The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (382 page)

‘
May?
’ the shadow demanded. ‘She may
not
– I demand respect from our priesthood.’

‘Mihn,’ Doranei growled.

The small man raised a hand to cut him off. ‘Both of you; behave.’ He cocked his head at the girl. ‘Your father is a great man, you know that? But he dislikes my shadow; you must forgive him that, he has good reason.’

‘And,’ Doranei broke in, ‘the shadow’s still sore your mother gave him everything it wanted, so it could taste its own medicine. You’ll find it doesn’t like underestimating us mortals, or the lengths we’ll go to, to keep a secret.’

Mihn raised a hand and Doranei fell silent again. Gennay thought for a long moment, then asked, ‘Why is Azaer your shadow if your friends don’t like it?’

‘A fair question,’ Mihn said, ‘but I fear the answer is long and complex.’ He gestured towards the centre of the hilltop, where she could see a circle of standing stones shining in the strange half-light.

‘Your parents have friends and family to remember, so perhaps we should leave them in peace for a while?’

She looked at her mother and father. Zhia touched Doranei’s arm, and the Lord Protector of Narkang and the Four Cities waved her on with gritted teeth and a scowl.

Mihn smiled went to embrace his Mortal-Aspect as the last three arrived at the top of the hill, then took Legana’s hand from Ardela. ‘Come with us, Gennay,’ he said as he walked arm-in-arm with Legana towards the stone circle

Gennay followed them onto a piece of strangely paved ground at the very centre of the hilltop and looked around in wonder. The pale paving stones shone as the last traces of day fled the sky. She could see two enormous menhirs flanking a stairway into the hill itself, but Mihn led her to a flat table-like rock in the very centre. There were words written on it – an epitaph, she realised – but to whom, it didn’t say.

‘A lot of people died to get us here today,’ Mihn said sadly, ‘but I imagine you will have heard quite enough about the wars.’

She nodded; her parents both carried the scars, inside and out. ‘My father’s a soldier,’ she began hesitantly, ‘but he doesn’t like to talk about it, even when Manayaz or Sebetin ask, even though he’s teaching us all how to fight.’

‘There is no way to describe it,’ Mihn said softly, ‘and he hopes you will never have to find out.’

‘Uncle Daken seems to think it’s fun, but I don’t think he’s right.’

‘Daken thinks a lot of strange things are fun,’ Mihn agreed, ‘but that is who he is. You cannot hide from who you are; you can only accept it and make it work.’

‘Do you know him too? He’s a white-eye. Everyone says he’s mad, but I don’t think he is.’

Mihn squatted down beside her, and his strange black shadow slid like oil over the stones. ‘People say lots of things about white-eyes,’ he said gravely. ‘Some of them are true, others are not.’

‘They are stubborn and troublesome,’ Azaer added in a voice like the whisper of wind through the trees, ‘more troublesome than you can ever imagine.’

Mihn ducked his head, though whether in acknowledgement or sadness, Gennay couldn’t tell. ‘And yet capable of great things,’ he whispered, to himself as much as anyone, ‘and great sacrifice too – he gave his body and soul to drive your shadow out of Ruhen and burn it into mine. Given the plan he devised, my taking a mortal wound pales in comparison to the burden he took on himself.’

‘He burned your shadow?’ Gennay asked, confused.

Mihn gave her a sad smile. ‘He consumed himself with light – how else does one cast the strongest shadows? And I was there behind it, to catch that shadow in my own and die just as a new God was born.’

Gennay looked down and saw his pitch-black shadow squirm, but Azaer had nothing to add to that.

‘Azaer and I were enemies,’ Mihn continued, ‘or, to be precise, Azaer and the old king were enemies, and they fought a war, as you know. That war weakened the whole Land. My friend Isak realised that victory in that war would not be enough. He saw that he had to force both sides together, so the war would never happen again.’

‘Some of us were less than amused by it than others,’ the shadow added, claws briefly appearing at the end of his black fingers.

At a look from Mihn the claws disappeared again and the shadow retreated behind him, ignoring the play of moonlight as it traced shapes over the stones.

‘Many were unhappy, but it is done and the Land is healed,’ Mihn said. ‘My shadow holds the power of the Gods, and I control my shadow. It is not a choice either of us would have wished for, perhaps, but it is done – and we can hardly complain about our lot in life when we rule the Gods. You have heard about Isak?’

When she nodded, he smiled. ‘Good. Most of what they say about Isak is true, but he was my friend, and a very good friend he was. He gave his life to heal the damage we had all done. He died in a chamber beneath our feet while tens of thousands fell on the slopes of this hill. Your parents and Vesna have come here to remember Isak, along with all the others who died on that terrible day. The memory scars all those who survived – remember that and be gentle with your mother and father.’

Mihn gestured to the flat stone beside him. ‘Stay here a while, think of Isak and all the others. If you want to join the Sisters of Dusk, you must always remember those who died, and protect their sacrifice. Remember them at Silvernight especially; that was his birthday.’

‘Did Isak … Did he write this?’

Mihn shook his head. ‘The words are mine, but I think he would be happy with how we remember him. He always wanted to be more than just a white-eye, more than the warrior he was born to be. He gave his soul to do just that, leaving nothing to pass into the lands of no time. All that is left of him is the light he burned into me, and the memories in those who loved him. You see Hulf, roaming these hills? He could not bear Isak’s loss. The two shared one wild soul, so I made Hulf a part of me too, and the light is within us both now.’

He gestured to the words on the stone. ‘This is how I remember all of those who died here, men and woman, friends and strangers. I must go and speak to the others now. Legana will stay with you.’

Gennay felt the prickle of tears. It wasn’t only her parents who had suffered in the wars, she knew that: Uncle Veil was missing a hand, Old Carel his whole arm, and Aunt Dash was half-crippled too. Gennay could scarcely believe the withered woman had fought here too, but none of her parents’ friends would dare make an idle boast like that; she knew that for certain.

She was too young to remember much about the old king, but she knew he had been badly hurt too. In Narkang men and women bore their battle injuries with quiet pride, even now, all these years later. They had all suffered; they had watched their friends die, seen cities fall and armies slaughtered. She couldn’t begin to imagine any of that, but she had seen the look on their faces when they remembered, and just thinking of that now made the tears run down her cheeks.

As Gennay slowly read the words before her, she tried to conjure an image of Isak as her parents had painted him: a Farlan white-eye, Chosen of Nartis for a time – though he’d been not many winters older than her brother, Manayaz, was now.

He was tall and brooding
, her mother had said when Gennay had asked.
Reckless and quarrelsome
, her father had added
, and as scarred as the rest of us put together
, Uncle Veil had contributed, to general agreement, but they had done so with smiles on their faces, even old Carel, who didn’t smile at much.

So that was what she pictured: a big, frightening man perhaps, but young and uncertain as well, with the same sort of foolish, lazy grin as King Sebetin, who won friends as easily as breathing. And one who had given his life for his friends.

Legana arrived beside Gennay and gently squeezed her shoulder, then she reached out and ran her pale fingers over the stone, touching each word in turn as though bringing them to life in her mute world. In the far distance the silver dog ran, as swift and free as the wind.

Gennay read the words aloud for all of them, for the tens of thousands who had died on the plain, and for the smiling white-eye in her mind.

In the long dusk I dream,

Of joy, of love and life.

The shape of things,

Their colours, lights and shades;

These sights eternal,

Look ye also while life lasts.

Ok, so I have to admit that many other people have put a huge amount of work into the Twilight Reign. Without their efforts and dedication the series might never have come about and it certainly wouldn’t be the thing of pride for me that it is now. I barely know where to start, but two figures stand out: Firstly my lovely wife, Fiona, without whom I’d no doubt be a borderline psychotic and malnourished recluse. Well, more so anyway. It’s easy to get drawn into the world you’re writing about and forget about what’s actually important. It’s been a relentless effort on her part to keep me cheerful and engaged with real life while I worked through this project of a million words – and an effort for which I’m hugely grateful.

The other woman whose-word-I-must-obey-because-she’s-always-going-to-be-right-and-arguing-only-makes-it-worse is Jo Fletcher; beloved editor whose portrait would no doubt hang, Lenin-like, in Death’s office if He had one. She gave me my chance and made damn sure I didn’t waste it, improving the books at every step and being my most vocal champion in an industry where obscurity kills most careers.

Along the way have been so many others who also deserve thanks, particularly: Louise Gould who stepped into the breach to edit this last book when all sensible advice would be to run away, my entire (and extended) family who’ve all been hugely supportive, and Pyr
Über
editor Lou Ander for all his work, advice and enthusiasm on the other side of the pond. Also Simon Spanton for taking up the reins at Gollancz, Gillian Redfearn, Charlie Panayiotou, Jon Weir, and all the rest at Gollancz and Pyr, plus agents John Parker and Simon Kavanagh, and website supremo Robin Morero.

Not to be forgotten are my long-suffering readers – particularly Nathaniel Davies and Richard Lloyd-Williams, but also Steve Diamond, Simon Kavanagh and Sarah Mulryan. Additionally thanks to those writers I like to think have over the years become, well, people I’ve met: Joe Abercrombie, James Barclay, David Devereux, Jaine Fenn, Suzanne McLeod and the many others on the Gollancz list who combine to make it far more than a collection of competitors.

Cover

For Fiona, and Pickle

The Twilight Reign was never intended to be about one person – not even a group of people. For better or worse in literary terms, I didn’t just want to do a series that followed Isak’s story. He was the fulcrum about which history turned and changed, but that would be meaningless without the events themselves taking centre stage. Stories are about people first and foremost; I’ve written that often enough in critiques of manuscripts, yet in part I’ve ignored my own advice. The Twilight Reign is about people and events; each shaped by the other and inextricably bound together.

Most of these stories touch upon the plot of the Twilight Reign and at very least they’re part of the world the story exists in, with many of the characters and locations also appearing in the novels somewhere. Some are only referred to or had died prior to events, but when a series is on a scale such as this one there are countless stories surrounding and leading up to the overarching plot – I’ve just picked a few.

Several, like ‘Velere’s Fell’ or ‘A Man from Thistledell’, influenced the course of the novels rather than the other way round, being stories I’d just wanted to get out of my head at the time. Only later did they reveal themselves as significant to the greater plot, but that’s part of the pleasure to be found in writing a series like this. Others, like ‘A Man Collecting Spirits’, were aspects I wanted to pursue further, and some just happened because my mind is a rather dark and random place.

You won’t find many major characters from the series here, but during world-changing events it’s not just a few people who’re touched by them so I wanted to show some of the broader picture. I guess it’s no real surprise that before
Stormcaller
had evolved into its final incarnation, three of the longest stories in this collection were already written – despite the longest concerning events at the end of
Ragged Man
. There are at least half-a-dozen ideas that I just can’t get right on the page yet, so they haven’t made it into the collection. One day I might have the luxury of finishing stories such as ‘Dead Man’s Gold’, or one of the most important to the series; the ill-fated expedition when Morghien met Rojak and Cordein Malich. Until then however they’ll just have to exist only in obscure references only I’ll be able to spot.

Don’t see this collection as required reading for fans of the novels – it isn’t. But nor is it, I believe, an attempt to squeeze extra profit out of the world of the Twilight Reign; that would have probably been the prequel trilogy covering the Great War several fans have asked for. Just for the record, it would be quite interesting to see that trilogy, I suppose, but most people know how it ends and several years of my life dedicated to writing something I’d find ‘quite interesting’ … well, I doubt I’ll ever be convinced.