door.’
‘Yes. Goodbye, Mother.’
She halted, glanced back at him. ‘When everything burns, come and find me. In the tower.’
He nodded again. Satisfied, despite the tremble of panic behind her thoughts, she left the chamber. In the corridor she stood motionless for a moment. The Citadel. I’m home. Smiling, she set off for the tower, and her secret room.
* * *
It was the duty of one who failed in protecting anything to linger, kneeling in the ashes, and give some thought, once so much has been lost, to what little remains. Grizzin Farl was well experienced with this modest compensation. After all, if one could draw breath, then all was not lost. If one could find some remnant of hope, then the pain of grief was but transitory, and what burdens awaited settling would find shoulders capable of sustaining them.
But few of these platitudes did much to lessen the pain of acute loss, and all too often they could be raised up as barriers to feeling anything. At the very least, he reminded himself, Azathanai had not clashed in the Valley of Tarns, although it had been close. Nor had the dragons manifested into a storm of chaos, content merely to witness from the swirling clouds overhead. The magic unleashed on the
field of battle had been modest, all things considered, but even this revelation had its price. A man was dead, after all.
‘Have you nothing to say to me?’ Emral Lanear asked him as they hesitated before the door to the Chamber of Night.
‘What do you wish me to say?’
‘You have been in her presence, Azathanai. Is she … is she reconciled to what must be?’
Grizzin Farl frowned. ‘She … acknowledges the necessity. Understands the value of the symbol, that is. Liosan exists now. The Tiste fall upon Light or upon Dark. The manner in which the two manage to co-exist, here in one place, remains to be seen.’
‘This was a civil war,’ Lanear snapped. ‘No one invited a new religion to the mess! But there, perhaps I am wrong. Your sister brought this Liosan – tell me, Grizzin Farl, how far you Azathanai intend on taking this?’
‘Taking what?’
‘Your manipulation of the Tiste. Or shall you now step back, denying the blood on your hands?’
‘Denial is a waste of time, High Priestess. And, alas, there is no stepping back. Indeed, it is the very opposite. We are drawn.’
She blinked. ‘And who is responsible for that?’
He looked away, found himself studying the blackwood door before them, this beaded barrier still to be breached. ‘Not “who” as such, High Priestess. More like … what.’
‘Very well, then what is responsible for your sudden interest in us?’
‘We are poor at the finer emotions. An unveiling of all that is vulnerable in a mortal heart draws us in the manner of moths to a flame. Perhaps we seek some incidental warming of the soul. Or our curiosity is rather more clinical. Perhaps you but awaken forgotten appetites. Our natures are not unified, High Priestess. Each Azathanai is unique.’ He shrugged. ‘We have come to witness the breaking of a heart.’
He weathered the growing horror in her eyes, offering no defence.
A moment later, with a sudden gesture, she opened the door and strode into the Chamber of Night.
The Throne of Darkness awaited them, and the woman seated on it was expressionless, her eyes clear and cold as they fixed upon Emral Lanear.
The High Priestess knelt, head bowing. ‘Mother,’ she whispered.
‘Stand. Face me.’ Her voice was flat.
Emral Lanear straightened.
