Dust of Dreams

interesting and so sharply relevant to this scene before him.
    The Warleader’s wife was nowhere to be seen, and it had already occurred to Spax that he should probably leave. Who knew if or when Krughava would finally take note of the look in Gall’s eyes—and what might she do then? Instead, Spax sat sprawled in the leather sling of the three-legged chair, too comfortable to move and, it had to be admitted, too fascinated as she fired question after question into the increasingly senseless arrow butt that was Gall. When would she realize that the man had stopped answering? That while she went on attacking and attacking, he’d stopped defending long ago? He so wanted to see that moment—her expression, yes, one he could take away with him and remember for evermore.
    What would it take for her to notice?
If he pulled out his gooseneck and took aim? Would that do it? Or just wrestled his way out of his clothes? Gods below, the drooling’s not done it.
    He should leave. But they’d have to drag him out of this tent.
Come on, Krughava, you can do it. I know you can. Take a second look, woman, at the man you’re talking to.
No, he wasn’t going anywhere.
    Ah, but this was a most agitated woman. Something about a weakening resolve, or was it a failure of confidence—a sudden threat from within the ranks of the Grey Helms themselves. Someone missing in the command structure, the necessary balance all awry. A young man of frightening ambitions—oh, swamp spirits be damned! He was too drunk to make sense of any of this!
    Why am I sitting here?
    What is she saying? Pay attention, Krughava! Never mind him—can’t you see this bulge? No one wants the goose to honk, come and strangle it, woman! I’ll solve your agitation. Yes, if only you women understood that. Your every answer, right here between my legs.
    Half the world’s mired in ignorance!
    Half the world . . .
    Gooseneck.

Chapter Twenty-One
    Listen then these are the charms
And will I see your pleasure stretched
An even dozen they crowd the tomb
You can read the dead in twelve faces
And the winter months are long
     

The shields are hammered into splinters
Beating war’s time will never ring true
Fools stir in the crypt counting notches
And the snow settles burying all traces
Crows spill the sky knocked like ink
     

Babies crawl to the front line
Plump arms shouting proof ’gainst harm
The helms rock askew in pitching tumult
And the brightest blood is the freshest
Round the well charged and spatted
     

Cadavers cherish company’s lonely vigil
The tomb’s walls trumpet failures
Dressed as triumphs and glory’s trains
And the fallen are bundled lying under foot
Each year Spring dies still newborn
     

Listen then these are the charms
History is written for the crows
By children with red lips and eyes blinking
On the cocked ends of their tongues
And it seems summer will never end
     
    H AIL THE S EASON OF W AR

G ALLAN

    C
ity of darkness, see how that darkness hides your ugly face
.
    They were on the bridge. She was leaning heavily on her husband’s shoulder, both relieved and irritated by his stolid strength. ‘But you don’t see, do you?’
    ‘Sand?’
    She shook her head. ‘Doesn’t matter. The air is alive. Can you feel that? Withal, can you feel that much at least?’
    ‘Your goddess,’ he said. ‘Alive, aye, alive with tears.’
    That was true. Mother Dark had returned with sorrow knotted into grief. Darkness made helpless fists, like a widow trying to hold on to all she had lost.
Lost, yes, something has been lost. She is no longer turned away, but in mourning. Her eyes are averted, downcast. She is here, yet behind a veil. Mother, you make this a most bitter gift.
    Her strength was slow in returning. Memories like wolves, snapping on all sides.
Kharkanas.
Sandalath clutched Withal’s right arm, feeling the thick muscles, the cables of his will. He was one of those men who were like a finely made sword, sheathed in a hard skin, hiding a core that could bend when it had to. She didn’t deserve him. That was brutally clear.
Take me hostage, husband. That much I will understand. That much I know how to live with. Even though it too will break in the end—no, stop thinking that way. It’s a memory no one here deserves.
    ‘There are fires in the city.’
    ‘Yes. It is . . . occupied.’
    ‘Savages in the ruins?’
    ‘Of course not. These are the Shake. We’ve found them.’
    ‘So they made it, then.’
    She nodded.
    He