Dust of Dreams

the south-dwellers—these children—they had numbered twelve. Among them, three of the original five women still lived, and but one of the seven men. Inquisitor Sever accepted responsibility for this tragic error in judgement. Of course, who could have imagined that thousands of helpless children could march league upon league through this tortured land, bereft of shelter, their hands empty? Outlasting the wild dogs, the cannibal raiders among the last of the surviving adults, and the wretched parasites swarming the ground and the skies above—no, not one Inquisitor could have anticipated this terrible will to survive.
    Surrender was the easy choice, the simplest decision of all. They should have given up long ago.
    And we would now be home. And my mate could stand before his daughter and feel such pride at her courage and purity—that she chose to walk with the human children, that she chose to guide her kin to the delivery of peace.
    And I would not now be standing above the body of my dead son.
    It was understood—it had always been understood—that no human was an equal to the Forkrul Assail. Proof was delivered a thousand times a day—and towards the end, ten thousand, as the pacification of the south kingdoms reached its blessed conclusion. Not once had the Shriven refused their submission; not once had a single pathetic human straightened in challenge. The hierarchy was unassailable.
    But these children did not accept that righteous truth. In ignorance they found strength. In foolishness they found defiance.
    ‘The city,’ said Scorn, her voice a broken thing. ‘We cannot permit it.’
    Sever nodded. ‘The investment is absolute, yes. We cannot hope to storm it.’
    Adroit said, ‘Its own beauty, yes. To challenge would be suicide.’
    The women turned at that and he flinched back a step. ‘Deny me? The clarity of my vision?’
    Sever sighed, gaze dropping once more to her dead son. ‘We cannot. It is absolute. It
shines
.’
    ‘And now the boy with the baby leads them to it,’ said Sister Rail. ‘Unacceptable.’
    ‘Agreed,’ said Sever. ‘We may fail to return, but we shall not fail in what we set out to do. Adjudicator, will you lead us into peace?’
    ‘I am ready,’ Scorn replied, straightening and holding out the staff. ‘Wield this, Inquisitor, my need for it has ended.’
    She longed to turn away, to reject Scorn’s offer.
My son’s weapon. Fashioned by my own hands and then surrendered to him. I should never have touched it again.
    ‘Honour him,’ Scorn said.
    ‘I shall.’ She took the iron-shod staff, and then faced the others. ‘Gather up the last of your strength. I judge four thousand remain—a long day of slaughter awaits us.’
    ‘They are unarmed,’ said Rail. ‘Weak.’
    ‘Yes. In the delivering of peace, we will remind them of that truth.’
    Scorn set out. Sever and the others fell in behind the Adjudicator. When they drew closer, they would fan out, to make room for the violence they would unleash.
    Not one Shriven would ever reach the city. And the boy with the baby would die last.
By my husband’s daughter’s hand. Because she lives, she still lives.
     
    Something like panic gripped the children, dragging Brayderal along in a rushing tide. Swearing, she tried to pull loose, but hands reached out, clutched tight, pushed her onwards. She should have been able to defy them all, but she had overestimated her reserves of strength—she was more damaged than she had believed.
    She saw Saddic, leading this charge. Plunging after Rutt, who was now almost at the city’s threshold. But of Badalle there was no sign. This detail frightened her.
There is something about her. She is transformed, but I do not know how. She is somehow . . . quickened.
    Her kin had finally comprehended the danger. They waited no longer.
    Scuffed, tugged and pushed, she waited for the first screams behind her.
     
    Words. I have nothing but words. I cast away many of them, only to have others find me. What can words achieve? Here in this hard, real place? But doubts themselves are nothing but words, a troubled song in my head. When I speak, the snakes listen. Their eyes are wide. But what happens to all I say, once the words slip into them? Alchemies. Sometimes the mixture froths and bubbles. Sometimes it boils. Sometimes, nothing stirs and the potion lies dead, cold and grey as mud. Who can know? Who can predict?
    I speak softly when all that I say is a howl. I pound upon bone