The Three Lands Omnibus Part 65

Xylon opened his mouth, glanced at the Lieutenant, and contented himself with nodding hard. Quentin-Andrew, having pretended to read the first page, turned to the second. The room seemed to be growing colder by the moment; he wondered whether he should add fuel to the fire.

At that moment, warmth entered the room.

It came, oddly enough, from the door opening to the howling wind outside. Quentin-Andrew did not need to raise his eyes to know who stood at the threshold, listening silently as the other guards continued their boasting. After a minute, Quentin-Andrew raised his eyes, glanced at the figure in the doorway, and then looked down at the page in front of him. The room was quite warm now.

The other guards did not appear to agree. One of them took notice of Dolan and shouted an abrupt command. Dolan was above the rank of all of Quentin-Andrew's men, but he quickly complied with the order to close the door. After a moment more, the Commander's boy walked diffidently over to the fire-pot where the wine was warming and scooped out a cup for himself. Quentin-Andrew, his gaze fixed upon the third page, could see Dolan as though he was gazing straight at him. He knew that Dolan was hesitating, wondering whether to offer his cup to Quentin-Andrew. He had done so five times now ... or was it six? Whatever qualities Dolan might lack as a soldier, he was certainly persistent, even in battles ordained to be lost.

"... tortured for two days and never spoke a word ..." Revis, evidently feeling that he was on safe ground, was offering his own contribution to the covert praise of the Lieutenant. Quentin-Andrew, turning two pages in a row, felt rather than saw Dolan withdraw. No offer of wine tonight, then; perhaps no offer of wine ever again. After all, Dolan had been free of the Lieutenant for two months, and before then he had seen the Lieutenant reacting to his pain... . Quentin-Andrew skipped to the final page.

Then something made Quentin-Andrew turn his head. He saw the scene as he had seen it many times before: the six men of the day patrol cl.u.s.tered together in a companionable group, while Dolan sat apart from the rest, his head bowed as he gazed blankly at the table before him. He sipped at his wine, seemingly oblivious of the isolation in which the others had imprisoned him. There was a faint smile on his face, and the hair fell in front of his eyes, which were forever full of dreams. He raised his head- Quentin-Andrew caught the motion before it was complete and turned his own gaze back to the paper in front of him. But in the edge of his vision he could see Dolan bite his lip as he gazed at the Lieutenant. The boy swallowed, and then bowed his head over his cup.

His smile never faded.

The boasts nearby were growing larger; now the man had survived three days of torture without talking. Abruptly, Quentin-Andrew rose, his half-emptied cup in hand, and walked toward the men. They scattered at the sight of him, like an army in retreat. Only Dolan remained sitting at the trestle table, oblivious of the danger he was in. His head was still bowed; he was staring at his empty wine-cup.

The other guards had turned their backs. None of them saw the moment when Quentin-Andrew carefully placed his cup within reach of Dolan. He turned then, and began walking toward the cold end of the hut as rapidly as he could. He was therefore halfway across the hut by the time the warmth entered his body.

By then, it was too late to turn back.

CHAPTER FOUR.

The dungeon of the Jackal's palace was quiet now. In the corner, curled upon a mattress, Randal's a.s.sistants slept again. The empty wine-flasks beside them told, even more than the troubled sounds they made in their sleep, that the events of the past day had proved too much for their stomachs. Now one of them cried out, as though he were the man being questioned.

Randal was also asleep, his head cradled in his arms for the first time in two days, but his sleep was untroubled. By turning his head, Quentin-Andrew could see the young torturer, sitting next to the table with his face lying near his prisoner's face. His expression was relaxed, and his hand was curled gently around the hilt of his thigh-dagger, as a child cradles its doll.

Only Quentin-Andrew was awake. Partly this was because of the strain now upon his body and the antic.i.p.ation of what was to come. In this respect, as in many others, Randal had imitated his mentor: if time permitted, Quentin-Andrew often laid his prisoner upon the table, tightened the cords about his wrists and ankles, and let the prisoner remain there for a while, contemplating the effects that the machine would soon have upon him. Fear broke more prisoners than pain, and Randal knew by now the extent of his prisoner's fear.

Partly, though, Quentin-Andrew was kept awake by the noise: the faint noise travelling through the door, of shouts and cries and metal clashing. Closer and closer the sounds were coming, and it was with no great surprise that he heard sudden hammering on the door.

The a.s.sistants jerked awake, staring first at Randal and then at the door. Randal had raised his head and was listening. Then, with a smooth and unhurried motion, he walked to the door and lifted the latch.

The subcommander's orderly stood in the doorway. "The Northern Army will soon break through our defenses," he said without preliminary. "The subcommander says that you may leave here and take up arms to defend yourselves."

For a moment a an unguarded moment a an unfamiliar expression pa.s.sed over Randal's face: it was of intense relief. The look vanished, though, as Randal turned slowly toward his prisoner. He walked back steadily to the table where his prisoner lay, trussed and shivering under the dying fire. Then he leaned over Quentin-Andrew and said in a soft voice that did not carry to the door, "What would you do?"

Quentin-Andrew turned his face, but it was too late; Randal had read the answer there. The torturer said briskly to the orderly, "Tell the subcommander I'm staying. I may still be able to extract information that will allow us to win this battle."

"Do whatever you like," snapped the orderly. "I've no time to carry messages." And he was gone, leaving the door open and the sounds of battle driving into the cell like a volley of arrows.

The a.s.sistants looked uneasily at Randal; they had already risen and armed themselves. Randal glanced their way and said, "I won't need you any more. You may join the battle." He waited until they had scurried from the room; then he walked back to the door. This time he slid the great iron bar into place, as though sealing a tomb.

Quentin-Andrew's gaze had travelled away from him. He was staring at a series of weights, neatly stacked in the corner, all carefully labelled with numbers. By the time he looked back, Randal was standing beside him again. He pulled up the stool he had been sitting upon before, settled himself onto it, and stared down at Quentin-Andrew silently for a moment before speaking.

"The borderland," he said. "You're from the borderland a your accent tells that. One of our spies, a native of the borderland, approached close enough to the Northern Army's camp to hear you talking. He reported that your accent is of the Emorian borderland. So you're Emorian-born, but you didn't stay there."

His hand, still holding the thigh-dagger, travelled down to Quentin-Andrew's chest. As the blade touched his skin, Quentin-Andrew drew in his breath sharply, but Randal did nothing more than trace a pattern lightly. "A mainland tattoo. You've lived on the mainland, been initiated into one of the barbarian tribes there a perhaps that was where you learned your profession? I think you may have visited Daxis as well; one or two of your skills have a Daxion flavor to them. Whether or not you did, I know that you've been to Koretia before."

Again his dagger moved. This time he caused his prisoner's breath to stop short by laying the flat of his blade upon Quentin-Andrew's scarred right cheek. "The claw-marks of the Jackal," Randal said softly. "What did you do, Lieutenant, to make the G.o.d-man so angry? More to the point, how did you survive that encounter? What caused the Jackal to spare your life? Did you fool the Jackal into thinking that you would reform your ways? Or did he simply say, as the priests always say, that the G.o.ds can turn evil into good? If so, it's lucky that he died before he saw to what use you put your talents."

The dagger moved. Quentin-Andrew tried to see where Randal had placed it, but he could not find the strength to lift his head. Randal's hand was beyond his sight, somewhere at the other end of the table. Quentin-Andrew closed his eyes and tried to draw steady breaths.

Quietly through the darkness drifted Randal's voice. "That's all I know about you, Lieutenant a that's all anybody knows about you. I could discover the rest. You'd tell me anything at this point. You'd tell me who you are, and what your deepest wish is, and what your deepest questions are. Your deepest fears I already know. I could flay open your spirit and learn what lay inside you."

A heaviness was settling upon Quentin-Andrew: not the tug of the weights, but merciful sleep entering upon him. In the next moment, the drowsiness was shocked away from him as his body tried with futile desperation to arc away from the pain. His breath, whistling in too quickly, ended in a choke that scourged his chest.

When he opened his eyes, he could see the thigh-dagger once more. It was resting in Randal's palm, glistening with the small amount of blood that the torturer had drawn. As though there had been no pause in the conversation, Randal said, "But I won't pull that information from you, Lieutenant. You know why, don't you? At this point in the questioning, to change my goals ... Well, it would be like a bard suddenly turning his ballad into a drinking song. It would be crude."

He leaned forward and carefully wiped the b.l.o.o.d.y blade dry on Quentin-Andrew's hair. "That's what the others don't understand," he said. "They think that men like us are barbarians, no better than mountain-pa.s.s murderers. They believe that any man could do what we do if he were vicious and heartless. And they're wrong a oh, so wrong. Why, they might as well say that any gutter-child could sing as well as a bard. We're artists, Lieutenant a you and me and a few others like us. If we were simple murderers, we couldn't do what we do: patiently and carefully break a man, dancing down the thin line that keeps the prisoner alive long enough to allow the information to be extracted. Our work takes more self-discipline than the labor of most soldiers. To go as far as the work requires, but no farther. To enjoy the pain a for without enjoyment we could not last in our profession a but not to allow our enjoyment to overcome our sense of duty. And to serve the work a ah, that's the part that even our employers don't understand. They don't grasp the difference between a murderer's careless stab and the delicate and beautiful curve of a wound-"

He waited until Quentin-Andrew had subsided to shuddering gasps, and then leaned forward to wipe the blade once more. "We're bards of pain," he said, "and of all the bards in the world, you are the greatest. To those who have the ears to hear, your song has a richness that will make it immortal. Generations from now, men in our profession will still speak of the Lieutenant and of the beauty of his craft."

His hand travelled under the table. When it rose again, it was no longer holding the dagger. Leaning forward, Randal placed his head on the table beside Quentin-Andrew's and said in a low voice, "You know, don't you? You know that's why I've been so gentle with you. I could have placed you on this table on the first day and broken you. I could have hung you from the ceiling or shattered your bones or done a dozen other things to make you talk. But I did nothing like that a nothing that would cause you permanent harm. This-" His hand touched his prisoner's hand for a moment, and Quentin-Andrew heard himself whimper. "This will heal; everything I've done to you up to this point will heal. And do you know why, Lieutenant? I have no orders to execute you. That's the truth. After we're through, I can release you, and you can continue your exquisite work. In fact-"

Randal's lips brushed Quentin-Andrew's ear. In a whisper, he said, "You can be better than you were before, Lieutenant. You can be better because I'll be with you. Oh, I know that I can never be what you are, but I have a few talents of my own. Take me with you a as your partner if you find me worthy, otherwise as your apprentice. Together we will be the most powerful and creative force this world has ever known. The G.o.ds themselves will not be able to hold out against us. Let me join my song with yours, Lieutenant. All that is necessary is that you give me the information I need in order to release you."

Randal raised his head. After a while, Quentin-Andrew turned his face toward the young man, waiting in silence in the darkening cell. The heaviness lay upon Quentin-Andrew's spirit now.

"You're good at this," he whispered.

Randal smiled. It was a smile of pure joy, like that of a boy who witnesses his dreams come alive. He moved behind Quentin-Andrew and placed his hand momentarily on his prisoner's head.

"Think about what I've said," he murmured. "I don't want to hurt you any more."

And then he moved away from the table, and Quentin-Andrew felt the darkness enter his spirit.

The dungeon of the Chara's palace was widely admitted by its guests to possess a certain beauty not found in other dungeons of the Three Lands. This was due largely to the fact that Emor, being a wealthy land, had gradually expanded its palace over the years, so that the chambers of the original palace, built seven centuries before, were now used to house prisoners. The old council chamber formed the main cell, the Chara's former residence was the luxurious quarters of the dungeon-keeper, and the Court of Judgment, appropriately enough, was the main torture cell. Simple yet tasteful stone carvings still decorated the lintels and cornerposts, while the platform on which the Chara's throne had once stood was used as a racking table. All in all, a visit to this cell was an aesthetic delight.

The prisoner whose hands were presently chained above him, against the cell wall, appeared not to appreciate the privilege he was undergoing. He was, in several respects, an unusual prisoner. To start with, he was clothed, and his flesh was unmarked. No search had been done on him for weapons, and even if he had been carrying a weapon, no struggle would have taken place to disarm him. He answered all questions in a low voice, but with a quick obedience usually found only in prisoners faced with the table. The only element which made him look the same as other prisoners usually questioned in this place was that his body was bathed in sweat, causing his skin to glow in the firelight. Quentin-Andrew, standing nearby, thought to himself that he had never seen such a beautiful sight as Dolan under torture.

"No one will come, Dolan," he told the boy softly. "No one cares about you. You are alone now in the pit of your destruction."

It was a statement he had made to many prisoners over the years, but it had never been truer than now. Dolan possessed only two living friends; one had sent him to this place, and the other now stood before him, administering the torture.

Dolan lifted his head slowly to look up at Quentin-Andrew. No crushed hope showed in his expression; no hope had existed there from the moment he had realized what would be done to him. He had been with the Northern Army for eight years; he knew Quentin-Andrew too well. The cups of wine they had exchanged were forgotten.

Yet Quentin-Andrew knew that he had forged a valuable tool during the past four years, a tool which he could now use to break the boy. Leaning close to Dolan, he said softly, "I could help you, you know. I could save you from this place."

Now twenty-three, yet still boylike in appearance, Dolan showed no renewed hope or wistfulness or hostility. In a voice that was weary but clear, he said, "You can't. The Commander ordered you to execute me when you were through."

Dull-witted Dolan, Quentin-Andrew reflected, was far from dull-witted in his better moments. In fact, the boy had talents far beyond that which most people guessed at, the most important of which was his perceptive spirit. He had perceived aspects of Quentin-Andrew that no one else in the Northern Army had suspected, not even the Commander. Dolan's great weakness a a weakness that would now cost him his life a was that he would not use this knowledge to defend himself. If he had done so a if he had taken his knowledge of Quentin-Andrew's weaknesses and had hammered at those cracks in his torturer a Quentin-Andrew was not at all sure which of them would have been the victor. Yet Dolan, who would kill himself at a moment's notice for the sake of a friend, would never think of attacking an enemy. That wasn't in his nature.

Dolan's breath grew quicker; his gaze drifted past Quentin-Andrew toward the fire with its brand-irons, but his eyes were unfocussed. Quentin-Andrew, recognizing the signs, momentarily relished the vision of watching Dolan faint in his chains. He put the thought aside and reached into his thigh-pocket for the key to the manacles. He had told the Commander that the boy was too weak in body to endure physical torture; Dolan would undoubtedly die quickly before giving up the secret he was hiding. Quentin-Andrew could only use his special form of questioning, and even there he was constrained by the promise he had made to Dolan at the start that he would be gentle to him.

Why he had made such a promise was not clear to him now, but it made no difference. "Gentle," as any of Quentin-Andrew's previous prisoners could have borne witness, was a relative term where the Lieutenant was concerned.

Released from his manacles, Dolan sank to the floor and began gulping in air. In order to give Dolan time to recover from his sickness, without appearing to be merciful, Quentin-Andrew turned and walked over to the bottle of wine on the table. As he poured himself a cup, he reflected that it had taken a long time for his spirit's desire to be granted.

He had known that this day would come from the moment that he had first seen Dolan watching him with wide and innocent eyes. The boy looked so much like Gareth that Quentin-Andrew had not even needed the exchange of wine to know that their relationship would end this way. What surprised him a what astonished him a was that he was doing this with the blessing of the G.o.ds. Or so he must conclude, for the Jackal had told him to follow the Commander's orders, and these were the Commander's orders. For once in Quentin-Andrew's life, perfect pleasure corresponded with perfect duty.

For eight years he had followed the Commander; for eight years he had done only what he was ordered and no more. It was true that, as the years pa.s.sed, the Commander's orders had grown harsher, as was natural, given the increased opposition to the Northern Army's conquest of Emor. Yet Quentin-Andrew knew well a and he supposed that the G.o.ds knew also a that during those years he had never questioned a prisoner to the degree that he would most have enjoyed. Not until tonight. It made no difference how gentle Quentin-Andrew was tonight. He knew that his very acceptance of this role was the keenest torture he could place upon Dolan.

He turned his back to the table, with its straps and weights, and began sipping his wine as he looked down at Dolan, who was still crouched, gasping. This had been a heady day for Quentin-Andrew: first the final siege of the Emorian capital, then the sack of the Chara's palace, then the torture of selected prisoners to obtain knowledge of the location of all remaining Emorian law doc.u.ments, and finally the lengthy and glorious beheading of several dozen lords and palace officials. The Chara, much to Quentin-Andrew's disappointment, had been executed by the Commander himself, but Quentin-Andrew had at least been able to witness the change in Dolan's face when the Commander, after not even the pretense of a trial, had swung the blade against his unarmed prisoner. Quentin-Andrew had known then what Dolan would do, but he had never expected the Commander to punish Dolan like this. Never had Quentin-Andrew expected such bliss.

Dolan noticed for the first time that Quentin-Andrew was watching him. Always obedient, he struggled to his feet and stood waiting, his face a model for all prisoners on how to frame despair. At any moment now, thought Quentin-Andrew, the boy would reveal the information he had hidden from the Commander, the information that would allow the Northern Army to destroy for all time the memory of what Emor had been. The only wonder was that Dolan had held out as long as he had. All of Quentin-Andrew's experience with Gareth told him that fear drives out love, and now that Dolan's love of Quentin-Andrew was gone, he would have nothing to distract him from the pain he was undergoing.

It was becoming yet more clear, Quentin-Andrew conceded, that the boy who could not be a warrior nonetheless had certain strengths that went unrecognized by the world. The Lieutenant had broken soldiers in half the time he had already spent with Dolan.

Dolan was beginning to breathe heavily again. It would not do to have him waste time by falling to the floor unconscious. Stepping forward, Quentin-Andrew handed the cup he had been sipping to Dolan and watched as the boy drank the wild-berry wine. He wondered at what point Dolan would recognize the dark irony of the sharing that was taking place.

Dolan's hand grew suddenly still. His head was bent forward, and Quentin-Andrew idly made wagers with himself as to what the boy's expression would be when he raised his face. Bitterness? No, Dolan would never look bitter. He took with deference what was given to him, caresses or blows. Anger? Dolan was capable of anger, but Quentin-Andrew doubted he would see that emotion now. Anger, if it was present, should have manifested itself long before this. Anguish? Yes, that was the only answer. Filled with hopelessness as Dolan was, the memory of their friendship could be nothing to him now but a torment.

Dolan lifted his head. He was smiling.

It was a weak smile, to be sure a the tentative smile given by a child who expects no smile in return, but who cannot keep from showing what he is feeling. For one moment, Quentin-Andrew searched Dolan's face for signs of renewed hope, but none existed. Dolan knew that Quentin-Andrew would continue the torture, he knew that the fear and pain and despair would continue, and that made no difference. The love was still there. To his dying moment, Dolan would regard Quentin-Andrew as his friend.

It was then that Quentin-Andrew perceived how formidable an opponent he faced, and it was then that Quentin-Andrew began to suspect that he would not obtain the information for which he was searching. It was then too that Quentin-Andrew realized that the unarmed boy before him had been fighting him all along, in ways that neither Dolan nor Quentin-Andrew had recognized.

For a moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he heard someone sob, and that person was not Dolan.

Then darkness penetrated his spirit once more, and he considered the boy in a cool manner. It made no difference whether the boy yielded his information or not. Dolan's death was certain. Once dead, the boy would have no chance to pa.s.s on his secret to others, and the last law doc.u.ments in Emor, wherever they might be hidden, would rot away and be forgotten. It touched Quentin-Andrew's professional pride, certainly, that for the first time in his career he might not succeed in breaking a prisoner, but this would mar neither his duty nor his pleasure. Dolan would die, and Quentin-Andrew would be the one to kill him.

And all this, Quentin-Andrew thought in astonishment again, was in accordance with the will of the G.o.ds. The thought touched him lightly that perhaps he had been wrong in thinking that he would spend all eternity under the curse of the G.o.ds. Perhaps, after all, he could remain as he was and yet be granted the G.o.ds' mercy.

It was the last time in his life that he would hold this hope.

Bard of Pain 2 THE FIRE.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Quentin-Andrew was on fire.

He had always feared fire the most. It had taken Randal half a day to realize this before he had taken hold of the brand with a smile a an apologetic smile, because the young torturer had not yet mastered Quentin-Andrew's technique of knowing immediately which instrument the prisoner most dreaded. Quentin-Andrew could feel the marks left by the brand, but that was not the fire that tormented him. This fire was inside: the fire of taut muscles, strained tissues, throbbing blood-tunnels a the fire most of all of a spirit that was stretched as tight as a lathe-reed, about to snap.

Aside from the soft hiss of the cell's fire, Quentin-Andrew could hear nothing. Earlier, as the palace trumpets sounded the midnight call for the final time in Koretia's history, the rumble of fighting had filled the corridor, and at one point soldiers had hammered at the cell door. Randal had done nothing, though, except to place his hand firmly over Quentin-Andrew's mouth. The Northern Army soldiers had gone away, apparently unwilling to take the time to force the iron door. From that time on, all noise had faded until nothing filled the cell now except the sound of fire and iron and screams. Especially fire.

Something cool touched Quentin-Andrew's eyelids: Randal's wet fingers, gently wiping away the blood that gummed his eyes shut. A moment later, Randal pried his eyelids open. It would have taken more strength than Quentin-Andrew possessed to free his eyelids from Randal's tender touch. He stared up at his torturer's face, dim in the growing shadows. A part of Quentin-Andrew that still lived and moved wondered whether the cell's fire was dead but for the coals or whether he was growing blind, as prisoners sometimes did toward the end.

"The seventh weight," said Randal quietly. "You know what that means, Lieutenant. There is still time for you to speak before I destroy your body. For your spirit will break after the weight is added, you know."

Quentin-Andrew did not doubt that Randal was right; he knew the signs himself. Already he could feel the fraying of the fibrous cord that linked his mind to sanity. One more weight ... No, not even that; the break would come before the weight was ever applied. With detached interest, he watched the fire begin to eat into the slender strand. His body was screaming; his mouth no longer screamed only because he had no power with which to voice his agony. He took a shallow breath and felt a thousand daggers enter his body.

With his last remaining strength, he closed his eyes.

Above him, dimly through the darkness of the approaching madness, he heard Randal sigh. "Oh, Lieutenant," said his torturer softly, "I would so much have liked to have worked with you. Even to have been broken by you would have been a privilege." There was no sound for a moment, and then Quentin-Andrew heard a thump as Randal lifted the weight onto the table. Another moment before it would be attached; another moment before the thread snapped and what was left of Quentin-Andrew plummeted into a darkness so black that his spirit would be utterly destroyed.

Not even the pit of destruction awaited him; only annihilation. The fire began to eat the final strand, and Quentin-Andrew felt his mouth open, felt himself prepare to give Randal the information he wanted.

The words he spoke, though, caused his spirit to vibrate with shock. "Jackal," he whispered, "help me."

Even the fire was gone now. He was entirely in blackness, and he wondered at what point the last portion of his spirit would crumble and he would cease to think. Then he felt something a an awareness, a presence a and he opened his eyes again.

Before him, hovering in the darkness of the cell, was a wild beast: it was snarling at him, its claws tightening in antic.i.p.ation, its mouth parted in a tooth-bladed smile. Though its fur was blacker than the shadows, a golden glow outlined its form. He could see that it was crouching, ready to pounce.

Then the beast leapt suddenly high in the air, and in the instant before its forepaws landed upon Quentin-Andrew's chest, it flung its head upward, and its shape began to change. In a moment, the four-footed beast had acquired legs and arms; it stood upright, with claws still shining at the end of its hands. Only the beast's face remained the same.

In a soft voice, a voice that thundered like a forest burning, the Jackal said, "How dare you call upon my name, you who lie under my curse."

Quentin-Andrew took a breath and felt the daggers begin to flay his flesh. The fire was now eating his organs. "For the Commander's sake," he whispered. "He is the G.o.ds' servant. Help me not to betray him."

The Jackal continued to smile in his deadly manner. All around him, the fire leapt golden. In a soft voice, the voice a torturer uses when his victim is about to break, the Jackal said, "Eight years ago, the Commander murdered the Chara and placed his own wine-friend, the son of Perry-John, into your hands. Since that day, he has been under the G.o.ds' curse."

For a moment more, the fire licked at Quentin-Andrew's flesh; he could feel it blackening his heart. Then Quentin-Andrew screamed.

It was a long, hoa.r.s.e scream that echoed in the far corners of the cell, a cry so deep and reverberant that it drove from Quentin-Andrew all awareness of the killing fire. It was followed by silence. Quentin-Andrew could see nothing and he could feel nothing; he was empty like a husk. In a second, he knew, the fire would return and his spirit would be forever obliterated, but just for the moment he felt only relief.

It was over a all of his last hopes were mercifully gone. The worst torture was ended: the torment he had felt all his life of believing that he could change his fate if only he tried hard enough. Now he knew that he had been right on the day of Gareth's death. There was nothing he could do, no change he could make, that would bring the G.o.ds' mercy. From the day of his birth, he had been doomed to destruction.

A light began to grow, and with it came warmth. Quentin-Andrew tensed, waiting for the final inferno. Then he became aware of the glow in front of him: the Jackal, with his hand outstretched. "Come," said the G.o.d.

Quentin-Andrew dimly knew the choice he was being offered; it was a choice between two torments. But he did not give himself time to dwell on the balance. As though of its own volition, his hand moved forward. He flinched at the last moment, feeling the approaching heat, and then, with his breath shuddering, he clasped the Jackal's hand.

In an instant, the light exploded silently around him. He could feel its warmth upon his skin. With a moan, he shielded his eyes, like a night animal that has been driven to the surface during the day. Then the light faded, and he found himself in darkness once more, except for a glow which seemed to emanate from no object except himself.

It was a dark glow, a bleak grey against the blackness around him, but it caused him to look down at himself, and he felt his heart jerk.

He could see his hands. He remembered with sickness what his hands had looked like a short time before; now his hands were whole and unmarked. His arms and his legs were as smooth as a babe's skin. The rest of his body he could not see, for it was covered in the uniform he had worn for so long: the undyed cloth of a Northern Army tunic and breeches, the gold honor brooch that the Commander had given him, the thick cloak meant to protect against Marcadian winters, and the hard boots that could travel through ice and snow. Only his thigh-pocket and his blades were missing.

He swung around, the instinctive move of a patrol guard who has become lost in the night. To all sides, he was encased in darkness, but a body's length below his feet he began to see a figure: a man stretched taut upon a table, his eyes wide and unblinking, his naked body mangled and broken. The seventh weight was not yet attached.

Quentin-Andrew turned his face slowly away. At his side, the G.o.d of death waited, the fire around him now brighter than before. In a flat voice, knowing the answer but requiring the words to be said, Quentin-Andrew asked, "What happens to the G.o.d-cursed after they die?"

"Come and see," said the Jackal. He turned and began walking into the landscape of shadows. For a moment, Quentin-Andrew remained motionless; then he followed the beast's tawny back.

They travelled over a flat land. The ground Quentin-Andrew could not see was hard under his boots. The sound of his steps was loud in the stillness but made no echo. He could not see where the horizon ended and where the sky began a the sky was without moon or stars. But he became aware that beyond the Jackal, hidden by the G.o.d's body, a light was beginning to grow. And then the light narrowed; it was a rectangular shape now, and Quentin-Andrew felt as though the darkness was narrowing in on him, squeezing his body. His breath had only a moment to quicken, and then he had pa.s.sed through the rectangle of light. He found himself in a large chamber.

The chamber was round, like the sun or the moon; it was deep, fringed by tiers of steps; and it was silent, but for the sound of one man speaking. To the south side of the chamber, brown-robed priests sat listening and nodding their heads occasionally. The north side was filled only by the speaker. He was young, and his face was younger still. His voice was almost too low to be heard, but he spoke quickly, and his eyes scanned the audience before him.

"... And then he sheathed his sword and he took me to the gate, and he told me who he was and told me to come here, to the House of the Unknowable G.o.d. He said that you would give me refuge against the Commander. And so I came here, and he must not have told the Commander what he did, because everyone thinks that I'm dead. But I'm alive. I shouldn't be, but I am."

From where he now stood, in the center of the sanctuary, Quentin-Andrew turned to look up at the priests. Their bodies were motionless, and their faces were hard. From his position near the High Priest, Aiken leaned forward and said, "So he tortured you all night a and then spared your life. And you believe that act weighs more heavily than all else that he did during his lifetime."

Dolan, wide-eyed, stared without comprehension at the priests for a moment, his hands crossed behind his back. "You don't understand," he said finally in a high voice. "The Lieutenant told me that the Jackal instructed him to follow the Commander's orders. And the Lieutenant wanted the curse to be lifted from him a he never told me that, but I know he did. I think- I know it sounds mad, but I think the Lieutenant believed that, by disobeying the Commander's order to kill me, he was disobeying the G.o.ds. He must have thought that, by helping me, he was losing his last chance to be forgiven by the G.o.ds." Dolan's voice grew soft. "He did that for me. He was willing to dwell eternally in the pits of destruction for my sake."

Quentin-Andrew heard the priests begin to murmur amongst themselves, but this time he did not move his gaze from Dolan. The boy a no, the man a was staring down at the stone tier, scuffing the floor with his right sandal. He was unarmed. Quentin-Andrew held his breath, waiting for the warmth to come that had always come, but nothing happened except that something brushed his arm.