Blueroses were defeated. Subjugated. There were never very many of them, in any case, and they preferred isolation. Small cities, from what I’ve heard. Gloomy.’
‘What ended your affair?’
‘Just that, I suppose. He rarely saw any good in anything. I wearied of his scepticism, his cynicism, the way he acted – as if he’d seen it all before a thousand times…’
The stable was engulfed in flames by now, and they were all forced away by the fierce heat. In the nearby pasture they retreated to, they found a half-dozen corpses, the breeder and his family. They’d known little mercy in the last few bells of their lives. None of the soldiers who examined them said a word, but their expressions hardened.
Iron Bars made a point of keeping Seren away whilst three men from the squad buried the bodies. ‘We’ve found a trail,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind, lass, we want to follow it. For a word with the ones who killed that family.’
‘Show me the tracks,’ she said.
He gestured and Corlo led her to the edge of a stand of trees on the southeast end of the clearing. Seren studied the array of footprints entering the woodcutters’ path. ‘There’s twenty or more of them,’ she pronounced after a moment.
The mage nodded. ‘Deserters. In armour.’
‘Yes, or burdened with loot.’
‘Likely both.’
She turned to regard the man. ‘You Crimson Guardsmen – you’re pretty sure of yourselves, aren’t you?’
‘When it comes to fighting, aye, lass, we are.’
‘I watched Iron Bars fight in Trate. He’s an exception, I gather-’
‘Aye, he is, but not among the Avowed. Jup Alat would’ve given him trouble. Or Poll, for that matter. Then there’s those in the other companies. Halfdan, Blues, Black the Elder…’
‘More of these Avowed?’
‘Aye.’
‘And what does it mean? To be an Avowed?’
‘Means they swore to return their prince to his lands. He was driven out, you see, by the cursed Emperor Kellanved. Anyway, it ain’t happened yet. But it will, someday, maybe soon.’
‘And that was the vow? All right. It seems this prince had some able soldiers with him.’
‘Oh indeed, lass, especially when the vow’s kept them alive all this time.’
‘What do you mean?’
The mage looked suddenly nervous. ‘I’m saying too much. Never rnind me, lass. Anyway, you’ve seen the trail the bastards left behind, iney made no effort to hide, meaning they’re cocksure themselves, aren’t they?’ He smiled, but there was no humour in it. ‘We’ll catch up, and then we’ll show them what real cavalry can do. Riding horses with stirrups, I mean – we don’t often fight from the saddle, but we ain’t new to it either.’
‘Well, I admit, you’ve got me curious.’
‘Just curious, lass? No hunger for vengeance?’
She looked away. ‘I want to look around,’ she said. ‘Alone, if you don’t mind.’
The mage shrugged. ‘Don’t wander too far. The Avowed’s taken to you, I think.’
Seren headed into the wood. There had been decades of thinning, leaving plenty of stumps and open spaces between trees. She listened to Corlo walking away, back to the clearing. As soon as silence enveloped her, she suddenly regretted the solitude. Desires surged, none of them healthy, none of them pleasant. She would never again feel clean, and this truth pushed her thoughts in the opposite direction, as if a part of her sought to foul her flesh yet further, as far as it could go. Why not? Lost in the darkness as she was, it was nothing to stain her soul black, through and through.
Alone, now frightened – of herself, of the urges within her – she walked on, unmindful of direction. Deeper into the wood, where the stumps were fewer and soft with rot, the deadfall thicker. The afternoon light barely reached through here.
Hurt was nothing. Was meaningless. But no, there was value in pain, if only to remind oneself that one still lived. When nothing normal could be regained, ever, then other pleasures had to be found. Cultivated, the body and mind taught anew, to delight in a darker strain.
A clearing ahead, in which reared figures.
She halted.
Motionless, half sunk into the ground, tilting this way and that in the high grasses. Statues. This had been Tarthenal land, she recalled. Before the Letherii arrived to crush the tribes. The name ‘Dresh’ was Tarthenal, in fact, as were the nearby village names of Denner, Lan and Brous.
Seren approached, came to the edge of the clearing.
Five statues in all, vaguely man-shaped but so weathered as to be featureless, with but the slightest indentations marking the pits of their eyes carved into the granite. They were all buried to their waists, suggesting that, when entirely above ground, they stood as tall as the Tarthenal themselves. Some kind of pantheon, she supposed, names and faces worn away by the tens of centuries that had passed since this glade had last known worshippers.
The Letherii had nearly wiped the Tarthenal out back then. As close to absolute genocide as they had ever come in their many conquests. She recalled a line from an early history written by a witness of that war.
Such dark moments in Letherii history were systematically disregarded, she knew, and played virtually no role in their culture’s vision of itself as bringers of progress, deliverers of freedom from the fetters of primitive ways of living, the cruel traditions and vicious rituals. Liberators, then, destined to wrest from savage tyrants their repressed victims, in the name of civilization. That the Letherii then imposed their own rules of oppression was rarely acknowledged. There was, after all, but one road to success and fulfilment, gold-cobbled and maintained by Letherii toll-collectors, and only the free could walk it.
And to know misery. It was a natural truth that some walked that road faster than others. There would always be those who could only crawl. Or fell to the wayside. The most basic laws of existence, after all, were always harsh.
The statues before her were indifferent to all of that. Their worshippers had died defending them, and all for nothing. Memory was not loyal to the past, only to the exigencies of the present. She wondered if the Tiste Edur saw the world the same way. How much of their own past had they selectively forgotten, how many unpleasant truths had they twisted into self-appeasing lies? Did they suffer from the same flaw, this need to revise history to answer some deep-seated diffidence, a hollowness at the core that echoed with miserable uncertainty? Was this entire drive for progress nothing more than a hopeless search for some kind of fulfilment, as if on some instinctive level there was a murky understanding, a recognition that the game had no value, and so victory was meaningless?
Such understanding would have to be murky, for clarity was hard, and the Letherii disliked things that were hard, and so rarely chose to think in that direction. Baser emotions were the preferred response, and complex arguments were viewed with anger and suspicion.
She laid a hand upon the shoulder of the nearest statue, and was surprised to discover the stone warm to her touch. Retaining the sun’s heat, perhaps. But no, it was too hot for that. Seren pulled her hand away – any longer and she would have burned her skin.
Unease rose within her. Suddenly chilled, she stepped back. And now saw the dead grass surrounding each statue, desiccated by incessant heat.
It seemed the Tarthenal gods were not dead after all.
