And then, in all likelihood, Silchas would exhort his muscles to prise loose the gravestone, to look well upon the hidden words etched into the black, dusty basalt. He would, of course, be unable to read them, but he might recognize a hieroglyph here, another there. He might glean something of his father’s message to Mother Dark, like catching a fragment of conversation one was not meant to hear.
In the dead man’s breath there would come guilt, bitter and stale, for the three men to taste, and Andarist would know fury – for that taste was not something to bring into a new home for himself and his wife to be, was it? He had every right to be superstitious – omens ever marked great changes in life.
A smell bitter and stale, a smell of guilt. Little different, in fact, from that of a dead rose.
* * *
‘To this day,’ Anomander muttered, ‘my heart swells at the sight of her.’
‘Just your heart then, brother?’
‘Silchas, will you ever listen well to what I say? I choose my words with precision. Perhaps, in truth, you speak only of yourself.’
‘It seems that I do, then. She remains lovely to my eyes, I admit, and if I find myself desiring her even now, there is no shame in admitting it. Even now, I think, we but spin in her wake, like leaves from a fallen tree.’
Andarist had listened in silence to this, unable to share in any tender memories of the beautiful woman who had ridden out from the shadows beneath the tree. Yet, in that moment, he saw an opportunity to draw out his brothers, in particular Silchas – and perhaps it would be enough to dissuade him from his intentions. So he faced Silchas and said, ‘Brother, why did you end it with her?’
Silchas Ruin’s white face bore droplets and streaks of rain as would a visage carved in alabaster. He preceded his reply with a sigh, and then said, ‘Andarist, I wish I knew. No, I think I realized that she was … ephemeral. Like a wisp of fog, I could not grasp hold. For all that she lavished attention upon me, it seemed there was something missing.’ He shook his head, shrugged helplessly. ‘Elusive as a dream, is Hish Tulla.’
‘And is this unchanged in her?’ Andarist asked. ‘She has taken no husband.’
‘I imagine her suitors have all given up,’ Silchas answered. ‘Each draws near, only to see too sharply his own failings, and in shame pulls away, never to return.’
‘You may well be right,’ Anomander mused.
‘She seems to have suffered nothing in her solitude,’ Silchas observed, ‘nor do I see any weakness in her attention to grace and perfection. In elegant remoteness, she arrives like a work of high art, and you may well desire to edge ever closer, seeking flaws in the maker’s hand, but the closer you get, the more she blurs before your eyes.’
Andarist saw that Anomander was studying Silchas intently, yet when he spoke it was clear that his thoughts had travelled tracks other than those consuming Silchas. ‘Brother, do you see Hish Tulla as a potential ally?’
‘In truth, I cannot say,’ Silchas replied. ‘She seems the definition of neutrality, does she not?’
‘She does,’ Anomander admitted. ‘Well, let us consider it again, at a later time. For now, will you have at this gravestone?’
Eyes closing, Andarist awaited his brother’s answer.
Silchas was a moment before replying. ‘I see more rain, and we have another league before us. The valley floor promises mud and treacherous footing. I suggest we set this matter aside for now, as well. Be at ease, Andarist. I would do nothing to endanger your future, and though I have little time for omens and such, I do not await what awaits you. So, if you’ll forgive my occasional amusement, let us not cross the lame dog’s path.’
‘I thank you,’ Andarist replied, glancing over to meet Silchas’s warm gaze. ‘And will endeavour to think no ill of your amusement, irritating and patronizing as it may be.’
The smile on Silchas’s face now split into a grin, and he laughed. ‘Lead us on, then. Your brothers would meet this famous mason and look well upon his offering.’
‘Famous,’ muttered Anomander, ‘and damned expensive.’
They returned to their horses and mounted up. Drawing their mounts round, they set off.
Andarist looked across at Anomander. ‘One day I hope to answer your sacrifice, brother, with one as worthy and as noble as yours.’
‘Where love is the coin, no sacrifice is too great, Andarist. And with that wealth, who among us would hesitate? No, I but teased with you, brother. I trust I will be well pleased with the giving of this gift, and I hope you and your bride find the same pleasure in its receiving.’
‘I am minded,’ Andarist said after a moment, ‘of our father’s gift to us. Mother Dark has rewarded his loyalty through the elevation of his sons, and you, Anomander, have been lifted the highest among us.’
‘And the point you wish to make?’
‘Would you have permitted Silchas the desecration of Father’s tomb?’
‘Desecration?’ Silchas said in shocked disbelief. ‘All I sought was—’
‘The sundering of a seal,’ Andarist finished. ‘What else could it be called?’
‘The moment is past,’ Anomander said. ‘There will be no more said on the matter. Brothers, we approach a precious time. Let us value it as it should be valued. The blood ever flows between us, and ever shall, and that is our father’s greatest gift to us – would either of you argue against that?’
‘Of course not,’ Silchas replied in a growl.
‘And though I am now elevated to First Son of Darkness, I will not stand alone. I see you both with me, at my side. Peace shall be our legacy – we will achieve it together. What must be done I cannot do alone.’
After a long moment of riding, Silchas seemed to shake himself, and then he said, ‘Hish Tulla looks fondly upon you, Anomander. She will see the nobility in what you seek.’
‘I hope so, Silchas.’
And Andarist said, ‘Though I do not know her as well as either of you, by reputation alone she is known for affability and a certain … integrity, and not once have I heard a word of spite directed towards Hish Tulla, which is in itself remarkable.’
‘Then shall I approach her?’ Anomander asked, looking from one brother to the other.
And both nodded.
Anomander had done well, Andarist reflected, in reminding them of what awaited them in the time ahead. A struggle was coming, and in Mother Dark’s name they would find themselves at the very centre of it. They could afford no divisiveness or contention between them.
Through the branches of the trees lining the track, the sky was clear, the glare of the sun like molten gold on the leaves.
‘It seems,’ said Silchas, ‘the way ahead has seen no rain, Andarist. I imagine your builders are well pleased at that.’
Andarist nodded. ‘It is said that the Azathanai have power over both earth and sky.’
‘These are Tiste lands,’ Anomander countered. ‘Purake lands. I do not recall my invitation extending to the extravagant use of sorcery. Though,’ he added with a half-smile, ‘I find I cannot entirely object to a cloudless sky over us.’
‘We shall arrive with steam rising from us,’ Silchas observed, laughing, ‘like children born of chaos.’
* * *
Envy was an unwelcome emotion, and Sparo fought hard against it as the servants – the heavy burlap in their hands – slowly walked back from the wagon-bed, and the cloth slipped easily across the surface of the hearthstone, and gasps of wonder rose from his cadre of stone-workers and carpenters.
The massive foundation stones of the new house were behind the Tiste mason, and he did not need to turn and look at them to feel how their magnificence dwindled before the revelation of this Azathanai artefact. Destined to occupy the very centre of the Great Hall, the hearthstone would reside like a perfectly cut gem amidst a clutter of pebbles from the river. He felt diminished and offered no objection when the huge man standing at his side grunted and said, ‘Withdraw your workers, good Sparo. In the transport
of the stone, I shall awaken sorcery.’
Sweat trickled down Sparo’s back beneath his rough tunic. ‘That will do,’ he barked to his crew. ‘Retreat to a safe distance, all of you!’ He watched his people hurry away, noted their uneasy glances back to the Azathanai High Mason.
‘There is nothing to fear, good Sparo.’
‘Earth magic is feral,’ Sparo replied. ‘It never sits well with us.’
Another grunt. ‘And yet you Tiste invite its gifts time and again.’
That was true enough. He glanced at the High Mason, feeling once more the almost physical buffeting the man’s presence delivered, as if the power the Azathanai held ever threatened to burst free; and saw once again the bestial wildness of a face that seemed moments from inviting such an eruption. ‘A meal is made finer, Lord, when one can avoid bloodying one’s own hands in the making of it.’
‘Then you are not a hunter, Sparo? Is that not unusual among the Tiste?’
Shrugging, Sparo said, ‘Less so of late, as most of the beasts are slain and shall never return to our lands. It seems that our days of glorious hunting will soon be at an end.’
‘Then let us hope,’ rumbled the mason, ‘that the Tiste do not turn to the final prey left them.’
Sparo frowned. ‘And what manner of creature might that be?’
‘Why, each other, of course.’
With that, the Azathanai drew off his sheepskin cloak, letting it fall behind him, revealing the thick, scarred leather of his jerkin, the broad belt with its iron rings awaiting a stone-cutter’s tools, and set out towards the wagon. Glaring at the foreigner’s broad back, Sparo chewed on those last words, and found them displeasing to the palate. This Azathanai might well be a master of the shaping of stone, and in his blood the wild and raw sorcery of the earth, but such talents were no excuse for veiled insults.
Should he tell Lord Andarist of this exchange, however, it would no doubt be seen as trite, his own anger revealed as dishonest, little more than a reflection of his jealousy. It was one thing to be counted as among the finest masons when in the company of naught but his fellow Tiste, but these intrusions by the Azathanai arrived like salt to open wounds.
A febrile charge filled the air, rising like a breath from the ground. Muttering, the dozen or so workers backed further away, crowding against the heaps of rubble and wooden scaffolding on the other side of the main track. Fighting his own unease, Sparo watched the hearthstone lift from the wagon-bed. The oxen had already been unhitched and led away, to keep the beasts from panicking at the awakening of the Azathanai’s power. As the enormous block of basalt slid clear of the bed, the High Mason began walking towards the house, and the stone drifted into his wake like a faithful hound. Where it passed, however, the earth sank down as if still buckling to its massive weight. Small rocks spun away as if snapped by the passing of a huge wheel, while others crumbled to dust. The crackling energy filling the air began radiating heat, shrivelling the nearby tufts of grass, and smoke threaded along the path as the Azathanai guided the hearthstone towards its destination.
Sparo heard the thump of horse hoofs from the tree-lined track that led to the road, and he turned in time to see Lord Andarist and his brothers ride out from the shade of the nearest trees. The riders drew up sharply upon taking in the scene before them. Ignoring them, the Azathanai continued on, the hearthstone gliding along behind him – across the semicircular clearing fronting the house, and then on to the broad ramp that marked the approach to the gap still awaiting stone framing. Beneath the floating stone the ramp buckled, fissures spreading out through the packed soil.
Andarist had dismounted and now approached Sparo, who bowed and said, ‘My lord, I begged the Azathanai to await your arrival, but he is without patience.’
‘No matter, Sparo,’ Andarist replied, eyes fixed on the hearthstone as it slid over the threshold. The walls were not yet high enough to obscure their view as the High Mason guided his creation on to the earthen floor of what would be the Great Hall. The hearthstone left a depressed track as it approached the shallow pit awaiting it.
‘It was discourteous—’
‘The delay was ours – and the weather to the south.’
Lord Anomander had come up alongside his brother, while Silchas Ruin seemed content to remain seated on his mount a short distance back. Now, the First Son of Mother Dark spoke. ‘It is said that earth sorcery finds its truest vein of power at certain times of the day – and night – and so I expect the High Mason saw no value in delay, if only to ease his strain.’ He glanced over at Lord Andarist and said, ‘This much, at least, I did ask for.’
Sparo knew that it had been by Anomander’s instruction – and his coin – that this commission had occurred. Also, it was well known that this particular High Mason of the Azathanai was considered the lord among masters, his skill unequalled by any living mason, which set his status as, at the very least, equal to Anomander himself, whom Mother Dark had chosen to call her First Son.
Lord Andarist now turned to his brother, his eyes bright. ‘I would you accompany me, Anomander, to witness the placing of your gift.’ He turned then and waved Silchas forward. ‘And you as well, Silchas!’
But Silchas simply shook his head. ‘Anomander’s gift, and you the beneficiary, Andarist. I am well enough pleased to attend as I am. Go on, both of you, and quickly now lest that impolite creature forget his reason for being here, and for whom the stone was made.’
Andarist gestured that Sparo join them and the house-mason bowed a second time. ‘Lord, I am but—’
‘—my mason, Sparo, whose love for his art is sufficient cause in my eyes. Come, join us. Let us all look upon the majesty of this work.’
Trailing a step behind the two lords, Sparo followed along, feeling the thump of his own heart. Of course he would see the High Mason’s creation often enough in the months to come, in its rightful place in the Great Hall, but even hard basalt worked by an Azathanai was not immune to wear and tear, the scratches, stains and battering that came with a working hearth. And for all his envy, he was as Andarist had said: a lover of stone and the art of its shaping.
Silent with privilege, he joined his lord and Anomander upon reaching the packed earthen floor of the Great Hall. The Azathanai now stood to one side of the hearthstone, and the huge block hovered above its waiting seat. The High Mason faced Andarist and spoke, his expression flat.
‘The earth told of your approach. Are you the one soon to wed? Is this to be your home, Lord?’
‘Yes, I am Andarist.’
The High Mason’s broad visage then shifted to Anomander. ‘You, then, must be the First Son of Mother Dark. The giver of this gift to your brother and the woman he will take as wife.’
‘I am,’ Anomander replied.
‘And in so doing,’ the High Mason continued, ‘you bind yourself by blood and vow to what shall be made here, and to the secret words carved upon this hearthstone. If your loyalty is uncertain, speak now, First Son. Once this stone finds its place, the binding of the vow can never be broken, and should you fail in your love, in your loyalty, then even I cannot answer for the consequences.’
This sudden pronouncement stilled the two brothers, and Sparo felt his chest tighten, as if his heart’s beat was suddenly held, frozen. He struggled to breathe.
Anomander then tilted his head, as if to counter his own tension or affront. ‘High Mason,’ he said, ‘you speak of my love for Andarist, and my desire for the well-being of the new life awaiting him, as if they were in question. You speak, too, of this gift as if it embodies a threat, or indeed a curse.’
‘Such potential exists in every gift, and in its giving, First Son.’
‘The bargain made between myself and you,’ Anomander said, ‘involved the payment of coin for your services—’
‘Not precisely,’ the Azathanai replied. ‘You have paid for the protection and transport of this hearthstone, and its extraction from the Jhelarkan quarry. Your coin has purchased wagons, draug
ht animals, and the necessary escort across the Bareth Solitude. For my talents, I take no coin.’
Anomander was frowning. ‘Forgive me, High Mason, but I surely paid for much more than what you have described.’
‘The Jhelarkan quarries are contested, Lord. Lives were lost in the procurement of this stone. Aggrieved families required compensation.’
‘This … distresses me,’ Anomander replied, and now Sparo could see the warrior’s taut fury.
‘The stone selected is unequalled in its capacity to contain and, indeed, sustain the sorcery I invest in it. If you wished a lesser gift, then you should not have made an approach to me. There are many highly skilled masons among the Azathanai, any one of whom could have served you well in the making of this gift. Yet you sought the finest worker of stone, to reflect the measure of your fealty to your brother and his pending union.’ The High Mason shrugged. ‘I have done as you requested. This hearthstone is without equal in the realm of the Tiste.’
‘And now you stand before us,’ said Anomander, ‘demanding my blood-vow.’
‘I do not,’ the High Mason replied, crossing his thickly muscled arms. ‘The stone demands. The words carved upon its face demand. The honour you wish to do to your brother demands.’
Andarist made to speak, dismay heavy on his features, but a quick shake of his brother’s head stilled him. Anomander said, ‘I have only your claim that the glyphs you have carved upon it – for the understanding of Andarist and Enesdia alone – do indeed avow love, fidelity and fecundity. And yet you ask of me, here and now, to give by blood and vow my binding to those secret words. Words that shall remain for ever unknown to me.’
‘I do,’ the High Mason replied. ‘On this, you have nothing but your faith. In my integrity, and, of course, in your own.’
Another moment, when it seemed nothing in the world could move, could break the stillness, and then Anomander drew a dagger from his belt and slid the edge across the palm of his left hand. Blood trickled down, dripped on to the ground. ‘Upon the hearthstone?’ he asked.
But the High Mason shook his head. ‘Unnecessary, First Son of Mother Dark.’
Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) Page 7
