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Skillen glanced about the yard, noting those smudged places where the Builder had deposited K’rul. There was no discernible pattern in that map. After a moment, he edged off the stone pathway. ‘What waits inside?’
K’rul shook his head, the motion making the hood fall back, revealing a drawn, bloodless face. ‘Like the others, I would imagine. The rooms … upside down. One walks upon an uneven ceiling, a confusion of buttresses and steep ramps leading down … or is it up? To wander within is to know inverted thoughts. The displacement of perspective may well hold a message, but it is lost on me.’
But Skillen barely heard the words, so appalled was he by K’rul’s condition. ‘What afflicts you?’
‘Ah, you have travelled far, then. Is isolation such a comfort? Forgive me that question, Droe. Of course, there is peace to be found in not knowing, in not being, in not hearing, and not finding. Peace, in the way of becoming forgetful, while to others, mostly forgotten.’ K’rul managed a wan smile. ‘
But still, I would know: if you have been, then where? And if not, then, why?’
‘I found a world in argument with itself. The delusion of intelligence, K’rul, is a sordid thing.’
‘And this towering form you now present to me? Do you wear the guise of these … creatures?’
‘One of their breeds, yes. I played the assassin,’ Skillen replied. ‘Subtlety is lost on them. They raise a civilization of function, mechanical purpose. They are driven to explain all, and so understand nothing. They refuse artistry. But artistry hides in the many shades of one colour. They have rejected the value of the common spirit in all things. They cleave to one colour, and heed but one shade. The rational mind can play only rational games: this is the trap. But I did take note, K’rul, of the arrogance and irony implicit in their worship of demonstrable truths.’ He paused, and then added, ‘They are coming.’
K’rul barked a laugh, harsh enough to cut the air. ‘Do you recall, I once spoke of possibilities? Well, I have made a gift of them. Or, rather, gifts. Magic, requiring no bargaining with the likes of you or me. And already, those gifts are being abused.’
Skillen waited, withholding every scent, every flavour. There was sorcery in the spilled blood of Azathanai. K’rul had very nearly bled himself dry. The gesture was that of an unbalanced mind.
The man before him made an ambiguous wave of one hand, and said, ‘Errastas seeks to usurp command of these gifts.’ He cocked his head and studied Skillen, and then added, ‘No. Command is not, I now think, the right word. Allow me to offer you one that you, in your present state, might better comprehend. He seeks to impose his flavour upon my gifts, and from that, a sort of influence. Skillen, I do not think I can stop him.’
‘What else?’
‘Starvald Demelain,’ K’rul said. ‘The dragons are returning.’
Skillen Droe continued to stare at K’rul, until the man looked away. The loss of blood, so vast, so profound, had broken something inside this man. The notion made Skillen Droe curious, in a morbid way. ‘I heard your call, K’rul, and so here I am. I preferred you as a woman.’
‘My days of birthing are done, for a time.’
‘But not, it seems, your bleeding.’
K’rul nodded. ‘The question is: who will find me first? Errastas, or – should she emerge from Starvald Demelain – Tiam? Skillen Droe, I need a guardian. You see me at my most vulnerable. I could think of none other than you – none other so determined to remain apart from our worldly concerns. And yet, what do you offer me? Only a confession. Where have you been? Elsewhere. What have you been doing? Setting traps. Still … I do ask, Skillen.’
‘I am to blame for the dragons—’
‘Hardly!’
‘—and I do not fear Errastas, or any other Azathanai.’
K’rul answered that mockingly. ‘Of course you don’t.’
Skillen Droe made no reply.
K’rul shook his head. ‘Please excuse that, Skillen. At the very least, I must tell you what he has done.’
Skillen Droe released a sigh heavy with indifference. ‘As you will.’
‘Will you protect me?’
‘Yes. But know this, K’rul. I still preferred you as a woman.’
* * *
It had begun with a conversation, in the way that the uttering of words, on easy breath, lodged like seeds, grew and then ripened in the minds of all who would later claim to be present. A conversation, Hanako reflected, to elucidate the absurdity of everything that followed. This was the curse among the Thel Akai, where only silence could stop the onrushing flood of those things, countless in number, upon which the battered survivors might look back, nodding at the signs, the precious omens, and all those casual words slipping back and forth.
But silence was a rare beast among the Thel Akai, and from this tragic truth, the lifeline of an entire people trembled to a thousand cuts. Surely, before too long, it would snap. Even as he and his kin tumbled down in helpless mirth.
Too often among his kind, laughter – unamused and disabusing – was the only response to pain, and this notion twisted Hanako round, once again, to the clear-eyed affirmation of the absurd.
