court, if there’s any truth to the story of how he usurped Krughava. People like that, Kalyth, I don’t trust. It’s what got me in so much trouble all those years ago. Anyway, if Tanakalian wants to take his Perish right up the arsehole of the Forkrul Assail, well, he’s welcome to light his own torch and go to it.’
‘What are your thoughts on the Letherii prince, Mortal Sword?’
‘Him I like. Aranict, too. Solid people, those two. From what I heard back in Letherii, before his brother took the throne, Brys was some kind of special bodyguard to the Letherii emperor. Unmatched with the sword. That tells me more about him than you think.’
‘In what way?’
‘Anyone who has mastered a weapon — truly mastered it — is a humble man or woman. More than that, I know how he thinks, and something of what he sees. The way his brain works. And it seems that making him a prince hasn’t changed him any. So, Kalyth, worry not about the Letherii. Come the day, they’ll be there.’
‘Leaving only the Bolkando-’
‘She defers to Brys, I think. She doesn’t want to, but that’s just how it is. Besides,’ Gesler added, ‘she has red hair.’
Kalyth frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Me and Stormy, we’re Falari. Plenty of red-haired people in Falar. So, I’ll tell you what Abrastal is like. Deadly temper, glowing-hot iron, but being a mother she’s learned the wisdom of knowing what’s in her control and what isn’t. She doesn’t like it but she lives with it. Likes her sex, too, but prone to jealousy — and all of that bluster, why, it’s all for show. Inside, she’s just looking for a man like me.’
She gasped. ‘But she’s married! And to a king!’
Gesler grinned. ‘Was just seeing if you were still listening, Destriant. Saw your attention drifting there.’
‘A Hunter found me — you’re closed off and Stormy is sleeping. A rider was seen, out from close to the Perish camp, riding into the Glass Desert.’
‘Any more detail than that?’
‘You can see what the Hunter saw, Mortal Sword.’
‘Right, I can, can’t I?’ He concentrated for a moment, and then swore under his breath. ‘Krughava.’
‘Where-’
‘To the Adjunct, I’d wager. But she’ll never make it.’
‘What should we do?’
Gesler scratched his jaw, and then wheeled round. ‘Stormy! Wake up, you fat bearded ox!’
BOOK FIVE
‘I have had visions of the future, and each and every one of them ends up in the same place. Don’t ask me what it means. I already know. That’s the problem with visions of the future.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Where is the meaning in this stride foot following foot?
Why must the land crawl so beneath us in our journey?
All to take us to the place where we began so long ago
Only to find it strange and unknown and unredeemed
Who has blazed this trail and how weary must I become
Before the rain grows gentle and soft as tears on the brow?
Until the valley unfolds into a river the sweet colour of sand
And trees ribbon the sky overhead with dusty leaves?
How weary must you become as you rattle the chains
And drown in the banners of meaning and rueful portent?
If I make you share my torment foot following foot
Know that this is my curse of the swallowed key
And cruel desire
And when our blood mixes and drains in the grey earth
When the faces blur before our eyes in these last of last days
We shall turn about to see the path of years we have made
And wail at the absence of answers and the things left unseen
For this is life’s legion of truth so strange so unknown
So unredeemed and we cannot know what we will live
Until the journey is done
My beautiful legion, leave me to rest on the wayside
As onward you march to the circling sun
Where spin shadows tracing the eternal day
Raise stones to signal my passing
Unmarked and mysterious
Saying nothing of me
Saying nothing at all
The legion is faceless and must ever remain so
As faceless as the sky
White as bone, the butterflies formed a vast cloud over-head. Again and again their swirling mass dimmed the sun with a blessed gift of shadow that moments later broke apart, proving that curses hid in every gift, and that blessings could pass in the blink of an eye.
An eye swarming with flies. Badalle could feel and indeed see them clustering at the corners; she could feel them drinking her tears. She did not resent their need, and their frenzied crawl and buzz felt cool against her scorched cheeks. Those that crowded her mouth she ate when she could, the taste bitter when she crushed them, the wings like patches of dry skin almost impossible to swallow.
Since the Shards had left, only the butterflies and the flies remained, and there was something pure in these last two forces. One white, the other black. Only the extremes remained: from the unyielding ground below to the hollow sky above; from the push of life to the pull of death; from the breath hiding within to the last to leave a fallen child.
The flies fed upon the living, but the butterflies waited for the dead. There was nothing in between. Nothing but this walking, the torn feet and the stains they left behind, the figures toppling and then stepped over.
In her head, Badalle was singing. She sensed the presence of others — not those ahead of her or those behind her, but ghostly things. Invisible eyes and veiled thoughts. An impatience, a harsh desire for judgement. As
