The Face of Chaos

Ischade's robe brushed him as she took her place. She knelt there all too close for any comfort; she bent her head, bowed over, her hands on the wounded face. There was suddenly outcry, a struggling of limbs beneath them ... 'For the gods' sake!' Mradhon exclaimed, his gorge rising; he thrust at Ischade, shoved her back, froze at the lifting of her face, the direction of that basilisk stare at him.

'Pain is life,' she said.

And the boat began to move, slowly, like a dream, the while the wind swirled about them and the river roared beneath. His companions - they were hazy shapes in the night about Ischade. The wounded man stirred and moaned, threatening instability in the boat should his thrashing become severe. Mradhon reached down and held him, gently. The witch touched him too, and the struggles took harder and harder restraint. The moans were pitiful.

'He will live,' she said. 'Stilcho. I am calling you. Come back.'

The Stepson cried out, once, sharply, back arching, but the river took the sound.

It was a boat, ru

But the boat came skimming, ru

'Pass the word,' he said. 'Something's coming.'

'Where?'

'River.'

That got a stare, a silence in the dark.

'Get the rest,' Erato hissed, shoving at the man. 'They're going to come ashore. Hear me? Tell them pass it on. The back of the house: that's where they'll come.'

The man went. Erato slipped along the bank at the same level, towards the brambles, which served as effective barrier. The house they watched - they did not venture liberties with it, did not try the low iron gate, the hedges. Try reason, he thought. He was in command. It was on him to try reason with the witch; and it had to be the witch out there: there was nothing in all sanity that ought to be doing what that boat did. He moved quietly, gathered up men here and there while the boat came on.

The bow grated on to rock and kept grating, pushing itself ashore, and the Stepson moaned anew, leaning against the gunwales of the boat.

'Bring him,' Ischade said, and Mradhon looked up as the witch stepped ashore, on the landing which rose in steps up to the brambles. He flung an arm about the Stepson, accepted Haught's help as he stood up, as now the Stepson fought to get his own feet under him, more than dead weight. The boat rocked as Mor-am went past and stepped out, close to Ischade. They went next, stepping over the bow to solid if water-washed stone footing, and Moria came up by Haught's side, while Ischade stood gazing into the dark beside them.

Men were there, armed and armoured. A half a dozen visible. Stepsons.

The foremost came out a few steps. 'You surprise us,' that one said. 'You did it.'

'Yes,' Ischade said. 'Now go away. Be wise.'

'Our man -'

'Not yours,' she said.

'There's more of them,' Mradhon muttered to her; there was the light of torches up on the height of the bank, just the merest wink of red through the brush. 'Give him over, woman.' He was holding the Stepson still, and the man was standing much on his own between himself and Haught, standing, having no strength, perhaps, to speak for himself. Or no will to do so - as there seemed a curious lack of initiative on the part of the Stepsons who faced them in the dark.

'Go away,' Ischade said, and walked past, walked up to the iron gate that closed the bramble hedge at the back of her house. She turned there and looked back at them, lifted her hand.

Come. Mradhon felt it, a shiver in his nerves. The man they were carrying took a step on his own, faltering, and they went on carrying him, up the steps, to the gate Ischade held open for them, into a garden overgrown with weeds and brush. The back door of the house swung open abruptly, gaping dark; and they went towards this, up the backdoor steps - heard hasty footfalls behind them, Moria's swift pace, Mor-am's dragging foot. The iron gate creaked shut.

'Get him in,' Ischade hissed at their backs; and there was not, at the moment, any choice.

Light flickered, the begi

'Come out!' a thin voice cried, 'or burn inside.'

'The hedges,' Haught said, and Ischade's face was set and cold. She lifted her hand, waved it as at inconsequence. The lights all brightened, all about the room, white as day.

'The hedges,' said Mor-am. 'They'll burn.'

'They're close.' Moria had sneaked a look, got back to the safe solidity of the wall. 'They're moving up.'

Ischade ignored them all. She brought a bowl, dipped a rag, laid a wet cloth on the Stepson's ravaged face, so, so tenderly. Straightened his hair. 'Stilcho,' she addressed the man. 'Lie easy now. They'll not come inside.'

'They won't need to,' Mradhon said between his teeth. 'Woman, they don't care if he fries along with us. If you've got a trick, use it. Now.'

'This is your warning,' the voice came from outside the walls. 'Come out or burn!'

Ischade straightened.

Beyond the window slats a fire arced, flared. Kept flaring, sun-bright. There were screams, a rush of wind. Mradhon whirled, saw the blaze of light at every window and Ischade standing black and still in the midst of them, her eyes -

He averted his, gazed at Haught's pale face. And the screams went on outside. Fire roared like a furnace about the house, went from white to red to white again outside, and the screams died.

There was silence then. The fire-glow vanished. Even the light of the candles, the fire in the fireplace sank lower. He turned towards Ischade, saw her let go a breath. Her face - he had never seen it angry; and saw it now.

But she walked to a table, quietly poured wine, a rich, rich red. She turned up other cups, two, four, the sixth. She filled only the one. 'Make yourselves at home,' she said. 'Food, if you wish it. Drink. It will be safe for you. I say that it is.'

None of them moved. Not one. Ischade drained her cup and drew a quiet breath.

'There is night left,' she said. 'An hour or more to dawn. Sit down. Sit down where you choose.'

And she set the cup aside. She took off her cloak, draped it over a chair, bent and pulled off one boot and the other, then rose to stand barefoot on the litter that carpeted this place; she drew off her rings and cast them on the table, looked up again, for still no one had moved.

'Please yourselves,' she said, and her eyes masked in insouciance something very dark.

Mradhon edged back.

'I would not,' she said, 'try the door. Not now.'

She walked out to the middle of the silk-strewn floor. 'Stilcho,' she said; and a man who had been near dead moved, tried to sit.

'Don't,' Moria said, a strangled, small voice - not love of Stepsons, it was sure; Mradhon felt the same, a knot of sickness in his throat.

Ischade held out her hands. The Stepson rose, swayed, walked to her. She took his hands, drew him to sit, with her, on the floor; he knelt, carefully.