He sat upon the cot, painting the air with one finger, brushing lines of black knotted with touches of grey to give shape to the creaking of the ropes under him. There was little talent in perfect rendition. Setting banal reality upon a board or canvas made sordid the modest virtue of craft; as if perfect brush-strokes and obsessive detail could exist as something beyond technical prowess, and could in fact announce profundity. He knew otherwise and it was this contempt that sat like swirling ripples marking the surface of his dissolution, turgid but hinting of life.
In the world he had left behind, an artist needed to tie contempt down and make the bindings tight, and take damp cloth to where it bled through. To let it loose was to attack both artist and audience, and he had neither the strength nor the will for such a thing: even the sentiment left him exhausted.
He had descended into madness, there in the chamber of the house his memory dared not revisit. He was not yet certain that it had departed. Blindness made a mystery of everything just out of reach. He had decided to wait, and upon the only canvas left to him paint sounds upon the ephemeral walls of this crypt: the creaks and faint echoes; the muted slap from people passing by the door, those footsteps so urgent and so pathetic; the dull repetition of his own breath and the sullen thump of his heart; the languid surge and ebb of the blood in his veins.
All in shades of black and grey, upon the insubstantial but exquisitely absolute walls of his blindness.
Once he was done, perfectly rendering this chamber, he would reach outside, to wander the corridors, recording everything. There is a new history coming, my friends. History as seen by a blind man. I will find Rise Herat, who gives us his delicious version as told by a man who says nothing. I will find Gallan, who sings unheard and walks unseen by any. Together, we will set out to find our audience, who heeds us not. And by this, we perfect the world and raise for posterity every grand monument to stupidity.
I see towers and spires. I see bold bridges and the palaces of the privileged. I see forests where the highborn hunt, and where poachers are hanged by their necks beneath trees. I see jewels and stacked coins inside guarded fortresses and upon the walls stand earnest orators, crying down the paucity of all. I see their lies catch up to them, in flames and vengeance. I see a future laden with ash and soot-coated pools, and gibbets groaning. And all that I see, I will paint.
And all the historian would not say, keeps him mute.
And the weeping poet will walk away, to hide his absence of tears.
And everything ends.
He heard himself laugh, a low cackling sound, and quickly etched its wavy, juddering lines with his finger. The streaks hung there in the darkness, slowly fading as the echoes dwindled.
The blind man paints history. The voiceless historian mimes the tale. The poet dispenses with music, dancing in discord. There is no rhythm to these brush-strokes. There is no beginning and no end to this tale. There is no beauty in the song.
And this is how it is.
My friends, this is how it is.
At the Citadel gate Hish Tulla and Gripp Galas found three of Anomander’s officers awaiting their lord. Kellaras, Dathenar and Prazek were girded as for battle, and as Gripp went to collect Anomander’s horse from the stables Hish Tulla waited a few paces away from the Houseblades.
There was no conversation under way. Of the three, only Kellaras bore the ebon hues that were a legacy of his time in the Chamber of Night, and it seemed that this had made a tension among the three, as if loyalty itself was perhaps no thicker than skin.
Gripp returned with Anomander’s mount and his own. ‘Both had been left saddled,’ he said to her in explanation.
‘Distress is a flavour,’ Hish said, ‘that none welcome but none can avoid.’
At her comment, Dathenar grunted in amusement. ‘Wail for the world’s end, milady, when even the grooms lose sleep.’ He gestured grandly. ‘Observe our befuddled state in this courtyard, and imagine the same throughout Kurald Galain. I have had many thoughts on civil war in the times leading to this, but not once did I imagine it so shrouded in confusion.’
‘It is the failure of certainty that has you reaching for the sword at your side,’ Hish replied. ‘We all strike out from a place of fear.’
Before Dathenar could answer, Lord Anomander appeared in the doorway of the Citadel and strode towards them, unconsciously cleaving a path through the disordered ranks in the compound. Arriving, he reached for the reins of his horse.
‘Captains,’ he said, addressing his Houseblades, ‘ride now, south to the Hust Legion. Accompany it on its march to Kharkanas. Request of Commander Toras Redone to make encampment upon the north side of the city, and see to the Legion’s provisioning.’
Hish watched as the three men mounted up. They departed without another word.
‘Now, Gripp-’
‘I wish a word with you,’ Hish cut in.
Anomander hesitated, and then sighed. ‘Very well. I intend no rudeness, Lady Hish, but I seek to find Andarist, and so cannot measure the length of my absence from Kharkanas. This invites impatience.’
‘And the fear of being alone, too, it seems, Lord Anomander.’
He frowned.
‘Gripp spoke to you of his desire to be with me, and you refused him. I have never asked anything from you, Lord Anomander, until this moment. Here I stand, pleading. Has he not done enough for you? Has he not given enough of his life in your service?’
Gripp stepped towards her, his face wretched. ‘My love-’
But both Anomander and Hish held up a staying hand.
‘Lady Hish,’ said the First Son, ‘Gripp Galas made no such request of me.’
Hish swung on Gripp. ‘Is this true? Did you fail in this one request of your master?’
‘Forgive me,’ the man said, bowing his head. ‘My lord said that his need for me was pressing.’
‘I did,’ Anomander said. ‘But I see now they were careless words. Lady Hish, your pardon. That you are brought to this, by my insensitivity, shames me. You ask for dispensation, but I ask that you withdraw your request.’
Hish stared, struck speechless.
Then Anomander turned to Gripp Galas. ‘Old friend, long have you served me, with valour and with honour. As my most trusted servant I have set my weight upon you, and not once heard from you a word of complaint. You have dressed my wounds on the field of battle. You have mended the damage of my clumsy youth. Did you truly believe that now, on this fraught day, I would once more draw tight this leash? We are all weakened by distress, and indeed it seems every tender emotion lies exposed and trembling to a forest of knives. Gripp Galas, old friend, your service to me ends here and it ends now. You have won the heart of a woman who in all things is nothing less than breathtaking. If love needs permission, I give it. If your future with Lady Hish can be served by any sacrifice within my ability, I give it.’ He set his gaze upon Hish Tulla. ‘Nothing need be asked and nothing need be surrendered by you, my lady. On this, of all days, I will see love made right.’ He swung into the saddle. ‘Go well, my friends. We are done here.’
As he rode out through the gate, Gripp Galas stared after his ex-master. He reached out one hand to his side, groping.
Hish stepped close and clasped that hand, and then felt some of his weight as he seemed to sag.
‘You damned fool,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I thought you knew him.’
The forest had broken down in this place. It left skeletal trees rising from marsh grasses, and rotting logs blanketed in moss. Black water surrounded every hummock and the smaller islands were made from tufts of grass and reeds. The air smelled of decay and insects swarmed. They were camped upon the verge of this sunken land, brought up in their flight from the south. A dozen fires smouldered, green grasses fed into the flames to fill the air with smoke and so drive back the biting insects. Narad sat near one of them, eyes watering.