‘They stepped outside time, Arathan,’ said Korya. ‘Omtose Phellack always favoured …’ She paused, searching for the right words.
Clearing his throat, Gethol said, ‘The lure of stasis, Korya Delath. Very perceptive of you. One day, perhaps, you will see what Jaghut can do with ice.’
Helpless, Arathan looked around, and then raised his hands. ‘So that’s it? Abandoned again? What of my own desires? Oh, never mind those, Arathan! Just go where you’re told!’
‘The path you take in Kurald Galain,’ said Gethol, ‘belongs entirely to you. But let me make this plain enough. Gothos is done with you. He returns his gift.’
‘But Father won’t be there, will he?’
‘You wish to find him?’
Arathan hesitated and then scowled. ‘Not particularly.’
‘It is near dawn,’ resumed Gethol. ‘I will gather provisions. It is my thought that we depart this day.’
‘I can’t even say goodbye to him?’ Arathan asked.
‘I believe you already have, Arathan. In any case, the Lord of Hate now revels in his renewed solitude. Would you dampen his joy?’
‘He never revels.’
‘A manner of speech,’ Gethol said, shrugging apologetically. He turned to the others. ‘And a Dog-Runner, it seems. What fun. Shall we all meet at dawn then? At the city’s old east gate? The twin stumps, that is. The ones flanking what used to be a road. Oh, never mind. Come to the city’s edge; I’ll find you.’
Arathan watched Gethol walk away. Avoiding Korya’s steady gaze, he turned to find the ashes of Hood’s hearth. The first thin blades of grass were growing from it, their bright green colour awaiting birth in the sun’s rise.
‘They’re dead, Arathan,’ Korya said behind him. ‘Or as good as. Whoever you wanted to find there, beyond those gates, well, she’ll still be there, no matter how long it takes you to finally join her.’
He shot her a glance, and then shook his head. ‘It’s not – you don’t understand. Never mind.’ He pulled his cloak tighter and glared at the sky. ‘So where in the Abyss has the spring gone, anyway?’
TWENTY-FOUR
THE VALLEY OF TARNS WAS BROAD IN ITS BASIN, A SPAN THREE hundred paces across and twice as long. Its ends were marked by narrow gorges, carved out by fast waters long vanished. Upon the north ridge the land behind the crest formed a gentle slope studded here and there with saplings that had been planted a half-dozen years past. None had fared well and what remained of them would pose little obstacle to the enemy’s command of that side.
Closer to hand, the south slope was steeper, rocky, untreed. But the crest line where the three Andii had halted their horses was broad and even. Slumped in his saddle, Rise Herat watched Silchas Ruin survey the impending field of battle. In bearing Lord Anomander’s brother epitomized all the virtues necessary in a commander. Straight and regal in comportment, severe in expression, he and his white horse could well have surmounted a pedestal, a mounted figure rendered in bronze or marble – indeed, marble, white as snow, white as the skin of our enemy. A triumphal statue, ambivalent in what it celebrates. Even the side upon which it resides is ambiguous. But let us invite this enigmatic hesitation and leave it for posterity. ‘Sir, Lord Urusander will delight in this site.’
Silchas glanced at him, as if irritated by the interruption to his contemplation. ‘As do we, historian. See the faint track of the old stream upon that level floor? It divides the valley as would a heartline. Upon that gauge we will measure this battle’s tide.’ He paused, and then said, ‘Describe this well, sir. Was this not the legendary first camp of the Tiste? Down from the ash-filled sky, our first nest?’
‘Our exhausted refuge,’ Herat said, nodding.
‘And did we not feed from the flesh of dead dragons? Perhaps, historian, if there is any truth to such legends, those brittle burned bones remain beneath the earth and snow.’
To be soon joined by countless others. Already, I see the pyre we must make. Our refuge befouled, our nest unravelled. ‘I would think, commander, on the day of battle we will hear the weeping of ghosts upon the wind.’
Silchas Ruin studied him for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Send your arrow again, historian, when next you face Vatha Urusander. It is fitting, I think, that we both bear that wound.’
High Priestess Emral Lanear cleared her throat as she edged her mount between the two men. ‘You are too generous in meting out blame, commander, to so inflict the Andii, when the cause of this rests with the Liosan.’
‘Blame? High Priestess, forgive me for misunderstanding the historian. I thought we referred to grief, not blame. In that, surely, we must share?’
‘I doubt Hunn Raal would agree,’ Lanear replied, the lines of her face stark in the pale morning light.
‘Nor,’ added Rise Herat – against the suddenly bitter taste in his mouth – ‘Lord Draconus.’
Silchas frowned. ‘Draconus?’
All too aware of Lanear’s level gaze upon him, Herat shrugged and said, ‘Repository of the highborn’s ire, obstacle to a peaceful union of the Andii with the Liosan, his refusal to engage with anyone has, as much as anything else, incited this civil war.’
‘I would not think of it that way,’ said Silchas Ruin uncertainly.