‘I said I would hold, Lord, and so I shall.’
‘Hold, old friend, until then. Until then. Until the moment when you must betray me. No-no protestations, Endest. You will know the time, you will know it and know it well.’
It was what kept him alive, he suspected. This fraught waiting, so long all was encrusted, stiff and made almost shapeless by the accretion of centuries.
‘Tell me, Endest, what stirs in the Great Barrow?’
‘Lord?’
‘Is it Itkovian? Do we witness in truth the birth of a new god?’
‘I do not know, Lord. I am closed to such things.’ As I have been since that day in the Temple.
‘Ah, yes, I have forgotten. I apologize, old friend. Mayhap I will speak to Spin-nock, then. Certain quiet enquiries, perhaps.’
‘He will serve you as always, Lord.’
‘Yes, one of my burdens.’
‘Lord, you bear them well.’
‘Endest, you lie poorly.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Spinnock it shall be, then. When you leave, please send for him-not with haste, when he has the time.’
‘Lord, expect him at once.’
And so Anomander sighed, because no other response was possible, was it? And I, too, am your burden, Lord. But we best not speak of that.
See me, Lord, see how I still wait.
Incandescent light was spilling from the half-open doors of the temple, rolling in waves out over the concourse like the wash of a flood, sufficient in strength to shift corpses about, milky eyes staring as the heads pitched and lolled.
As they set out across the expanse, that light flowed up round their shins, startlingly cold. Endest Silann recognized the nearest dead Andii. Priests who had lingered too long, caught in the conflagration that Endest had felt but not seen as he rushed though the Citadel’s corridors. Among them, followers from various factions. Silchas Ruin’s. Andarist’s, and Anomander’s own, Drethdenan’s, Hish Tuilla’s Vanut Degalla’s oh, thirt had been waves ol fighting on this concourse, these sanctified flagstones,
In birth there shall be blood. In death there shall be light. Yes, this was the day for both birth and death, for both blood and light.
They drew closer to the doors of the temple, slowed to observe the waves of light tumbling down the broad steps. Their hue had deepened, as if smeared with old Wood, but the power was waning. Yet Endest Silann sensed a presence within, something contained, someone waiting.
For us.
The High Priestess? No. Of her, the acolyte sensed nothing.
Anomander took his first step on to the stone stairs.
And was held there, as her voice filled them.
No. Be warned, Anomander, dear son, from Andii blood is born a new world. Understand me. You and your kin are no longer alone, no longer free to play your vicious games. There are now… others.
Anomander spoke. ‘Mother, did you imagine I would be surprised? Horrified? It could never be enough, to be naught but a mother, to create with hands closed upon no one. To yield so much of yourself, only to find us your only reward-us slayers, us betrayers.’
There is new blood within you.
‘Yes.’
My son, what have you done?
‘Like you, Mother, I have chosen to embrace change. Yes, there are others now. I sense them. There will be wars between us, and so I shall unite the Andii. Resistance is ending. Andarist, Drethdenan, Vanut Degalla. Silchas is fleeing, and so too Hish Tulla and Manalle. Civil strife is now over, Mother.’
You have killed Tiam. My son, do you realize what you have beguni Silchas flees, yes, and where do you think he goesl And the newborn, the others, what scent will draw them now, what taste of chaotic power? Anomander, in murder you seek peace, and now the blood flows and there shall be no peace, not ever again.
I forsake you, Anomander Blood of Tiam, Dragnipurake. I deny my first children all. You shall wander the realms, bereft of purpose. Your deeds shall avail you nothing. Your lives shall spawn death unending. The Dark-my heart-is closed to you, to you all.
And, as Anomander stood unmoving, Endest Silann cried out behind him, falling to his knees in bruising collapse. A hand of power reached into him, tore something loose, then was gone-something, yes, that he would one day call by its name: Hope.
He sat staring at the flickering flame of the lamp. Wondering what it was, that loyalty should so simply take the place of despair, as if to set such despair upon another, a chosen leader, wan to absolve oneself of all that might cause pain, Loy. alty, aye, the exchange that was surrender in both directions. From one, all will, from the other, all freedom.
From one, all will.
From the other…
The sword, an arm’s length of copper-hued iron, had been forged in Darkness, in Kharkanas itself. Sole heirloom of House Durav, the weapon had known three wielders since the day of quenching at the Hust Forge, but of those kin who held the weapon before Spinnock Durav, nothing remained-no ill-fitting, worn ridges in the horn grip, no added twists of wire at the neck of the pommel adjusting weight or balance; no quirk of honing on the edges. The sword seemed to have been made, by a master weaponsmith, specifically for Spinnock, for his every habit, his every peculiarity of style and preference.
So in his kin, therefore, he saw versions of himself, and like the weapon he was but one in a continuum, unchanging, even as he knew that he would be the last. And that one day, perhaps not far off, some stranger would bend down and tug the sword from senseless fingers, would lift it for a closer examination. The water-etched blade, the almost-crimson edges with the back-edge sharply angled and the down-edge more tapering. Would squint, then, and see the faint glyphs nested in the ferrule along the entire blade’s length. And might wonder at the foreign marks. Or not.
The weapon would be kept, as a trophy, as booty to sell in some smoky market, or it would rest once more in a scabbard at the hip or slung from a baldric, resuming its purpose which was to take life, to spill blood, to tear the breath from mortal souls. And generations of wielders might curse the ill-fitting horn grip, the strange ridges of wear and the once-perfect honing that no local smith could match.
Inconceivable, for Spinnock, was the image of the sword lying lost, woven out of sight by grasses, the iron’s sheath of oil fading and dull with dust, and then the rust blotting the blade like open sores; until, like the nearby mouldering, rotting bones of its last wielder, the sword sank into the ground, crumbling, decaying into a black, encrusted and shapeless mass.
Seated on his bed with the weapon across his thighs, Spinnock Durav rubbed the last of the oil into the iron, watched the glyphs glisten as if alive, as ancient, minor sorcery awakened, armouring the blade against corrosion. Old magic, slowly losing its efficacy. Just like me. Smiling, he rose and slid the sword into the scabbard, then hung the leather baldric on a hook by the door.
‘Clothes do you no justice, Spin.’
He turned, eyed the sleek woman sprawled atop the blanket, her arms out to the sides, her legs still spread wide. ‘You’re back.’
She grunted. ‘Such arrogance. My temporary… absence had nothing to do with you, as you well know.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Well, little, then, You know I walk in Darknenss, and when it takes me, I travel far indeed,’
He eyed her for a half-dozen heartbeats. ‘More often of late,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ The High Priestess sat up, wincing at some pain in her lower back and rubbing at the spot. ‘Do you remember, Spin, how all of this was so easy, once? Our young bodies seemed made for just that one thing, beauty woven round a knot of need. How we displayed our readiness, how we preened, like the flowers of carnivorous plants? How it made each of us, to ourselves, the most important thing in the world, such was the seduction of that
