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‘Legion vow, Gurren.’
The man suddenly smiled, and years vanished from him, despite the sickness behind his eyes. ‘I’ll be seeing my wife soon. There’s nothing like waiting, when the waiting’s about to end. Go on with you, then. I got me some chains to melt down for the nailmonger, and this fire ain’t nearly hot enough yet.’
‘Commander, it is good to see you again.’
Vatha Urusander seemed to study her for a moment before gesturing her to sit. They were in the room Hunn Raal called the Vault. Shelves lined all the walls, reaching to the ceiling. Scrolls, bound books, manuscripts and clay tablets bowed every shelf. A single work table dominated the room. Two chairs were pushed up against it, while the lower, padded chairs they now occupied stood like sentinels to either side of the low doorway.
The positioning was awkward in that Serap could not face Urusander unless she perched sideways on the seat. As expected, the commander seemed indifferent to this detail. There was an air of distraction about him that Serap had seen each time she had visited over the past two years, and she gauged it as the look of a man slowly losing himself. It pained her.
‘How are Sevegg and Risp?’ Urusander asked.
Startled, Serap shrugged. ‘They fare well, sir. Busy.’
‘Busy with what?’
‘Sir, I have news from Kharkanas.’
He glanced away, as if to study the archives lining the shelves opposite. ‘Hunn Raal has sent you.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And no doubt Risp and Sevegg are running horses into the ground to deliver word to the garrisons.’
lsquo;Legion vow, Gurren.’
The man suddenly smiled, and years vanished from him, despite the sickness behind his eyes. ‘I’ll be seeing my wife soon. There’s nothing like waiting, when the waiting’s about to end. Go on with you, then. I got me some chains to melt down for the nailmonger, and this fire ain’t nearly hot enough yet.’
‘Commander, it is good to see you again.’
Vatha Urusander seemed to study her for a moment before gesturing her to sit. They were in the room Hunn Raal called the Vault. Shelves lined all the walls, reaching to the ceiling. Scrolls, bound books, manuscripts and clay tablets bowed every shelf. A single work table dominated the room. Two chairs were pushed up against it, while the lower, padded chairs they now occupied stood like sentinels to either side of the low doorway.
The positioning was awkward in that Serap could not face Urusander unless she perched sideways on the seat. As expected, the commander seemed indifferent to this detail. There was an air of distraction about him that Serap had seen each time she had visited over the past two years, and she gauged it as the look of a man slowly losing himself. It pained her.
‘How are Sevegg and Risp?’ Urusander asked.
Startled, Serap shrugged. ‘They fare well, sir. Busy.’
‘Busy with what?’
‘Sir, I have news from Kharkanas.’
He glanced away, as if to study the archives lining the shelves opposite. ‘Hunn Raal has sent you.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And no doubt Risp and Sevegg are running horses into the ground to deliver word to the garrisons.’
‘Sir, there is need, once again, for the Legion. There is need for you.’
‘There will be no invasion from the Sea of Vitr. The very idea is ridiculous.’ He met her eyes and his gaze was sharp and hard. ‘Hunn Raal would have the realm stirred in panic. He sows fear with the sole aim of resurrecting the Legion — not to meet this imagined threat, but to coerce the highborn, Draconus and ultimately Mother Dark. He still bears the wound of our dismissal.’
‘I will not lie, sir, he does bear that wound. We all do.’
‘Old soldiers cannot fit in a peaceful world,’ Urusander said. ‘They feel like ghosts and they hunger for the zeal of life, but the only life they know is one of violence. War is a drug to them, one they cannot do without. And for many others, to see an old soldier is to know of sacrifices they never made, and to feel an obligation they come to resent, and so they would rather not see that old soldier. They would rather forget. For yet others, Serap, an old soldier reminds them of their own losses, and the grief stings anew. It is right that we go away, but more than that, it is right that we embrace silence and solitude. We have devoured horror and now we are as ghosts, because we stand next to death and we cannot leave its side.’
Serap stared at her commander. His words, delivered leaden as pronouncements, felt cold inside her now, an unwelcome gift filled with unwelcome truths. ‘Sir, an Azathanai emerged from the Sea of Vitr, a woman. She was found by a Warden and escorted through Glimmer Fate. That Warden named her T’riss. Monks of Yan Monastery intercepted them and commandeered the protection of the Azathanai. They brought her to their Hold. This proved a grave error. Sir, the woman resurrected the long-dead river god worshipped by the Yan and the Yedan. She then marched, in the fearful company of monks, to Kharkanas. Upon entering the city she raised the river in flood. Water dripped from stone to the very door of Mother Dark’s Chamber of Night.’
‘A moment,’ cut in Urusander. ‘You describe an assault upon Mother Dark.’
‘I do, sir. There were casualties.’
‘Who?’
‘The High Priestess Syntara-’
‘She is dead?’
‘No. In the Chamber of Night T’riss assailed the High Priestess and left her… sullied, in Mother Dark’s eyes. She was forced to flee and now seeks sanctuary with the Legion-’
‘Hold!’ Urusander rose suddenly. ‘What you say makes no sense. Mother Dark is not cruel. She would not cast out her own High Priestess! What you describe is madness!’
‘Perhaps I misspoke,’ Serap said. ‘We cannot know for certain what occurred in the Chamber of Night, in the moment of confrontation between the Azathanai and Mother Dark. Even Lord Anomander was late in arriving. But Syntara fled the chamber. She sought out Hunn Raal — sir, the High Priestess is changed, manifestly changed. It may be that what she now possesses — and what Mother Dark’s servants proclaim — is indeed a curse. But perhaps it is the very opposite. It may in truth be a gift. Sir, she is coming here, to you-’
