Returning her gaze to the wagons on the road below, and feeling the chill wind loose icy serpents beneath her clothes, Sharenas shook herself and said, ‘My friend. Do look her in the eye and say the things you would say. I cannot gauge her answer beyond what I would feel if I were in her place. And what I would feel is anger and humiliation. You free her to love other men and deem this generous. But all women wish to be desired, and loved. I see your sacrifice as selfish.’
‘It is the very opposite of selfish!’
‘You would make a martyrdom of marriage. You would ask from your betrothed not her love but her pity. What will stand firm on such foundations? I see you both upon your knees, your backs to one another, each facing a door you long to pass through, and yet locked together by crimes of will and pride. She’ll not yield to your sordid invitation, since that could only serve to confirm your own sense of worthlessness — such a choice for a woman comes after years of hard weather in an unfeeling husband’s arms. The taking of lovers is a desperate search for things few would dare name. To make of this offer her wedding gift cuts to the core of her heart.’
‘But I am the one who speaks out of pity! She is young. She deserves what I once had, not this broken man old enough to be her father, who would flee his ageing years! I am too frail to carry the weight of every necessary delusion in this union!’
She shook her head. ‘Many a fine union has come from such disparity of age.’
‘It is crass and venal.’
‘You call her young and make of the word a belittlement. This hints of arrogance, Kagamandra.’
‘Without the sharing of years to bind two souls-’
‘Then share those to come. But at last we reach to the core of things. You yield your claim to your wife from a place of fear, a place deeply wounded and chary of sensation’s return. It is no sacrifice at all, but self-indulgence. Your every wound is a trophy, with suffering worn in most resplendent regalia. But you have outstayed its season, friend, and it is threadbare. If not a wife to draw these rags from you, then who? Hear me now. If you see no courage in each woman you look upon, then you are blind and, worse, you scorn the dignity of the woman you lost years ago. Go to Faror Hend. In this much at least, your instinct is true. But meet her eye and see for yourself — she will not flinch.’
When she looked across to him, she felt a sudden fear, so pale had his visage become. Remorse cut through her. ‘Oh, forgive me. I leap past all propriety. Send me on this wind with a curse and I will go without complaint. This is my flaw, and it pulls from my grasp every wisp of love. See well, sir, that my life is as forlorn as yours, and in my every word of advice I poorly hide my own bitter self.’
He said nothing for a long time, and then collected up the reins. ‘It is no wonder, then, Sharenas Ankhadu, that we are such friends. We take this hill by bold storm only to be bludgeoned half senseless by truths. The wind and the grasses mock our self-importance, and the season begins to show us a cold regard. Had I known more of you, I would have silenced every offer but yours.’
Her breath caught, and she felt heat rush through her. ‘I would strip the hide from you.’
‘And make of it a better trophy.’
‘Worn,’ she whispered as she met his eyes, ‘with pride.’
Then there was a moment, as if the sun had sliced through the heavy clouds, when the years were stolen from his gaunt face, and she saw the man a woman had once loved; a man from before the wars, from whom not every precious thing had been stolen away amidst violence and treachery. An instant later, it was gone and he broke her gaze.
‘We will not speak this way again, Sharenas Ankhadu.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I imagine not.’ But these words felt like water washing down cracks in stone.
‘I will leave in the morning. As a highborn, it is necessary for me to relinquish my rank in the Legion.’
‘It is soldiers like you and Ilgast Rend that Lord Urusander so values, Kagamandra. You stand bridging the gulf and through you he sees a path to compromise.’
‘You think he will forbid me?’
‘I do. That said, if you depart now, with the coming of darkness, then I will inform the commander tomorrow morning. If in anger he deems it prudent to pursue you, I will tell him that you have ridden to Kharkanas.’
‘Why not leave the same time as me, Sharenas?’
‘No. Too many of us cautious advisers suddenly abandoning Urusander will wound him, and the imbalance will open the breach for Hunn Raal’s backers.’
‘Urusander will not be tugged by fools.’
‘He is old, Kagamandra. Not in flesh, but in spirit. Daily we see his indecisiveness afflict him like a bout of illness, and again and again he steps out from the command tent — and that tent in itself is an affectation, and dangerous besides, since he yields his keep to that white-skinned witch — he steps outside, and looks long upon the Legion’s flag.’ She paused, and then said, ‘I cannot guess what thoughts take him in those moments, but they trouble me none the less.’
‘It seems,’ ventured Kagamandra, ‘that he values Serap’s presence.’
‘He does. She remains the least objectionable of Hunn Raal’s whores. But it is easily forgotten that she stands close to Hunn Raal, for the simple reason that she too is of the Issgin bloodline.’
Kagamandra grunted. ‘Wealth to the Legion and their estate restored? Yes, I see how those two desires are now intertwined.’
‘Many ambitions can share one root,’ she said, nodding. She reached across to him, with a hand warmed by horseflesh, and set it firm against his shoulder. ‘Give her what you dared give me this day, friend, and see how she answers.’
He nodded without meeting her eyes. ‘I will.’
Sharenas let her hand fall away. A moment later, looking out past the edge of the tent rows, she rose in her stirrups. ‘See that rider and the banner he bears? That is Sergeant Yeld. At last, we shall have word of the events at Kharkanas.’
‘I will hear of that,’ Kagamandra said.
‘Do not let ill news sway you,’ she said to him. ‘Make your loyalty your own, Kagamandra, and direct all duty to the woman you will wed.’
He sighed. ‘As you say.’
They kicked their mounts into motion, riding slow down the hillside to give time for the horses to work out any stiffness from their long stand upon the summit. The chaff rising from the stubble-filled fields swirled round them, and the dust remained high in the air, as if unwilling to settle upon the scene.
The old chairs in the Vault had the look of thrones, but only one remained intact. The other was a mass of wreckage pushed to a corner and Syntara wondered at the violence unleashed upon it. She was in the habit of seating herself in the one chair that remained, settling her head back against the deerskin hide. The walls were crowded with scrolls and volumes and the close air in the room smelled of mould and dust. Servants had brought in more candles at her command and the light filled every space now, driving away shadows and gloom. Their yellow hue painted the bleached skin of her hands where they rested on the arms of the chair, until it seemed to her eyes that she had been transformed into a thing of gold.
Darkness was not the only purity in the world. Something burned inside her, blinding bright. It had frightened Urusander, had driven the man from his own keep, as if by her presence alone his loyalty to Mother Dark was under threat.
True enough. I am indeed a threat to Mother Dark. And to all who would kneel before her. But Hunn Raal was right: it need not be that way.
Weakness and fear had driven her from Kharkanas, and in the time since she had, on occasion, amused herself imagining a triumphant return, with light scouring the city like a purging fire. Wretched river gods would wither before her. Mother Dark would shrink back, all her secrets revealed, every flaw exposed. Darkness, after all, was a place in which to hide. But something of these desires felt old, almost rank. They were, she had begun to realize, relics of her old life in the temple.
Still… who had not known a childhood in which terrors moved in the dark? It was foolish to reject the truth of instinct. There were good reasons to fear what could not be seen, and to distrust those who chose to remain hidden.
The Azathanai had bequeathed Syntara a gift. Its power was growing inside her, like a man’s seed in the
