Uncertainly, she ventured inside, and took a chair on the other side of the table, almost directly opposite Arathan. Her dark eyes fixed on him and she nodded a faint greeting.
‘Yes,’ said Varandas, as he offered the woman a cup of wine, ‘he is the child who will march with us. So young to challenge death. So bold and so careless with the long life promised him – the promise that belongs only to the young, of course. The rest of us, naturally, have since choked on its dregs and done our share of spitting out. Should we not talk him out of this? Well, if Gothos himself has failed in achieving that, what hope have we?’
‘If we tremble here,’ said Burrugast to the woman, ‘do add your shield to our line, but tell us your name and what of your story you would offer strangers.’
She looked down at her cup as she drank, and then said, ‘I see no value in my name, as I am already surrendered to my fate. I ask not to be remembered.’ Her eyes shifted to the Jaghut at the table’s head. ‘I never thought I would find myself in the company of the Lord of Hate. I am honoured, and more to the point, I welcome his indifference.’ She paused and looked round at the others, ending once more on Arathan. ‘You have already lost this battle against Gothos, and every reason he flings at you, to give proof to your madness. This sentiment is one you would do well getting used to, don’t you think? After all, death will answer us likewise.’
Haut sighed. ‘Pray someone step outside and intercept the Seregahl, and what agents of the Dog-Runners might be on their way to this assembly. Snare the Forulkan’s speaker, too, with knotted cords about her ankles, and leave her lying on the cold stones. Whip the Jheck into yelping retreat. I for one do not know how much more I can take. Here, Varandas, I will have the jug back.’
They drank. They said nothing, the silence stretching. The clawed fingers made notches in the time that passed.
‘He exhausts me,’ Varandas finally muttered. ‘Defeat has made me stupid, too stupid to heed his wisdom.’
‘It is the same for all of us here,’ said Haut. ‘Gothos has failed. Everyone, rejoice.’ He looked down at the tabletop, and added, ‘As you will.’
Burrugast was the first to rise, wobbling slightly. ‘I will return to Hood,’ he said, ‘and report his rival’s surrender. We have, my friends, withstood our first assault.’ He raised his empty cup. ‘See. I collect a trophy, this war’s spoil.’
Weaving, he made his way outside, clutching the pewter cup as if it was gold and studded with gems. A moment later, Varandas stood and followed him out.
Rubbing at his lined face, Haut nodded, as if to some unspoken thought, and then stood. ‘Gothos, once again you are too formidable to withstand. And so I retreat. No doubt Korya waits in ambush – is it any wonder I would run to death?’
As Haut strode from the chamber, the blue-skinned woman – who had been staring at Arathan with disconcerting intensity – now rose. She bowed towards Gothos, and then said to Arathan, ‘This last war should not be your first, boy. You miss the point.’
He shook his head, but said nothing. The surrender in his soul would remain private. Of all the vows breeding in this place, it was to his mind the only one worth keeping.
Scowling, she departed.
Alone with Gothos again, Arathan finally spoke. ‘I expected at least one Azathanai,’ he said. ‘They are in the camp, I’m told. A few. Keeping to themselves.’
The fingers drummed.
‘I thought I would hear your final arguments,’ Arathan said, squinting across at the Lord of Hate.
Abruptly, Gothos stood and turned back to face his desk close to the lead-paned window with its burst webs of frost. ‘Let it not be said,’ he muttered, ‘that I did not try my best. Now, Arathan, I need more ink, and another stack awaits you.’
Arathan bowed his head in seeming acknowledgement, but mostly to hide his smile.
* * *
The three blue-skinned warriors flung their gear to the ground close to the natural wall made by the huge boulder atop which Korya was perched. Peering down, wondering if they knew of her presence, she studied their long shadows in sinewy play over the frozen ground, flowing from and following the two women and one man as they set about preparing their camp.
The shadows betray will. Ignore the flesh and see only how the will flows like water, like ink. Enough to fill a thousand empty vessels. A thousand Mahybes. But no shadow can push a pebble, bend a twig or flutter a leaf. And a vessel thus filled remains empty. This then is the lesson of will.
The man below had been carrying a small open stove of iron with four splayed legs, which he set down close to the wall. He now spilled coals from a lidded cup into its basin, and then began feeding in chunks of stone that looked like pumice. Green flames lifted into view, edges flickering yellow and blue. The rising heat startled Korya with its intensity.
The rhythm of their speech was odd but the words were understandable. This was a detail that had lodged in her mind, as something unusual, and perhaps worthy of examination. For the moment, however, she was content to slip through the army’s encampment, to perch and listen in, to make of herself something less than a shadow.
One of the women now said, ‘A mob to make a city.’
The other woman, younger, smaller, was laying out the makings of a meal – mostly dried fish and seaweed. She shrugged and said, ‘Does it matter where we washed up? I saw Hyras floating in the bilge with an eel in his mouth. Fat like a black tongue. Hyras had no eyes to see, but that tongue never stopped wiggling.’
‘Someone said there were officers,’ the first woman said. ‘Command tent, or even a building.’ She shook her head. ‘Our self-proclaimed captain’s not saying anything, but that was a short briefing up at that tower.’
‘Makes no matter,’ said the man, as he moved back from the heavy heat cast off by the pumice stones. ‘Defeat rides a failing wind, once you get far enough away from the red waters. I saw nothing of what happened to us on the strand we found.’ He paused, and then added, ‘We’re safe.’
‘Left the ships to roll,’ said the younger woman.
‘The tide’ll take them out,’ the man said. ‘The sands reach out a league or more, not a reef in sight, not a killer stone to mark.’ He seemed to glare across at both women. ‘Fit for tombs and nothing else now, anyway.’
The younger woman snorted. ‘You were quick to take the flame away, Cred, and with it the Living Claim.’
‘Quick and clear-eyed, Stark,’ Cred replied, with an easy nod.
The older woman dragged a cask close. She twisted the dowel loose and tapped her finger against the water that splashed free. Stoppering it again, she sighed and said, ‘Salt needs sucking out. It’s a problem.’
‘Why?’ Stark demanded. ‘Make blood and be done with it.’
‘We’re inland,’ the older woman replied. ‘There are faces to the magic here, more even than what’s out at sea. Most of them I don’t know.’ She looked around, spread her hands and said, ‘We’re poor offerings to make us a bargain.’
‘Stop being so afraid,’ Stark retorted. ‘We need fresh water.’
The older woman twisted to regard Cred. ‘What do you think?’
Cred shrugged. ‘We need the water, and a handful of salt wouldn’t hurt us, neither. Something to trade. Dog-Runners from inland will take it, for good red meat in exchange. Me, Brella, I kept the coals alive – I’ve not had to face any of these strange spirits yet.’
‘But if you needed to?’
‘Can’t argue with need, Brella. Drip some blood, see who comes.’
This was the magic now roiling through this camp. A thousand paths, countless arcane rituals. It seemed rules grew up fast, making intricate patterns, proscriptions, and not one warlock or witch seemed to agree on any of them. Korya suspected that none of those rituals mattered in the least. The power was a dark promise, and the darkness promised mystery. It’s all writing in the sand.