Arathan thought about that, but found no words for those thoughts.
His father continued, ‘What falls under our hand, Arathan, we bend to our will. The horses we ride worship us, as if we were gods. But you and I, we can taste the bitterness of that, because if we are gods then we are unreliable gods. Imperfect gods. Cruel gods. Yet the horse is helpless in the face of all that and can only yearn for our blessing. Should its master beat it, still it yearns, seeking what all living things seek: the grace of being. Still, its god ever turns away. You may pity that horse,’ Draconus continued after a moment, ‘but not its desire.’
The grace of being. ‘Then what god would break us?’ Arathan asked.
Draconus grunted a second time, but it seemed to be a pleased grunt. He nodded to the figure in the doorway. ‘Not this one, Arathan.’
But Arathan’s thoughts had marched on, relentless upon a fraught path. Do gods break those they would have as worshippers? Do they set upon their children terrible ordeals, so that those children must kneel in surrender, opening their souls to helplessness? Is this what Mother Dark will do to her children? To us?
‘Most Azathanai,’ Draconus continued, ‘have no desire to be worshipped, to be made into gods. The confession of the helpless is written in spilled blood. The surrender that is sacrifice. It can taste… bitter.’
He and his father were now alone, facing the house and its dweller. Dusk fell around them like dark rain, devouring everything else, until the rest of the village took on the texture of worn, fading tapestries.
The figure then stepped out from the doorway, and a light came with him. It was not a warm light, not a light to drive back the gloom, and it hovered over the man’s left shoulder, a pallid disc or ball, larger than a man’s head, and if the man reached up, it would have remained beyond his touch, just past his fingertips.
That globe followed the man as he approached.
‘Cold and airless is his aspect,’ muttered Draconus. ‘Stay close to me, Arathan. A step away from my power and the blood will freeze and then boil in your flesh. Your eyes will burst. You will die in great pain. I trust such details impress upon you the importance of remaining close?’
Arathan nodded.
‘He has not yet decided on a name,’ Draconus added. ‘Which is a rather irritating affectation.’
The man was surprisingly young, perhaps only a handful of years older than Arathan himself. Here and there, in almost random fashion, ring-like tattoos adorned his skin, like the scars from some pox. His narrow, nondescript face bore no marks, however, and the eyes were dark and calm. When he spoke, his voice made Arathan think — incongruously — of pond water beneath a thin sheet of ice. ‘Draconus, it has been how many years since we last met? On the eve of the Thel Akai’s disavowal-’
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Arathan thought about that, but found no words for those thoughts.
His father continued, ‘What falls under our hand, Arathan, we bend to our will. The horses we ride worship us, as if we were gods. But you and I, we can taste the bitterness of that, because if we are gods then we are unreliable gods. Imperfect gods. Cruel gods. Yet the horse is helpless in the face of all that and can only yearn for our blessing. Should its master beat it, still it yearns, seeking what all living things seek: the grace of being. Still, its god ever turns away. You may pity that horse,’ Draconus continued after a moment, ‘but not its desire.’
The grace of being. ‘Then what god would break us?’ Arathan asked.
Draconus grunted a second time, but it seemed to be a pleased grunt. He nodded to the figure in the doorway. ‘Not this one, Arathan.’
But Arathan’s thoughts had marched on, relentless upon a fraught path. Do gods break those they would have as worshippers? Do they set upon their children terrible ordeals, so that those children must kneel in surrender, opening their souls to helplessness? Is this what Mother Dark will do to her children? To us?
‘Most Azathanai,’ Draconus continued, ‘have no desire to be worshipped, to be made into gods. The confession of the helpless is written in spilled blood. The surrender that is sacrifice. It can taste… bitter.’
He and his father were now alone, facing the house and its dweller. Dusk fell around them like dark rain, devouring everything else, until the rest of the village took on the texture of worn, fading tapestries.
The figure then stepped out from the doorway, and a light came with him. It was not a warm light, not a light to drive back the gloom, and it hovered over the man’s left shoulder, a pallid disc or ball, larger than a man’s head, and if the man reached up, it would have remained beyond his touch, just past his fingertips.
That globe followed the man as he approached.
‘Cold and airless is his aspect,’ muttered Draconus. ‘Stay close to me, Arathan. A step away from my power and the blood will freeze and then boil in your flesh. Your eyes will burst. You will die in great pain. I trust such details impress upon you the importance of remaining close?’
Arathan nodded.
‘He has not yet decided on a name,’ Draconus added. ‘Which is a rather irritating affectation.’
The man was surprisingly young, perhaps only a handful of years older than Arathan himself. Here and there, in almost random fashion, ring-like tattoos adorned his skin, like the scars from some pox. His narrow, nondescript face bore no marks, however, and the eyes were dark and calm. When he spoke, his voice made Arathan think — incongruously — of pond water beneath a thin sheet of ice. ‘Draconus, it has been how many years since we last met? On the eve of the Thel Akai’s disavowal-’
‘We’ll not speak of time,’ Draconus said, and the words rang like a command.
The man’s brows lifted slightly, and then he shrugged. ‘But one way, surely, this refusal? After all, the future is the only field still to be sowed, and if we are to stay our hands here, what point this meeting? Shall we throw our seeds, Draconus, or make blunt fists?’
‘I did not think it would be you delivering the gift,’ Draconus replied.
‘Oh, that gift. You surmise correctly. Not me.’ And with that he smiled.
Arathan’s father answered with a scowl.
The stranger’s laugh was low. ‘Indeed. Impatience besets you, to no avail. You must trek farther still. The next village at the very least.’
‘The next, or do you but mock me?’
‘The next, I think. There has been much talk of your… request. And the answering thereof.’
‘Already I have been away from the court for too long,’ Draconus said in a frustrated growl.
‘Such gestures fill the imagination of the bearer,’ the man said, ‘but the same cannot be certain of the recipient. I fear a great disappointment awaiting you, Draconus. Perhaps even a hurt, a deep wound-’
‘I am not interested in your prophecies, Old Man.’
Arathan frowned at that strange name, so contrary to this figure facing them.
‘Not a prophecy, Draconus. I would not risk that in your presence. Rather, I fear the value you have imbued in this gift of yours — it is, perhaps, dangerous in its extremity.’
‘Who awaits me in the next village?’
‘I cannot even guess,’ Old Man replied. ‘But a few will gather. Curious. This usage of Night, Draconus, was without precedent, and the fury of the believers is something to behold.’