Tanal Yathvanar felt a slither deep in his gut. And fled from it. No god waits to pass judgement. No-one marks the imbalance of deeds-no god is beyond its own imbalances-for its own deeds are as subject to judgement as any other. So who then fashions this afterlife? Some natural imposition? Ridiculous-there is no balance in nature. Besides, nature exists in this world and this world alone-its rules mean nothing once the bridge is crossed…
Tanal Yathvanar found himself walking up the corridor, that horrid woman and her cell far behind him now-he had no recollection of actually leaving.
Karos has said again and again, justice is a conceit. It does not exist in nature. ‘Retribution seen in natural catastrophes is manufactured by all too eager and all too pious people, each one convinced the world will end but spare them and them alone. But we all know, the world is inherited by the obnoxious, not the righteous.’ -
Unless, came the thought in Janath’s voice, the two are one and the same.
He snarled as he hurried up the worn stone stairs. She was far below. Chained. A prisoner in her solitary cell. There was no escape for her.
I have left her down there, far below. Far behind. She can’t escape.
Yet, in his mind, he heard her laughter.
And was no longer so sure.
Two entire wings of the Eternal Domicile were empty, long, vacated corridors and never-occupied chambers, storage rooms, administration vaults, servant quarters and kitchens. Guards patrolling these sections once a day carried their own lanterns, and left unrelieved darkness in their wake. In the growing damp of these unoccupied places, dust had become mould, mould had become rot, and the rot in turn leaked rank fluids that ran down plastered walls and pooled in dips in the floors.
Abandonment and neglect would soon defeat the ingenious innovations of Bugg’s Construction, as they defeated most things raised by hands out of the earth, and Turudal Brizad, the Errant, considered himself almost unique in his fullest recognition of such sordid truths, indeed, there were other elders persisting in their nominal existence, but they one and all fought still against the ravages of inevitable dissolution. Whereas the Errant could not be bothered.
Most of the time.
The Jaghut had come to comprehend the nature of futility, inspiring the Errant to a certain modicum of empathy for those most tragic of people. Where was Gothos now, he wondered. Probably long dead, all things considered. He had written a multiple-volumed suicide note-his Folly-that presumably concluded at some point, although the Errant had neither seen nor heard that such a conclusion existed. Perhaps, he considered with sudden suspicion, there was some hidden message in a suicidal testimonial without end, but if so, such meaning was too obscure for the mind of anyone but a Jaghut.
He had followed the Warlock King to the dead Azath, remained there long enough to discern Hannan Mosag’s intentions, and had now returned to the Eternal Domicile, where he could walk these empty corridors in peace. Contemplating, among other things, stepping once again into the fray. To battle, one more time, the ravages of dissolution.
He thought he could hear Gothos laughing, somewhere. But no doubt that was only his imagination, ever eager to mock his carefully reasoned impulses.
Finding himself in a stretch of corridor awash with slime-laden water, the Errant paused. ‘Well,’ he said with a soft sigh, ‘to bring a journey to a close, one must first begin it. Best I act whilst the will remains.’
His next step took him into a glade, thick verdant grasses underfoot, a ring of dazzling flowers at the very edges of the black-boled trees encircling the clearing. Butterflies danced from one bloom of colour to the next. The patch of sky visible overhead was faintly tinted vermilion and the air seemed strangely thin.
A voice spoke behind him. ‘I do not welcome company here.’
The Errant turned. He slowly cocked his head. ‘It’s not often the sight of a woman inspires fear in my soul.’
She scowled. ‘Am I that ugly, Elder?’
‘To the contrary, Menandore. Rather… formidable.’
‘You have trespassed into my place of refuge.’ She paused, then asked, ‘Does it so surprise you, that one such as myself needs refuge?’
‘I do not know how to answer that,’ he replied.
‘You’re a careful one, Errant.’
‘I suspect you want a reason to kill me.’
She walked past him, long black sarong flowing from frayed ends and ragged tears. ‘Abyss below,’ she murmured, ‘am I so transparent? Who but you could have guessed that 1 require justification for killing?’
‘So your sense of sarcasm has survived your solitude, Menandore. It is what I am ever accused of, isn’t it? My… random acts.’
‘Oh, I know they’re not random. They only seem that way. You delight in tragic failure, which leads me to wonder what you want with me? We are not well suited, you and I.’
‘What have you been up to lately?’ he asked.
‘Why should I tell you?’
‘Because I have information to impart, which you will find… well suited to your nature. And I seek recompense.’
‘If I deny it you will have made this fraught journey for nothing.’
‘It will only be fraught if you attempt something untoward, Menandore.’
‘Precisely.’
Her unhuman eyes regarded him steadily.
He waited.
‘Sky keeps,’ she said.
‘Ah, I see. Has it begun, then?’
‘No, but soon.’
‘Well, you are not one to act without long preparation, so I am not that surprised. And which side will we, eventually, find you on, Menandore?’
‘Why, mine of course.’
‘You will be opposed.’
One thin brow arched.
The Errant glanced around. ‘A pleasant place. What warren are we in?’
‘You would not believe me if I told you.’
‘Ah,’ he nodded, ‘that one. Very well, your sisters conspire.’
‘Not against me, Errant.’
‘Not directly, or, rather, not immediately. Rest assured, however, that the severing of your head from your shoulders is the eventual goal.’
‘Has she been freed, then?’
‘Imminent.’
‘And you will do nothing? What of the others in that fell city?’
Others? ‘Mael is being… Mael. Who else hides in Letheras, barring your two sisters?’
‘Sisters,’ she said, then sneered as she turned away, walked to one edge of the glade, where she crouched and plucked a flower. Facing him once more, she lifted the flower to draw deep its scent.
From the snapped stem, thick red blood dripped steadily.
I’ve indeed heard it said that beauty is the thinnest skin.
She suddenly smiled. ‘Why, no-one. I misspoke.’
‘You invite me to a frantic and no doubt time-devouring search to prove your ingenuousness, Menandore. What possible reason could you have to set me on such a trail?’
She shrugged. ‘Serves you right for infringing upon my place of refuge, Errant. Are we done here?’
‘Your flower is bled out,’ he said, as he stepped back, and found himself once more in the empty, flooded corridor of the Eternal Domicile’s fifth wing.
Others. The bitch.
As soon as the Errant vanished from the glade, Menandore flung the wilted flower to one side, and two figures emerged from the forest, one from her left, the other from her right.
Menandore arched her back as she ran both hands through her thick red hair.
Both figures paused to watch.
She had known they would. ‘You heard?’ she asked, not caring which one answered.
Neither did. Menandore dropped her pose and scowled over to the scrawny, shadow-swarmed god to her left. ‘That cane is an absurd affectation, you know.’
‘Never mind my absurd affectations, woman. Blood dripping from a flower, for Hood’s sake-oops-’ The god known as Shadowthrone tilted a head towards the tall, cowled figure opposite. ‘Humblest apologies, Reaper.’
Hood, Lord of Death, seemed to cock his head as if surprised. ‘Yours?’
‘Apologies? Naturally not. I but made a declarative statement. Was there a subject attached to it? No. We three fell creatures have met, have spoken, have agreed on scant little, and have concluded that our previous impressions of each other proved far too… generous. Nonetheless, it seems we are agreed, more or less, on the one matter you, Hood, wanted to address. It’s no wonder you’re so ecstatic’