Itkovian studied the young man, and saw what he had not expected to see. 'First Child,' he said. 'There is despair within you. I will take it from you, sir, and with it your burdens.'
Anaster jolted as if he had been physically struck. He drew his knees up, climbed onto the seat of the throne, face twitching. A hand closed on the strange obsidian dagger in his belt, then flinched away as if the stone was hot.
His mother screamed, clawed up her son's outstretched arm. Snarling, he pulled himself free. She sank down to the floor, curled up.
'I am not your father,' Itkovian continued, 'but I shall be as him. Unleash your flood, First Child.'
The young man stared, lips peeling back to bare his teeth. 'Who — what are you?' he hissed.
The captain stepped forward. 'We forgive your ignorance, sir,' she said. 'He is the Shield Anvil. Fener knows grief, so much grief that it is beyond his capacity to withstand it. And so he chooses a human heart. Armoured. A mortal soul, to assume the sorrow of the world. The Shield Anvil.
'These days and nights have witnessed vast sorrow, profound shame — all of which, we see now, is writ as plain knowledge in your eyes. You cannot deceive yourself, sir, can you?'
'You never could,' Itkovian said. 'Give me your despair, First Child. I am ready to receive it.'
Anaster's wail rang through the main hall. He clambered still further up the throne's high back, arms wrapping around himself.
All eyes held on him.
No-one moved.
Chest heaving, the First Child stared at Itkovian. Then he shook his head. 'No,' he whispered, 'you shall not have my — my despair.'
The captain hissed. 'This is a gift! First Child-'
'Not!'
Itkovian seemed to sag. Sword-point wavering, lowering. The recruit moved close to support the Shield Anvil.
'You cannot have it! You cannot have it!'
The captain's eyes were wide as she turned to Itkovian. 'Sir, I am unable to countenance this-'
The Shield Anvil shook his head, slowly straightened once more. 'No, I understand. The First Child — within him there is naught but despair. Without it…'
He is as nothing.
'I want them all killed!' Anaster shrieked brokenly. 'Seerdomin! Kill them all!'
Forty Seerdomin surged forward to either side of the table.
The captain snapped a command. The front line behind her dropped in unison to one knee. The second line raised into view their crossbows. Twenty-four quarrels crossed the room. Not one missed.
From the flanking guest-room entrances, more quarrels flashed.
The front line behind Itkovian rose and readied their weapons.
Only six Seerdomin remained standing. Figures both writhing and motionless covered the floor.
The Tenescowri at the table were fleeing towards the portal behind the throne.
Anaster himself was the first to reach it, his mother a step behind him.
The Seerdomin charged Itkovian.
I am not yet done.
His blade flashed. A helmed head leapt from its shoulders. A backhand slash snapped chain links and opened wide another Seerdomin's belly.
Crossbows sounded once more.
And the Grey Swords stood unopposed.
The Shield Anvil lowered his weapon. 'Captain,' he said after a moment. 'Retrieve the prince's body. Have the skin taken down. We shall return Prince Jelarkan to his throne, to his rightful place. And this room, we shall now hold. For a time. In the name of the prince.'
'The First Child-'
Itkovian faced her. 'We will meet him again. I am his only salvation, sir, and I shall not fail him.'
'You are the Shield Anvil,' she intoned.
'I am the Shield Anvil.' I am Fener's grief. I am the world's grief. And I will hold. I will hold it all, for we are not yet done.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
What the soul can house, flesh cannot fathom.
The Reve of Fener
Imarak, First Destriant
Hot, fevered, the pebbled skin moved like a damp rock-filled sack. The Matron's body exuded an acrid oil. It had permeated Toc the Younger's ragged clothes. He slid between folds of flesh as the huge, bloated K'Chain Che'Malle shifted about on the gritty floor, massive arms wrapped around him in a fierce embrace.
Darkness commanded the cave. The glimmers of light he saw were born within his mind. Illusions that might have been memories. Torn, fragmented scenes, of yellow-grassed low hills beneath warm sunlight. Figures, caught at the very edge of his vision. Some wore masks. One was naught but dead skin stretched over robust bone. Another was … beauty. Perfection. He believed in none of them. Their faces were the faces of his madness, looming ever closer, hovering at his shoulder.
