Tavore said, ‘Captain, if I fall – take up my sword.’
‘If I do, Adjunct – and if indeed a time comes when I must draw that weapon – it will kill me.’
‘Then as you have said, you must not be an Elder God.’
‘As I said,’ he agreed wryly. ‘But the matter is simpler than that. I have lived a long time, and that is by magic alone. Without sorcery, I would be less than dust.’ He glanced at Banaschar. ‘Delat is not the only one to have gamed at the table of the gods.’
‘I would know your story some day, Ruthan Gudd,’ said Banaschar, with a sad smile.
Ruthan Gudd shrugged. ‘To be honest, too sordid to tell.’
They were silent, as if so thoroughly wrung out by all that had been said – and felt – that nothing remained.
Lostara then returned, and at her side was the girl named Badalle, and a boy carrying a sack.
Nom Kala walked through a silent camp, bodies lying motionless on all sides, half-closed eyes tracking her as she strode past. She saw suffering on a scale that made long-dead emotions tremble inside her, and she remembered the fate of her own kind, when walls of ice closed in, when the animals died out or went away, when there was nothing left to eat, when the humans hunted them down.
Their answer had been the Ritual, an escape that proved a prison. But such a thing was not available to these mortals. Another day. A lie to give them that, if one is even possible. See how weak they are. See how they fail. Another day – but would that be a gift? The marching, the dragging steps, the ones falling to the side to surrender. Will they thank me for those extra moments?
Perhaps her desire to help was in fact one of cruelty—
‘So, how does it feel?’
At the faint voice she halted, looked round, saw a soldier sitting nearby, studying her. ‘How does what feel?’ she asked.
‘Being … dust.’
She did not know how to answer him and so was silent.
‘We’ll be joining you soon enough, I suppose.’
‘No, you won’t. No memory will remain, nothing to draw you back.’
‘But I have strings, T’lan Imass. That’s my private curse. I will be pulled back together – or they’ll try, anyway. Over and over again.’
Nom Kala studied the man, and then shook her head. ‘I see no strings, mortal. If they once existed, now they are gone. Nothing holds you. Not the will of gods, not the lies of destiny or fate. You are severed from everything but that which lives within you.’
‘Truly? No wonder I feel so lonely.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That is the reason.’
‘But … you are not alone, are you, T’lan Imass?’
‘No, but that is no salvation. Together, we but share our loneliness.’
He snorted. ‘Not sure that makes sense, but I think I understand you anyway. Listen, do us a favour. Once the last of us has fallen, don’t fall to dust, don’t give up just yet. Walk out of this desert. Walk out of it. Please, will you do that?’
‘Because it is said that this desert cannot be crossed. Yes, I understand you, mortal.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘We shall.’
He settled back on his bedroll with an uneven sigh. ‘Good. Prove them wrong. It’s good enough, I think.’
Nom Kala hesitated, and then said, ‘Do not give up, soldier. One more march.’
Eyes closed, he asked, ‘What would be the point of that?’
‘Push your comrades on – through this next night. Do this, please. As I have agreed to do as you wish, I ask that you reciprocate.’
He opened his eyes, squinted at her. ‘Is it that important?’
‘Suffering is a chasm. But there is the other side, and upon that side waits the Fallen God. I am one of the Seven now. I am one among the Unbound. The Fallen One understands suffering, mortal. In that you are not alone. In that, neither are the T’lan Imass alone.’
‘Aye, I’ll grant you that he knows a thing or two about suffering. That you do, as well. I just don’t see the comfort in that kind of sharing.’
‘If not comfort, then find strength.’
‘To keep bearing that suffering? What for?’
Yes, Nom Kala, what for? Do you have an answer? Does anyone? ‘When you at last reach across that chasm, mortal, and grasp tight the hand of the Fallen One, ask him your question.’
He managed a sour smile. ‘Convenient.’ And he closed his eyes once more.
She continued on, troubled, heavy with anguish. The T’lan Imass have seen civilizations rise and fall. We have seen lands die, only to be reborn. We have seen the seas rise and we have walked ancient seabeds. We have witnessed life’s myriad struggles. From the lone creature suffering its last moments to thousands dying in a bleak season.
And what have we learned?
Only that life is its own purpose. And that, where there is life, there shall be suffering. Has it any meaning? Is existence reason enough?
I am an Unbound. I am free to see, and what is it that I see?
I see … nothing.
Ahead, at the vanguard of the column, there were figures. Standing. Now, I must find a worthy lie. And if my name is to be cursed in the last breaths of these humans, so be it. My crime was hope. My punishment is to see it fail.
But the T’lan Imass have weathered that punishment for a long time, and the failure of hope has a name: it is called suffering.
‘Words,’ said Badalle, meeting the Adjunct’s eyes. ‘I found power in words. But that power is gone. I have nothing left.’
Mother turned to her companions, but said nothing. There was almost no life left in her plain face, her plain eyes, and seeing that hurt Badalle somewhere inside. I had a poem for you. But it is gone. Dried up.
A man combed his beard with filthy fingers and said, ‘Child … if your strength returns – another day …’
‘It is not that kind of strength,’ Badalle replied. ‘It is gone, perhaps for ever. I do not know how to get it back. I think it has died.’ I am not your hope. I cannot be. It was meant to be the other way round, don’t you see that? We are children. That and nothing more. ‘The god that died here, it was the same.’
Mother frowned. ‘Can you explain that, Badalle?’
She shook her head.
The other man – the one with the haunted eyes – then spoke. ‘What can you tell us of that god, Badalle?’
‘He broke apart.’
‘Did he just break apart or did someone break him apart?’
‘He was murdered by his followers.’
The man reacted as if he’d been struck in the face.
‘It is in the Song of the Shards,’ she continued. ‘The god sought to give his people one last gift. But they refused it. They would not live by it, and so they killed him.’ She shrugged. ‘It was long ago, in the age when believers murdered their gods if they didn’t like what the god had to say. But it’s all different now, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ the bearded man muttered. ‘Now we just ignore them to death.’
‘It’s not the gods that we ignore,’ said the woman standing beside Mother, ‘just their gifts of wisdom.’
The other man spoke. ‘Do that long enough and the gods just wither and die. So it takes longer, but in the end, it’s still murder. And we’re just as vicious with mortals who have the nerve to say things we don’t want to hear.’ He cursed, and then said, ‘Is it any wonder we’ve outstayed our welcome?’
Mother met Badalle’s eyes and asked, ‘This city – Icarias – who dwells there?’
‘Only ghosts, Mother.’
Beside her, Saddic had seated himself on the ground, taking out his useless things, but at the mention of Icarias he looked up and then pointed at the bearded man. ‘Badalle,’ he said. ‘I saw this man. In the crystal caves beneath the city.’