Spax snorted, nodding. ‘Yes, it does feel like that, at times.’
‘When I think of the wilds,’ she continued as if not hearing him, ‘I think of the nitals. We humans stand as the brightest light, and before us every living beast of this world freezes in place. My Shield Anvil has reawakened all the rage in my people, a rage confounded with guilt. We are to be the slaughterers defending the slaughtered.’
‘The Wolves of War—’
‘It is a damned cult!’ snapped Krughava, and then she shook her head. ‘The savagery of the wolf inspired us – is that so surprising?’
‘But there must be tenets of your faith,’ Spax persisted, ‘that do indeed cry out for retribution.’
‘Delusions, sir. Highness, speak of the Adjunct. Please.’
‘A most driven woman, Krughava. Desperation. And terrible need. But is she a mirror? And if so, what are we all meant to see?’
Krughava looked up, studied Abrastal. ‘The thought alone makes me want to weep, but I know not why.’
‘To reflect,’ said Spax, ‘a mirror is made hard, polished, unflawed.’
‘Find us more wine, Spax,’ Abrastal growled, ‘this one is done. Krughava – you swore allegiance to the Adjunct. Why?’
‘We were troubled. Questions had begun to plague us, especially the Destriant and his highest seneschals – those who had given their lives to the philosophy of our religion. We trained to be the weapons of war, you see, but we had begun to wonder if the only gesture of humanity was the one that delivered violence. Destruction. We wondered at the seemingly insurmountable might of vengeance, retribution and righteous punishment.’ Her eyes were bleak. ‘Is that all we possess? Is there nothing else that might challenge such weapons?’
‘Then,’ ventured Abrastal, ‘you must have seen something. In her. In Tavore Paran—’
But Krughava shook her head. ‘All that I knew of her, in that moment when I pledged my service and that of the Grey Helms – all that I knew, well, it came from the visions of the seneschals. The Fallen God was damaged. In terrible pain. Like a beast – like any of us – he lashed out at his tormentors. In that, he was more the wolf than we were. Or could ever hope to be. Highness, a knife to his throat would be a mercy, for so many – you must understand this – so many had now gathered to feed on his pain, to drink the sweet venom of his fevered blood. More than that, in witnessing his imprisonment, and his agony, they felt themselves elevated – it made them feel powerful, and in that power the only currency was cruelty. After all, is that not always our way?’
‘The dreams of the seneschals, Krughava? What did they offer?’
The iron-haired woman nodded. ‘An alternative. A way out. In those dreams stood a woman, a mortal woman, immune to all magics, immune to the seduction of the Fallen God’s eternal suffering. And she held something in her hand – it was small, indeed, so small that our dreamers could not discern its nature, but it haunted them – oh, how it haunted them!’
‘What was she holding?’ Abrastal demanded, leaning forward. ‘You must have an idea.’
‘An idea? Oh, hundreds of those, Highness. What she held had the power to free the Fallen God. It had the power to defy the gods of war – and every other god. It was a power to crush the life from vengeance, from retribution, from righteous punishment. The power to burn away the seduction of suffering itself.’ Her eyes glittered in the lantern light. ‘Can you imagine such a thing?’
Spax leaned back. ‘I have seen her enough times. I see nothing in her hand.’
Krughava had set the cup down. She now sat, her left hand held out, palm up, resting on her knee. She gazed down at it, as if seeking to conjure all that she needed. ‘That,’ she whispered, ‘is not a mirror. But … oh, how I wish it to be one.’
‘Krughava,’ Abrastal said in a low, almost tentative voice. ‘In the moment you stood before her, was there not doubt? Was there not even a single instant of … uncertainty?’
‘I thought – in her eyes, so flat … something. And now I wonder – I cannot help but wonder now if all that I thought I saw was nothing more than what I wanted to see.’ The hand slowly curled, closed like a dying flower. ‘ The mirror lies .’
Those last words shook Spax to his very core. He climbed to his feet, feeling blood rushing into his face. ‘Then why didn’t you accept your Shield Anvil’s argument? Krughava! Why are you even here?’