T’riss was studying him. ‘This queen was blood-kin to Mother Dark?’
‘Half-sisters,’ Resh said.
‘She could not have claimed the throne?’
‘No,’ Caplo replied. ‘An exception would have been made, however. There was precedent. But she was deemed … unsuitable.’
‘Esoteric interests,’ said Resh in a growl. ‘No talent for politics. Idealistic, romantic – well suited, perhaps, to her elevation into godhood.’
‘Then,’ said T’riss, ‘your throne remains unoccupied. I expect that this would indeed suit the highborn.’
‘The throne is transformed,’ said Resh. ‘Its place of honour now is
in
the temple. Upon it sits Mother Dark, and by title it is no longer the Royal Throne, but the Throne of Night.’
‘She will be seated upon it, then?’ T’riss asked. ‘When we have audience with her?’
Caplo shrugged. ‘Who can say? In darkness she dwells.’
The Azathanai was now looking from Caplo to Resh and back again. ‘The dead queen was the last of the royal line. By this you mean the direct line.’
‘Yes,’ said Resh, scowling.
‘There remain distant relations.’
Caplo nodded.
‘Lieutenant, I see little of the disingenuous in your comportment with me. You will give honest answer to my next question.’
‘If answer I possess,’ said Caplo.
‘The Queen had other kin. They now hold the titles of Mother and Father, and their names are Sheccanto and Skelenal.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet they are lifebound.’
‘Without consummation, Azathanai,’ replied Caplo. ‘To be lifebound is not a marriage. It is something … other.’
‘By rights they could claim the throne.’
Caplo shrugged. ‘It could so be argued.’
After a moment she turned back, resumed her trek across the concourse.
The water was gone, leaving little more than a few puddles and patches of wet stone fast dwindling in the sunlight. As Caplo made to nudge his mount forward, Resh reached out a hand and stayed him.
They watched her walking onward for a dozen heartbeats.
‘Warlock,’ murmured Caplo, ‘say nothing in the certainty of being unheard.’
‘I won’t,’ Resh answered. ‘But these matters – of lineage and blood – I see no advantage in her knowing them.’
‘To firm her footing, I should think.’
‘Nothing more?’
Caplo shrugged. ‘The age of kings and queens is past, warlock. The lesson was lost on no one. By love aggrieved she cast the realm into chaos. This shall not happen again.’
‘We should have left the Azathanai to the damned Wardens,’ Resh said.
This time, Caplo could not but agree. ‘She nears the gate,’ he observed.
They rode to catch up, avoiding the puddles.
* * *
Atop the Old Tower, Cedorpul, Endest Silann and Rise Herat watched the tiny figure of the woman walk towards the Citadel’s City Gate. As the Shake escort, momentarily halted, now rode to catch up to her, Cedorpul grunted and said, ‘That is Warlock Resh and Caplo Dreem. A curious pairing for this formality.’
Rise Herat glanced across at the young priest. ‘Of course the warlock should be in attendance,’ he replied. ‘The river has breached its banks and washed the city—’
‘As if to cleanse her path,’ murmured Endest Silann.
‘Faith can survive a little water,’ said Cedorpul.
The historian heard the diffidence in that assertion. ‘Do you sense this ancient awakening, priest?’
The round-faced man shrugged. ‘In witnessing something both unexpected and … vast, there is a sense of awe, but that is perfectly reasonable. Such reactions are beneath argument, I would say. Is this synonymous with reverential awe? I think not.’
‘Although we possess no documents,’ observed Rise Herat, ‘it is fair to assume that the seasonal rise and fall of the river was integral to the worship of the river god. Is it not clear that we have witnessed a miracle?’
‘Yet the water retreats,’ Cedorpul countered. ‘The power here belongs to Mother Dark.’
‘“Upon the field of battle, I saw peacocks.”’
‘The meaning of that, historian?’
‘Only that the ground is contested now, priest. It may well be that Warlock Resh will make claim to the temple itself.’
‘He dare not!’
Below, the Azathanai woman, of average height, thin, dressed in strange, colourless garb, now reached the gate. She made no pause and a moment later disappeared from sight. Her path would take her across a squat bridge to an inner gate, and from there into the Citadel itself. Behind her the two riders dismounted and followed, leaving their horses with the other monks – who, it seemed, would not be entering the Citadel grounds. Rise watched as the mounted warriors wheeled around and, leading the two riderless horses, set off back across the concourse at a fast trot.
‘These matters are beyond us,’ said Endest Silann. ‘I am unbalanced and feel unwell.’
‘Betrayed by your nervous constitution,’ Cedorpul said. ‘Mother Dark cannot be assailed at the very heart of her power.’
‘Mother Dark is not the one at threat here,’ said Rise, thinking of Caplo Dreem.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Endest Silann asked.
The historian shrugged. ‘An idle thought. Pay it no mind. Instead,
consider
this: it is only when opposed that some things find definition. Few would argue, I think, that Darkness is a difficult thing to worship. What is it we seek in elevating Mother Dark? What manner of unity can we find circling a place of negation?’
‘Contentious questions,’ Cedorpul said, his tone too light for the assertion.
Sensing the strain in the priest, Rise Herat spoke again, ‘Religious practice rises from precedent, after all.’
‘You would argue the matter of religious practice?’
‘If it helps this moment, Cedorpul, then my answer is yes. My point is, you are all starving for guidance. For all of Mother Dark’s power, there is no prescription. What form must ritual observance take? How is proper propitiation to be achieved and is it even desired by the one whom you would worship? In what manner do you announce obeisance? These are the issues occupying your priesthood, and the source of debate.’
‘The resurrection of the river god offers us no worthy answers, historian. The faith died, did it not?’
‘There was a rejection, yes; that much is clear. One need only look upon the determined defacing of the walls in the temple to grasp something of the rage surrounding that crisis. Yet, one could argue that it was the perceived death of their god that so triggered the frenzy of destruction.’
‘What if it was guilt?’ Endest asked.
‘That suggestion,’ snapped Cedorpul, his colour high, ‘displeases me on countless levels, acolyte.’
‘Not all thoughts are uttered to please,’ Rise said. ‘This does not diminish their value. Guilt is a powerful emotion … yes, I can see it gouging faces from walls, words from panels. If the god died, there is cause to ask why. Yet faith alone clearly proved insufficient sustenance, so we need not discuss its veracity, given the persistent presence of the Yan and Yedan Monasteries. And,’ he added, ‘the resurrection of this selfsame god.’
Cedorpul turned to Endest Silann. ‘Acolyte, we have dallied up here long enough. The others will be gathering – they will be looking for me. Before us now is a challenge and face it we must. Historian, fare you well. Oh, will you look in on the child?’
Rise Herat smiled. ‘I shall rattle the lock and demand entrance, and she shall cry me begone.’
Cedorpul’s nod was brisk. ‘That will do.’
* * *
High Priestess Emral Lanear stood beside Lord Anomander, awaiting the appearance of the Azathanai and her escort. Syntara had entered
the
inner chamber and now presumably communed with Mother Dark, although in truth Emral knew that such communion was notoriously frustrating. Perhaps an idealistic, romantic woman well and truly belonged at the heart of something as ephemeral as faith and worship. Perhaps indeed no virtue of pragmatism was possible in matters of the soul, and might even prove anathema to the very notion of the sacred.
Did not all prophets speak in riddles? Did not diviners slip like eels through an array of futures? Scriptures fraught with hard pronouncements might well be desired, but these were the ones most readily ignored, she suspected – although in truth she knew little of the religions of other peoples. One did not need to be a scholar to observe, however, that faiths were born of stone, water, earth, sun and wind, and should these forces prove harsh and inimical, so too the faith. Hard lives begat hard laws, not just in the necessities of living, but also in those of believing. She well understood that particular dialogue.
A river in seasonal flood, a forest to hold back the harshest winds, the plenitude of fish, crops and game: these did not describe a harsh world, a scrabble to live. The Tiste had traditionally recoiled from fast rules, as if such rules offended their nature. It was only war that changed this, and now, when Emral took a moment away from her mirror – when she looked upon the many now commanding positions of influence in the Citadel – she saw sharp edges in place of soft lines, and in a host of eyes there was stone instead of water.
Many were the natural forces to assail a people and give them shape; in her mind, she must now count among them war itself, no different from sun and wind.
‘They are coming,’ said Anomander. ‘Will you give greeting first?’
‘I see myself as more of a final escort into the presence of Mother Dark, Lord.’
‘Very well,’ he replied.
Motion at the far end of the corridor, and then a sudden bloom of light.
Ice cracked where it sheathed the stone walls, slid down in sheets. The glow surrounded the Azathanai, its golden hue deepening at its edges, reminding Emral of burning leaves. The power she unveiled as she drew closer made the walls groan and shift. Dust drifted down.
Emral found that she was trembling.
It is a wonder that the Azathanai are not worshipped as gods
.
Behind the approaching woman came Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem. Neither man bore an air of confidence; instead, they looked beleaguered, exhausted by uncertainty.
With the light came warmth, cutting through the chilled air, devouring it. The Azathanai woman, slight of frame, attractive in a delicate way, her fair hair drifting in the swirling draughts, halted three strides
from
them. Her gaze fixing upon Anomander, she said, ‘Night will claim your skin. Before your eyes, darkness will be revealed. But I will make visible the defiance within you, as a gift.’
Anomander frowned. ‘Azathanai, I ask for no gifts. I offer no defiance.’
The woman’s gaze drifted from him and settled upon Emral. ‘Your sorrow, High Priestess, is lonely, and you are driven to share your truths. I advise against it. Give voice to your secrets and you will be rejected by those for whom you care the most.’
Heat flooded through Emral and she fought to control her tone. ‘Azathanai, your words of greeting are presumptuous.’
Thin brows arched. ‘I cannot be but what I am, High Priestess. I come to stir the waters, and for a time we shall all be blind. Will you now turn me away?’
Emral shook her head. ‘She wishes to see you, Azathanai.’
‘A desire I share. I have been called T’riss and this name I now take as my own. I do not know who I was before I was T’riss. I dwelt for a time in the Vitr. I am of the Azathanai, but I do not know what this means.’
‘If you are here,’ said Anomander, ‘seeking answers to questions, you may be disappointed.’
‘The Tiste view the Vitr as an enemy,’ said T’riss. ‘It is no such thing. It exists for itself. It is a sea of possibilities, of potential. It holds life in the manner that blood holds life.’
‘Did it create you?’ Anomander asked.
‘No.’
‘Yet it grows. It devours land – this indeed poses a threat to Kurald Galain.’
The woman shrugged. ‘The sea does not dream of you.’
Emral’s attention slid from the Azathanai’s unperturbed equanimity, past her to Warlock Resh. The man’s face was pale, drawn. ‘Warlock Resh, you have brought us this guest. She has awakened your ancient god. What would Mother Sheccanto have you say to the followers of Mother Dark?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, as if choking out the word. ‘For the moment.’
‘I will see her now,’ said T’riss.
Emral stepped to one side. The Azathanai moved past her.
As Warlock Resh and Caplo fell in behind T’riss, Anomander’s hands snapped out, grasped Caplo by the man’s tunic, and threw him up against the wall. He held the monk pinned there, feet dangling.
Resh stumbled back in alarm, and then quickly shook his head and Emral saw the gleam of a knife blade half hidden in Caplo’s left hand – which vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Ahead, T’riss did not so much as turn round, instead pushing open the heavy door and striding into the chamber. The door, left open,
reflected
flashes of yellow light, and Emral could feel the Azathanai’s power pushing through the darkness.