Mihn turned his head to read the three words in the Narkang dialect, now scabbed over: We are lost. ‘So Aroth has fallen.’
The King’s Man nodded and looked away. ‘No more word after this. Beyn didn’t respond to my reply. That’s another Brother dead.’
A moment of silence descended before Hulf whimpered and pressed against Mihn’s legs. When he looked, he saw Legana had advanced a few steps. Her face was unreadable, not unexpected, he thought, of one so profoundly touched by the Gods. Mihn realised she was looking past him, but he couldn’t see anything himself.
Grimacing in the light, even with the sun covered by cloud, Legana walked clumsily for a few moments, leaning heavily on her staff, until she got into her stride. Her face set, she ignored the three men.
‘So it’s true then?’ Doranei asked, his voice a half-whisper.
‘The message?’ Mihn replied, still watching the Mortal-Aspect, ‘it is true.’
‘How?’ He sounded incredulous.
Morghien snorted. ‘Which part? The resurrection, or the fact he reckons he’ll get lucky second time around.’
Mihn shot the cantankerous old man a warning look. ‘No more of those comments; they try my patience.’
‘Hah! Well, meself? I’m fresh out o’ blind faith,’ Morghien growled. ‘Alive he may be; sane? That I ain’t so sure about. You want to trust the future of us all to a man driven at least half-mad by his own foolish schemes?’
‘Isak was bound by prophecy and destiny,’ Mihn said, turning to face Morghien. He was not quite squaring up to the man, but he’d moved close enough to make his point. ‘Kastan Styrax was born to kill the Last King, and that fate also bound Isak. But you know perfectly well no obligation nor tie can follow a man beyond the grave. And that means that now there is no link between the two, no predetermination of the outcome of a second meeting. The slate is blank.’
Doranei sucked his teeth. ‘Gotta say, there’s nothing binding me to Lord Styrax’s destiny either, and I ain’t keen to cross swords with the man any time soon.’
‘The message said nothing about
fighting
the man, only
defeating
him.’
‘But he won’t say how, and that’s what bugs me,’ Morghien continued stubbornly.
‘That does not interest me.’ Mihn turned away to watch as Legana at last caught sight of Isak. ‘He is most certainly damaged, broken, both as a warrior and as a lord, but he has seen what lies behind the veil of this Land.’
‘Death’s halls? He’s not alone in that, I’d bet the witch has too.’
‘More than that,’ Mihn said, ‘the fabric of the Land, the subtle balance of all things - Gods, men, even daemons. He was blessed by the Gods, not to be the greatest of warriors, but in a way both more delicate and more profound. You’ve seen the results of what he can do unwittingly already.’
‘You mean the Reapers? Can’t argue there, I suppose,’ Morghien said gruffly. ‘Severing an Aspect’s link to Death wasn’t something I thought possible.’
Mihn dipped his head. ‘My point exactly. The minstrel’s magic opened the door, but it was Isak’s hand that performed the impossible in Scree. Intentionally or not, he summoned Death’s Herald and tore the Reapers from Lord Death’s grasp. Even more telling, perhaps, is the fact it was unintentional - the Land is his to command in a way no mage of Narkang could claim. Even before Scree he had defeated Aryn Bwr and chained him in his own mind - a feat only Gods had previously managed, and all this achieved by an untutored youth barely a year after his Choosing.’
‘Somethin’ I had a hand in,’ Morghien pointed out.
‘Undoubtedly,’ Mihn agreed, ‘you gave him the tools - but he acted alone. The Gods made Styrax the great champion, the unbeatable warrior, and then he rejected them - though they have come to realised how disastrous their direct manipulation was, it is too late to undo that. Isak was never intended to be the equal of Styrax; he was not created to be a great general. If anything, they intended him to be a fulcrum, a point on which history could turn, so that Styrax’s power alone would not determine the future.’
‘Whatever was intended, it got twisted awry,’ Doranei interjected. ‘Azaer, the Last King, maybe others too - they all tried to get a hand in, and they sent the whole thing spinning off-course.’
‘So Isak was left with nothing?’
‘Well, no, not exactly nothing,’ the King’s Man admitted.
‘Consider what he has already done, even bound by all these efforts to control and direct him. He
is
that fulcrum. He has become a catalyst of events, for good or for ill, intended or not.’
Morghien pursed his lips. ‘You sayin’ that scarred wreck of a man can remake the Land as he sees fit? He can determine the course of history because it’s him making the decisions?’
Mihn looked at Isak, then said to them both, ‘I am saying Isak has already done many remarkable things. I am saying his mind is a tool as much as his body, and it has been forged in the fires of Ghenna. To unpick and reshape the works of Gods and emperors requires an understanding of the very fabric of the Land such as mortal minds could never grasp. We were never intended for that. What you see as madness might instead be Isak discovering a part of him more akin to the immortal mind.’
The three were silent as they watched Legana catch Isak’s attention and eventually down sit beside him.
Then Doranei spoke, his voice a rasp. ‘Or it could be he’s just fucking mad and we’re all screwed.’
Mihn nodded. ‘True.’
—
Do you remember me?
Isak looked up at Legana’s face. There was no recognition in his eyes, but eventually he nodded. ‘We are both broken,’ he said, returning his attention to the surface of the lake. ‘All twisted and broken.’
She looked at his face side-on. The lines of his head were unnatural, reminding her of a copper bowl battered by years of careless use. White-eyes could heal remarkably quickly, and often with barely a trace of the original injury, but Isak’s head bore the record of the abuse inflicted upon him.
Scars ran up his cheek from jaw to hair-line. The curve of his earlobe was frayed, like the wing of a dead butterfly. A furrow ran down the ear that looked remarkably like a massive claw had raked it. The furrow petered out where it reached the clear indentations of a massive chain pulled tight around his throat, each link looking like it had been burned into the skin with acid.
The extent of the damage shocked her, and she was reminded of the battle between the Lady and Aracnan. Her last memory of her Goddess had been one of agony, both personal, and that radiating out from the Lady as the power of a Crystal Skull burned through her divine form.
—
Not completely broken
she wrote. She held the slate in front of Isak’s face, but he said nothing.
—
Mihn sent a message to King Emin. About Lord Styrax.
Isak shrank back from the name in front of him, drawing his hands protectively up to his chest until Legana pulled the slate away. Eventually he took a deep breath and turned to look at her again, and this time Legana saw a spark in his eyes, the return of something human that was hiding behind the damaged remnants of his mind.
‘There are holes in my mind,’ Isak said. ‘I will never be remade - not even the Gods have such strength.’
—
What do you see in those holes?
‘Shadows,’ Isak said, with a lopsided attempt at a smile that would have terrified children and unnerved the mortal Legana . . . but it was pity that filled her heart now. ‘I see shadows where once there were memories, the parts of me I’ve lost.’
Legana looked at him, and Isak reached out a hand to awkwardly pat hers; he had two fingernails missing and not one finger followed the natural line. A man’s touch had always made her skin crawl, sparked a flutter of panic in her heart. It had taken her years to learn how to keep such reactions in check, even with her unyielding strength of mind . . . but Isak was as a child.
She took his hand and held it between her own, feeling him tremble slightly as he spoke.
‘These holes are the only weapons I have.’ He raised his other hand and Legana flinched as she realised he held Eolis in it. ‘This I have no use for, I’m just waiting for someone to need it.’
Legana let Isak go and wrote -
Will holes be enough
?
‘Perhaps,’ Isak replied, enigmatically, ‘but no. There will still be sacrifices. How it may be done I don’t know.’
—
I don’t understand.
Isak stood, and looking down at Legana, said, ‘I know what will stop . . .
him
. . . but . . .’ He flexed his damaged fingers, as if reaching for a solution, then said sadly, ‘The pieces are not yet complete.’
—
And Azaer?
‘How do you kill a shadow?’
—
There are ways. There has to be.
Isak held up a bag that hung from his waist. ‘These are the key, hidden somewhere inside them.’ He opened the bag and showed Legana the object within, a Crystal Skull. It wasn’t one of those given to Isak by the Knights of the Temples, but the Skull of Dreams, the one fused to Xeliath’s skin until her death.
‘Look inside and find the answers. That’s what I was born to do: crack open skulls and expose what lies within. These were there at the beginning, when Aryn Bwr set out on the path of rebellion. They were old when he found them, they were old when the shadow led him to a barrow caught in twilight and twisted history. To understand this war I must understand them and their place in this Land. Until then, we are lost.’
Legana shivered, the small spark of Fate that remained within her vibrating as he spoke the words inscribed on Doranei’s arm.
—
We must go
, she wrote, pushing herself upright again.
‘Where?’
—
To find the king. His last chance may already be in his hands.
CHAPTER 31
Major Amber stopped as an unexpected cool breath of wind drifted over him. He turned and looked at the city behind him, the dirty-white stone of Ismess nestled around the base of the slope he had been climbing. The wind tugged at his clothes with renewed force and Amber closed his eyes, imagining being carried up into the sky. When he’d started up towards the Library of Seasons there had been a Litse white-eye flying high above him, staring down at the grand, dilapidated temples and the sprawling Palace of the Three Winds.
The slope, a huge stepped incline two hundred yards long, was called Ilit’s Stair. It was the only official entrance to the library, located inside Blackfang Mountain. The rulers of the Circle City’s other quarters had tunnelled through miles of rock to provide private entrances, so they could meet on relatively neutral ground. The rigid white lines of the library looked even starker against the black rock of the mountain, especially when lit by the summer sun high in the sky.
Amber had ignored the hostile looks while travelling through the city of the Menin’s ancient enemy; he was used to them now. Walking up Ilit’s Stair however, he was reminded of the weapons stores in the guardhouse. Amber was from a military family, and his ancestors had doubtless taken part in the Menin slaughter of the Litse. The weapons — bundles of arrows and ballista-bolts, enough for every Menin who had participated - were stored even today, to prevent the quarter and the library being sacked again.
‘Didn’t help you though, did it?’ Amber called up to the dark shape in the sky. ‘You let us in this time.’
He resumed his ascent, part of him still anticipating the flash of an arrow from the shadows, but he reached the open gate without drama and stopped to inspect the changes that had happened since he was last there. The damage to the buildings took him by surprise; he hadn’t been back since the guardian had been woken.
As he walked through the gate, Amber realised the library was busier than it had been in years, centuries more likely. Blond-haired labourers swarmed over every building, even those that looked damaged beyond repair. As well as the workmen, he could see teams of engineers, soldiers and scholars, servants wearing the livery of the Ruby Tower — there were even some courtiers lazing in the shade or eating at long stone tables.
‘So it’s true,’ Amber murmured to himself, ‘Duchess Escral has moved herself to the library - but at whose suggestion, I wonder? If there really was a Devil Stair created in the tower by the assassins I can see why she would, but this isn’t the most obvious alternative.’ Intelligence on the assault on the Ruby Tower was sketchy, to say the least, but one mage had suggested the assassins had killed Aracnan by somehow casting him down into Ghenna. Amber suspected that before long the Menin would be getting the blame for it all, their lord having created that terrifying precedent in the recent battle.
The duchess’ scrawny steward caught sight of him and hurried over. He bowed low as he said, ‘Major, welcome to the Library of Seasons.’
Amber grunted in response and continued to scan the faces. Just emerging from the remains of the Fearen House, where the dragon had made a lair for itself, he spotted the waddling form of Lord Celao. As nominal custodian of the library, the obese white-eye should be securing his valuable property, but from the few Litse guards in view it appeared that wasn’t as great a concern as Amber had expected. Servants in a variety of liveries bustled around him, but he ignored them all - despite the fact some were carrying books from the Fearen House.