turn of each trump, the Neither-nor named it; for it was these Seven who ruled Time, which is the Fifty-two.
Chalah, who is Love and its redemption, is also Lust and its baseness.
Dindred, who is Pride, Glory, thus Greatness in the world’s eyes, is also blind Rage, thence treachery and ingloriousness.
Blem, who is Joy and good times, Fellowship and all its comforts, is too Drunkenness, Incontinence and all discomforts.
Dir, who is Wit, is the same Dir who is Foolishness.
Tintinnar is the magnanimity of Wealth, the care for money, thus meanness and Poverty.
Thrawn is Strength and Ability, exertion, exhaustion, and lastly Weakness and Sloth.
These six, when they fall upon a name, shelter the one named, or throw obstacles in the path of the Just were they to pursue him; thus Chalah, for a reason the Neither-nor could not tell, protected Young Harrah. Nod went on, her heart beginning to tap at her ribs.
“Redhand stays apart from them, though he wears the badge too. He gathers strength. His brother Learned is a dark Gray. His brother Younger holds the castle Forgetful. His father is slain, all his father’s honors and lands are his. He is greater than the King…”
Lips pursed, the Neither-nor turned down the last trump.
Rizna is Death. Death and Life, who carries the sickle and the seed-bag, and ever reaps what he continually sows.
“You are brave,” It says in Its sweet, reedy voice.
“No.”
“Implacable.”
She cannot answer.
“Just.”
“Yes.”
“I think you are.” It slides Rizna reversed toward Nod. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes.” Till Death—his or hers—they have been wedded here.
Tears have suddenly begun to course down the Neither-nor’s white cheeks. It is an ancient being; so many fates has It read, so many It has sent to death; weeps now because It can see nothing.
“Redhand,” Nod says, trying to take him by the name. “Redhand.”
The Arbiter Mariadn is dying.
The old, old grayest of all Grays lies propped on pillows within her chaste apartment. Its casement windows have been opened to the garden, though the doctors think it ill-advised, and a breeze lifts the edges of many papers on tables.
Her face is smooth, ashen, calm. Before sunset, before morning surely, her heart will stop. She knows it.
Through all this week they have come, the great Grays and the lesser, from every quarter, from the court, the law offices, the country seats, foregathering here like a summer storm. For a time she could feel their presence in Inviolable, in the chambers outside her still room; they have mostly faded now. Her world has grown very small; it includes the window, the bed, the servant ancienter even than herself, her dissolving body and its letting go—little else now.
The servant’s face, a moon, orbits slowly toward her.
Has he come yet? she thinks she asks. When the servant makes no reply, she says again, with pain this time, “Has he come yet?”
“He is just here.”
She nods, satisfied. The world has grown very small, but she has remembered this one thing, a thing expressed in none of the wills and instruments she has already forgotten. She would have it over; does not wish it, an oath in an autumn garden, a thing still left to do, to intrude on her dissolution, a process that has broken open all her ancient locked chests, torn down her interior walls, let past light in to shine on present darkness: the light of a farm on the Downs, in the spring, in seedtime, warming young limbs and brown earth…
He has been there some time when she again opens her eyes.
“Learned.”
“Arbiter.”
“They will not deny me…” She stops, her lips quivering. She must not ramble. There must be strength for this. There is: she draws on it, and the world grows smaller. She calls her servant. “Call them now. You know the ones. Those only.”
She takes his warm hand in her cold. “Learned, lean close… Learned, my successor will be named by the Councils. Hush, hush…” He had
Chalah, who is Love and its redemption, is also Lust and its baseness.
Dindred, who is Pride, Glory, thus Greatness in the world’s eyes, is also blind Rage, thence treachery and ingloriousness.
Blem, who is Joy and good times, Fellowship and all its comforts, is too Drunkenness, Incontinence and all discomforts.
Dir, who is Wit, is the same Dir who is Foolishness.
Tintinnar is the magnanimity of Wealth, the care for money, thus meanness and Poverty.
Thrawn is Strength and Ability, exertion, exhaustion, and lastly Weakness and Sloth.
These six, when they fall upon a name, shelter the one named, or throw obstacles in the path of the Just were they to pursue him; thus Chalah, for a reason the Neither-nor could not tell, protected Young Harrah. Nod went on, her heart beginning to tap at her ribs.
“Redhand stays apart from them, though he wears the badge too. He gathers strength. His brother Learned is a dark Gray. His brother Younger holds the castle Forgetful. His father is slain, all his father’s honors and lands are his. He is greater than the King…”
Lips pursed, the Neither-nor turned down the last trump.
Rizna is Death. Death and Life, who carries the sickle and the seed-bag, and ever reaps what he continually sows.
“You are brave,” It says in Its sweet, reedy voice.
“No.”
“Implacable.”
She cannot answer.
“Just.”
“Yes.”
“I think you are.” It slides Rizna reversed toward Nod. “Are you afraid?”
“Yes.” Till Death—his or hers—they have been wedded here.
Tears have suddenly begun to course down the Neither-nor’s white cheeks. It is an ancient being; so many fates has It read, so many It has sent to death; weeps now because It can see nothing.
“Redhand,” Nod says, trying to take him by the name. “Redhand.”
The Arbiter Mariadn is dying.
The old, old grayest of all Grays lies propped on pillows within her chaste apartment. Its casement windows have been opened to the garden, though the doctors think it ill-advised, and a breeze lifts the edges of many papers on tables.
Her face is smooth, ashen, calm. Before sunset, before morning surely, her heart will stop. She knows it.
Through all this week they have come, the great Grays and the lesser, from every quarter, from the court, the law offices, the country seats, foregathering here like a summer storm. For a time she could feel their presence in Inviolable, in the chambers outside her still room; they have mostly faded now. Her world has grown very small; it includes the window, the bed, the servant ancienter even than herself, her dissolving body and its letting go—little else now.
The servant’s face, a moon, orbits slowly toward her.
Has he come yet? she thinks she asks. When the servant makes no reply, she says again, with pain this time, “Has he come yet?”
“He is just here.”
She nods, satisfied. The world has grown very small, but she has remembered this one thing, a thing expressed in none of the wills and instruments she has already forgotten. She would have it over; does not wish it, an oath in an autumn garden, a thing still left to do, to intrude on her dissolution, a process that has broken open all her ancient locked chests, torn down her interior walls, let past light in to shine on present darkness: the light of a farm on the Downs, in the spring, in seedtime, warming young limbs and brown earth…
He has been there some time when she again opens her eyes.
“Learned.”
“Arbiter.”
“They will not deny me…” She stops, her lips quivering. She must not ramble. There must be strength for this. There is: she draws on it, and the world grows smaller. She calls her servant. “Call them now. You know the ones. Those only.”
She takes his warm hand in her cold. “Learned, lean close… Learned, my successor will be named by the Councils. Hush, hush…” He had
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