Others had arrived. He heard the wailing of a woman in grief.
And was reminded that there was, in truth, no sadder sound in all the worlds.
Bitterspring, Lera Epar of the Imass, lay propped up against cold bodies. Her wound had been bandaged, the flow of blood staunched. Around her the survivors were moving about, many simply wandering, while others stood motionless, heads lowered, scanning the ground for familiar faces.
She saw her kin. She saw Thel Akai. She saw K’Chain Che’Malle and Jaghut.
And she watched Onos Toolan leaving them all, stumbling northward, on to the stretch of flat land edging the walled port city that had once been the capital of the Forkrul Assail empire.
None of the Imass called after him. None asked where he was going. He was the First Sword, but so too was he a man.
She tilted her head back, studied the procession up the scalded stone stairs of the Spire. Prince Brys Beddict, Aranict, Queen Abrastal, Spax of the Gilk Barghast, the priest-woman of the K’Chain Che’Malle. The eleven remaining Jaghut were also making their way in that direction.
More rain began to fall, as the day’s light slowly died, but this rain was pure and clear. She closed her eyes and let it rinse clean her face.
Onos Toolan walked past the city, out on to a barren headland of gorse and heather. The day’s light was fast fading, but he was indifferent to that, and the ground underfoot, which had been soaked in blood, was now slick with simple rain.
The sun spread gold across the western horizon.
And then, in the distance, he saw three figures, and Onos Toolan’s eyes narrowed. Like him, they seemed to be wandering. Like him, lost in the world. He drew closer.
The sword in his right hand, thick with gore but now showing its gleaming stone as the rain washed down its length, then fell to the ground, and he was running. His heart seemed to swell in his chest, seemed to grow too large for the bone cage holding it.
When they saw him, he heard childish cries, and now they were rushing towards him, the girl not carrying the boy winging ahead. All three were crying as they ran to meet him.
He fell to his knees to take them into his arms.
Words were tumbling from the twins. A saviour — an Awl warrior they had lost in the storm. A witch who had stolen them — their escape — and he had promised them he would find them, but he never did, and-
Lifting his gaze, still facing into the north, Onos Toolan then saw something else.
A vague shape that appeared to be sitting on the ground, curled over.
He rose, the girls reaching up to take his arms, the boy clinging to one shin. And then he moved forward, taking them all with him. When the boy complained, Storii picked him up in her arms. But Onos Toolan walked on, his steps coming faster and faster.
It was not possible. It was-
And then once more he was running.
She must have heard his approach, for she looked up and then over, and sat watching him rushing towards her.
He almost fell against her, his arms wrapping tight round her, lifting her with his embrace.
Hetan gasped. ‘Husband! I have missed you. I–I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what has happened …’
‘Nothing has happened,’ he whispered, as the children screamed behind them.
‘Onos — my toes …’
‘What?’
‘I have someone else’s toes, husband, I swear it-’
The children collided with them.
In the distance ahead, on a faint rise of land, Onos Toolan saw a figure seated on a horse. The darkness was taking the vision — dissolving it before his eyes.
And then he saw it raise one hand.
Straightening, Onos Toolan did the same.
When at last the light left the rise of land, the vision faded from his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I have heard voices thick with sorrow
I have seen faces crumble with grief
I have beheld broken men rise to stand
And witnessed women walk from small graves
Yet now you would speak of weakness
Of failings worth nothing but scorn
You would show all the sides of your fear
Brazen as trophies in the empty shell of conquest
But what have you won when the night draws close
To make stern your resolve among these shadows
When at last we are done with the world
When we neither stand nor fall nor wake from stillness
And the silent unknowing waits for us?
I have heard my voice thick with sorrow
I have felt my face crumble with grief
I have broken and turned away from graves
And I have grasped tight this hand of weakness
And walked in the company of familiar failings
Scorn lies in the dust and in the distance behind
Every trophy fades from sight
The night lies ahead drawing me into its close
For when I am done with this world
In the unknowing I will listen for the silence
To await what is to come
And should you seek more
Find me in this place
Before the rising dawn
Banaschar remembered how she had stood, the sword in its scabbard lying on the map table before her. A single oil lamp had bled weak light and weaker shadows in the confines of the tent. The air was close and damp and it settled on things like newborn skin. A short time earlier, she had spoken to Lostara Yil with her back to that weapon, and Banaschar did not know if Tavore had used those words before and the question of that gnawed at him in strange, mysterious ways.
If they had been words oft repeated by the Adjunct, then what tragic truths did that reveal about her? But if she’d not said them before — not ever — then why had he heard them as if they were echoes, rebounding from some place far away and long ago?
