Withal stumbled back in the face of that wind, then he spun to face Nimander. ‘I am going to lie,’ he said in 9 growl. ‘The mad creature ran, flung herself through-do you hear me?’
The door opened and Sandalath charged into the room, behind her the Adjunct’s aide, Lostara Yil, and the priest, Banaschar-and, pushing close behind them, the other Tiste Andii-eyes wide with fear, confusion-and Nimander lurched towards them, one step, then another-
And was pulled round to face Sandalath.
Withal was speaking. A voice filled with disbelief. Expostulations.
But she was staring into his eyes. ‘Did she? Nimander! Did she?’
Did she what! Oh, yes, go through the window.
Shouts from the street below, muted by the wailing winds and lashing rain. Lostara Yil moved to stand at the sill, leaned out. A moment later she stepped back and turned, her expression grave. ‘Broken neck. I’m sorry, Sandalath. But I have questions…’
Mother, wife, Withal’s lover, was still staring into Nimander’s eyes-a look that said loss was rearing from the dark, frightened places in her mind, rearing, yes, to devour the love she held for her husband-for the man with the innocent face; that told him, with the answer he might give to her question, two more lives might be destroyed. Did she? Through the window? Did she… die?
Nimander nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Another dead woman screamed in his skull and he almost reeled. Dead eyes, devouring all love. ‘You have lied, Nimander!’
Yes. To save Withal. To save Sandalath Drukorlat-
‘To save yourself!’
Yes.
‘My love, what has happened to you?’
I heard a spinning sound. A whispering promise-we must stay here, you see. We must. Andarist chose me. He knew he was going to die. He knew that there would be no Anomander Rake, no Silchas Ruin, no great kin of our age of glory-no-one to come to save us, take care of us. There was only me.
My love, to lead is to carry burdens. As did the heroes of old, with clear eyes.
So look at my eyes, my love. See my burden? Just like a hero of old-
Sandalath reached up again, those two long-fingered hands. Not to take his face, but to wipe away the rain streaming down his cheeks.