Reaching out, she grasped the ring. A single tug and something broke on the other side, fell with a clunk. Oh … no, no, no-
She opened the door.
The bed had partially collapsed. Insects had chewed the covers until they fell to dust. Thousands of generations of those insects had dwelt in the mattress, until it too crumbled to nothing. The creatures had eaten the wax candles in the silver sticks still standing on the solid blackwood dresser. Above the dresser, the polished mirror was mottled with midnight stains. The broad windows had been shuttered tight; now little of that remained but heaps of fittings on the floor.
Sandalath stepped inside. She could not see it yet, but she knew it was there.
Locked from the inside.
In the passageway leading to the Tutor Chamber she found the small, frail bones of this room’s last hostage. The mice had eaten most of the child, until little more than grey stains marked its position — a body sprawled between the two chambers. Teeth lay scattered like the beads of a broken necklace.
I know how it was for you. I know. Slaughter in the citadel, screams rising from below, the smell of smoke. The world was ending. Mother Dark turned away. Anomander’s dreams of unification fell like dust through his fingers. The people were fleeing — fleeing Kurald Galain itself. The end of the world.
She crouched down in the narrow corridor, stared down at the remnants. Child? Are you me? No. I was long gone from here by then. Sent off to serve my purpose, but that purpose failed. I was among a mass of refugees on Gallan’s Road. Blind Gallan shall lead us to freedom. We need only follow the sightless seer. We need only trust in his vision. Oh yes, child, the madness of that was, well, plain to see. But Darkness was never so cold as on that day.
And on that day, we were all blind.
The child hostage would not have left this room. She had learned obedience before all else. Told to stay, she had set the flimsy lock that she had believed would bar the outer door — we all believed it, each in our turn. It was our comfort. Our symbol of independence. It was a lock a grown Andii could break in one hand.
But no one came to challenge your delusion of safety.
The lock was proof against everything going on outside this room. It was, in fact, the strongest barrier of all.
She sank down further, leaned one shoulder against the passage wall.
I am queen and I am hostage both. No one can take me. Until they decide to. No one can break my lock. Until they need to. In the meantime, see me sitting so regal on my throne. Frozen like an image in a frieze. But she would not weep, not for herself. All that running had taken her precisely to this place, this moment in time. All that running.
After some time, she climbed to her feet, went back into the outer room. Stared at what remained of herself in the mottled mirror. Fragments, pieces, an incomplete map. Look at me. Are you looking at me, now, at last? I sense the stirring in your mind. Impatience, the wanting to be away, off somewhere else — anywhere but in this skull, anywhere but behind these eyes. What in your life has so chilled your heart, that you so quickly refuse another’s pain, another’s loss?
Run, then. Go on. Run away, skip down the passage, find all the places that stab deep enough to make you feel.
Sandalath turned away. Back to the door, down the spiralling descent. One didn’t need ghosts, she decided. Not a single ethereal glimpse was necessary. Empty corridors and echoing chambers were in themselves ghosts, emerging in the instant of her arrival, only to fade away once she was past. Like the rooms of memory. Step inside, conjure what you see, wonder at what you feel, and then leave. But you take something with you. You always take something with you. Swirling, raising up dust. She wanted to howl.
‘Mother Dark, I understand now. Once again, I am a hostage.’ She had died — drowned? — in the rolling surf of a distant shore. The end of a long, harrowing journey, such an ignoble, pathetic end. Thrashing in darkness, shocking cold filling her lungs — was that how it was? It must have been.
Silchas Ruin came to us upon that road. Wounded, stricken, he said he had forged an alliance. With an Edur prince — or was he king? If so, not for long. Emurlahn was destroyed, torn apart. He too was on the run.
An alliance of the defeated, of the fleeing. They would open a gate leading into another realm. They would find a place of peace, of healing. No throne to fight over, no sceptre to wield, no crown to cut the brow. They would take us there.
Salvation.
She was in the habit, she realized, of rolling ashore, only to be dragged back into deeper waters. A place to drown, a place of peace, an end to the running. Was it coming again? Then, Mother Dark, I pray to you, make this time final. Grant me blessed oblivion, a place without war.
Messengers found her in the hallway. Urged her to return to the throne room. There was news of the breach. Withal awaited her. She walked as one dulled by d’bayang, panelled scenes marching past on either side, as mottled as the mirror she had stared into so long ago now. Centuries ago. Draconean blood proved a dark tomb, didn’t it? See how my thoughts wander? See how these memories haunt? Do you truly dream of resurrection? Alas, I cannot recommend it.
Her husband’s eyes studied her. ‘Sand-’
‘I was exploring,’ she said, walking directly to seat herself on the throne. ‘How bad, then?’
‘The first assault was denied,’ he replied. ‘Yedan’s Letherii line held, and then pushed the Liosan back through the wound. The Watch-’
‘The Watch, yes.’ I remember now. It was already in me. Growing. Wanting my love. But how could I love? ‘The Shake have held, Lord. The Watch commanded. They have driven the Liosan back through the wound. The priestesses believe they have devised a means of sealing the rent, Lord-’
‘Then they had better set about achieving that, Kellaras, for the Liosan shall launch another assault soon. And then another, and another. They will keep coming until they are through, or until they are all dead.’
‘Lord, is such the fury of Osseric against you that-’
‘Commander Kellaras, this is not Osseric’s doing. It is not even Father Light’s. No, these are children who will have their way. Unless the wound is healed, there will be no end to their efforts.’ And then Anomander’s eyes found her. ‘Hostage,’ he murmured, gesturing all the others to leave. He rose from the throne. ‘I did not see you there. He released you then — I did not think-’
‘No, Lord,’ she said, ‘he did not release me. He … abandoned me.’
‘Hostage Drukorlat-’
‘I am a hostage no longer, Lord. I am nothing.’
‘What did he do to you?’
But she would not answer that. Could not. He had enough troubles, did he not? Wars upon all sides, armies advancing on Kharkanas. It was dying, all of it. Dying, and in his eyes she could see that he knew it.
‘Sandalath Drukorlat.’ And with her name he reached out, settled a cool hand upon her brow. And took from her the knowledge he sought. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘this cannot be.’
She pulled away then, unable to meet his eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the fury now emanating from him.
‘I will avenge you.’
Those words could well have driven a spear through her, for the impact they made. She reeled, with pain a raging fire within her. Shaking her head, she staggered away. Avenge? I will have my own vengeance. I swear it.
He called out to her, but she fled the throne room. And ran.
Shallow steps climbing … a wooden door. A lock.
‘Sandalath?’
‘The priestesses can heal the wound.’
