Memories of Ice - Page 198/438

Itkovian re-entered the headquarters, walked down the hallway skirting the outer wall until he came to the tower entrance. His armour shifted and clanked as he made his way up the steep stone stairs. He tried to drive out images of Hetan, her laughing face and bright, dancing eyes, the runnels of sweat tracking her brow through the layer of ash, the way she stood, back arched, chest thrown out in deliberate, provocative invitation. He resented the rebirth of long-buried desires now plaguing him. His vows were crumbling, his every prayer to Fener meeting with naught but silence, as if his god was indifferent to the sacrifices Itkovian had made in his name.

And perhaps that is the final, most devastating truth. The gods care nothing for ascetic impositions on mortal behaviour. Care nothing for rules of conduct, for the twisted morals of temple priests and monks. Perhaps indeed they laugh at the chains we wrap around ourselves — our endless, insatiable need to find flaws within the demands of life. Or perhaps they do not laugh, but rage at us. Perhaps our denial of life's celebration is our greatest insult to those whom we worship and serve.

He reached the arms room at the top of the circular stairs, nodded distractedly at the two soldiers stationed there, then made his way up the ladder to the roof platform.

The Destriant was already there. Karnadas studied Itkovian as the Shield Anvil joined him. 'Yours, sir, is a troubled mien.'

'Aye, I do not deny it. I have had discourse with Prince Jelarkan, which closed with his displeasure. Subsequently, I spoke with Hetan. Destriant, my faith is assailed.'

'You question your vows.'

'I do, sir. I admit to doubting their veracity.'

'Has it been your belief, Shield Anvil, that your rules of conduct existed to appease Fener?'

Itkovian frowned as he leaned on the merlon and stared out at the smoke-wreathed enemy camps. 'Well, yes-'

'Then you have lived under a misapprehension, sir.'

'Explain, please.'

'Very well. You found a need to chain yourself, a need to enforce upon your own soul the strictures as defined by your vows. In other words, Itkovian, your vows were born of a dialogue with yourself — not with Fener. The chains are your own, as is the possession of the keys with which to unlock them when they are no longer required.'

'No longer required?'

'Aye. When all that is encompassed by living ceases to threaten your faith.'

'You suggest, then, that my crisis is not with my faith, but with my vows. That I have blurred the distinction.'

'I do, Shield Anvil.'

'Destriant,' Itkovian said, eyes still on the Pannion encampments, 'your words invite a carnal flood.'

The High Priest burst out laughing. 'And with it a dramatic collapse of your dour disposition, one hopes!'

Itkovian's mouth twitched. 'Now you speak of miracles, sir.'

'I would hope-'

'Hold.' The Shield Anvil raised a gauntleted hand. 'There is movement among the Beklites.'

Karnadas joined him, suddenly sober.

'And there,' Itkovian pointed, 'Urdomen. Scalandi to their flanks. Seerdomin moving to positions of command.'

'They will assail the redoubts first,' the Destriant predicted. 'The Mask Council's vaunted Gidrath in their strongholds. That may earn us more time-'

'Find me my messenger corps, sir. Alert the officers. And a word to the prince.'

'Aye, Shield Anvil. Will you stay here?'

Itkovian nodded. 'A worthy vantage point. Go, then, sir.'

Beklite troops were massing in a ring around the Gidrath stronghold out on the killing ground. Spearpoints glittered in the sunlight.

Now alone, Itkovian's eyes narrowed as he studied the preparations. 'Ah, well, it has begun.'

The streets of Capustan were silent, virtually empty beneath a cloudless sky, as Gruntle made his way down Calmanark Alley. He came to the curved wall of the self-contained Camp known as Ulden, kicked through the rubbish cluttering a stairwell leading down below street level and hammered a fist on the solid door cut into the wall's foundations.

After a moment it creaked open.

Gruntle stepped through into a narrow corridor, its floor a sharply angled ramp leading back up to ground level twenty paces ahead, where bright sunlight showed, revealing a central, circular courtyard.

Buke shut the massive door behind him, struggled beneath the weight of the bar as he lowered it back into the slots. The gaunt, grey-haired man then faced Gruntle. 'That was quick. Well?'

'What do you think?' the caravan captain growled. 'There's been movement. The Pannions are marshalling. Messengers riding this way and that-'