Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1)

by Steven Erikson

  ‘You are a welcome sight,’ Anomander replied.

  ‘Milord, I have with me the child Orfantal, and would present him to you.’

  The First Son rose. ‘This pleases me. Do bring him in, Gripp.’

  The old man half turned and gestured.

  Emral watched the boy edge into view, hesitating upon the threshold to the chamber.

  ‘Orfantal,’ said Anomander. ‘You are most welcome. I am informed that you have made of your journey to Kharkanas an adventure worthy of a bard’s song, perhaps even a poem or two. Please enter and tell us about yourself.’

  When the boy’s dark eyes touched briefly on Emral, she smiled in answer.

  Orfantal stepped into the room. ‘Thank you, milord. Of me there is little worth saying. I am told that I am ill-named. I am told that my father was a hero in the wars, who died of his wounds, but I never saw him. My grandmother is now dead, burned to ashes in House Korlas. If she had not sent me here after sending away my mother, I would have died in the fire. I see nothing in me worth a poem, and nothing in my life worth singing about. But I have longed to meet you all.’

  No one spoke.

  Then Silchas stepped forth and offered his hand. ‘Orfantal,’ he said, ‘I believe there is another hostage in the Citadel. A girl, perhaps a year or two younger than you. She is often found in the company of the priests, or the court historian. Shall we go and find her? By this means I can also show you more of your new home.’

  Orfantal took the man’s hand. ‘Thank you, milord. I heard you had white skin, but I did not think it would be as white as it is. Upon my grandfather’s scabbard there is ivory, and your skin is just like that.’

  ‘Lacking the polish, however,’ Silchas said with a smile, ‘though surely just as worn.’ He led Orfantal back to the doorway, pausing for a final glance back at his brother. ‘Anomander, do not make her wait too long.’

  When they had left, Gripp Galas cleared his throat. ‘My pardon, milord. The boy has yet to find somewhere to stand.’

  ‘That is not cut out from under him, yes,’ Anomander said. ‘Pray he finds firm footing here, and if so, I will envy him.’

  Gripp Galas hesitated, and then said, ‘Milord?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If you have no further need of me—’

  ‘Abyss take it, friend, I see no end to my need for you.’

  Emral saw the old man’s eyes tighten, as if his master’s words were somehow cause for pain, but he nodded and said, ‘As ever, milord, I am at your disposal.’

  ‘Prepare our horses, Gripp. We shall depart Kharkanas before the day is done.’

  ‘Very good, milord.’

  Anomander turned to Emral. ‘High Priestess, I would welcome your company on my way to the Chamber of Night.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied.

  * * *

  Orfantal felt that he had made a fool of himself. He walked with his hand swallowed up in Silchas’s grip, and was already lost in the maze of corridors and hallways. At least those rushing people they came upon in their journey were quick to step aside, so none of the rough jostling that had afflicted him and Gripp Galas earlier occurred this time. He berated himself for his thoughtless words, the first he had spoken to Lord Anomander. With luck, the First Son would soon forget the introduction had ever happened.

  He vowed that he would do better next time, and find the words to make Lord Anomander understand the pledge of service he intended. In time, he sought to become as necessary to the First Son as, it seemed, was Gripp Galas. It had surprised him to see the high regard that had been shown the old man, and he realized that he had been careless in his opinion of Gripp.

  For all that, he reminded himself that Gripp was a murderer, cold-blooded and not above treachery. He still remembered that soldier’s look on his face when the old man stabbed him in the back. In that face there had been shock, and disappointment, as if to ask the world why, with all its rules, it could do no better than this. It was a look Orfantal understood. In his games of war he had fallen to a thousand knives in the back a thousand times, and though he had never held up a mirror to gauge his expression at any of those fateful moments, he suspected that he would have looked no different from that poor soldier.

  He heard the scrape of claws on the tiles behind him, and a moment later a skinny dog pushed up against his legs. Startled, he paused, and Silchas turned at the same moment.

  The dog’s mangled tail was wagging fiercely as the animal circled in front of Orfantal.

  Silchas said, ‘Well, already you’ve made a friend, hostage. This dog is from Lady Hish Tulla’s household. For some unknown reason, it came in the company of an Azathanai.’

  They continued on, with the dog now close by Orfantal’s side.

  ‘If such beasts could tell their stories,’ Silchas mused, ‘what do you imagine they might say?’

  Orfantal thought of the horse he had killed. ‘I think, milord, they would just ask us to leave them alone.’

  ‘I see nothing of that sentiment in this animal.’

  ‘Milord, what if what we see as happiness is in truth begging us not to hurt them?’

  ‘A dreadful thought, Orfantal.’

  The boy nodded agreement. It was a dreadful thought.

  * * *

  Lady Hish watched Gripp Galas approach. The Grand Hall was crowded with servants, with messengers bearing frantic questions and few answers, with Houseblades gathered in clumps like wolves circling an uncertain prey, and priests and priestesses passing to and fro as if desperate to find something to do. She stood near the first of the columns lining a wall, struggling to make sense of the expression on the face of the man she loved.

  She spoke the moment he joined her, ‘He demands yet one more task from you? Are we to be delayed then?’

  ‘Beloved,’ Gripp said, unable to meet her eyes, ‘I must remain at his side. We are to ride this day. I cannot join you, not yet.’

  ‘He has refused us?’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Summoned into the presence of Mother Dark. I am to meet him at the gate, with our horses prepared.’

  ‘I will join you in that task.’

  She saw his eyes narrow slightly on her, but she was in no mood to offer explanation.

  * * *

  The First Son walked in silence, but Emral could hear the soft, muted beat of his sword’s scabbard against his leg with every stride. The weapon’s presence was already well known, not just in the Citadel, but in all Kharkanas, and she had heard tales twisting the truth of the sword’s origins. Many now spoke as if Lord Anomander had forged the weapon with his own hands, and that the failure to give it a name was proof of the First Son’s chronic indecision.

  This latter argument was the conjuring of the worst of the court’s inhabitants, although in nature such people were not exclusive to the Citadel. Bearing the wounds of a thousand small bites, she had once voiced this complaint to the historian and he had but nodded, and spoken of not just this time and place, but of countless others. ‘It is the habit of the petty-minded to derogate the achievements and status of those who, by any measure, are their superiors. High Priestess, they are the wild dogs in the forest, ever ready for a turned back, but quick to yip and flee when the prey shows its fangs.’

  She had considered the analogy for a moment, and then had replied, ‘When enough such dogs have gathered, historian, they may not flee the bearded beast, and instead show fangs of their own. In any case, any opinion on superiority is subject to challenge.’

  ‘I mean not such things as titles, or wealth, or even power, when I speak of superiority, High Priestess. I refer to something more ephemeral. To find a truly superior person, follow the dogs. Or, better still, follow the blood trail. No other gauge is necessary but to observe the viciousness of the eager beasts and see for yourself the beleaguered foe.’

  Was the man at her side thus hounded? There was little doubt of that. And was there not som
ething in the assertion that the forging of that weapon was not yet complete? Its edge was well honed to be sure, and the blade bore a fine polish. But it was not yet Anomander’s own, no matter how forceful Hust Henarald’s insistence that the weapon was fit for the hand of but one man.

  They reached the door and Emral stepped back.

  But Anomander shook his head. ‘I request your presence within, High Priestess.’

  ‘First Son, I believe it was Mother Dark’s wish—’

  ‘We will speak of faith, High Priestess. I am informed that High Priestess Syntara is now the centre of a cult that directly opposes that of Mother Dark. With her under the protection of Lord Urusander, the matter is both religious and political.’

  She glanced away. ‘I was not aware of this development, First Son.’ A moment later she drew a deep breath and said, ‘But I am not surprised. Not with respect to Syntara’s ambitions. Still, Urusander’s role in this confuses me.’

  ‘You are not alone in that.’

  She opened the door and together they strode into the Chamber of Night.

  The darkness hid nothing. Mother Dark was seated on the throne. Facing her from a few paces away but now stepping to one side was the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl, who bowed to both Anomander and Emral, offering them a faint smile.

  Lord Anomander wasted no time. ‘Azathanai, I assure you that I have no unreasoning aversion to foreign advisers in this court. Still, I wonder at what of value you can offer us, since we are here to discuss the measures we must take in order to keep our realm from tearing itself apart. The legacy of the Azathanai in this matter is no less dubious than if a Jaghut stood in your place.’

  ‘With regret, First Son,’ said Grizzin Farl, ‘I agree with you. Although a Jaghut might prove wiser than me and could I find one nearby to stand in these worn moccasins, why, I would give the poor creature good cause to rail at my presumption.’

  ‘Then what keeps you here?’ Anomander asked.

  ‘By title I am known as the Protector, but this is no welcome aspect. I appear where I am most needed, yet in hope most distant. My attendance alone is a sour comment on your state of affairs, alas.’

  There was a challenge to these words, but Anomander simply tilted his head, as if studying the Azathanai in a new light. ‘We found you tending Kadaspala. Even then, it seems, you could have made shackles of your hands to close on his wrists, and so keep him from his terrible self-mutilation. Instead, you came too late.’

  ‘This is so, First Son.’

  ‘Do you stand here before us, then, to announce a threshold already crossed?’

  Emral could see how Mother Dark looked between the two men, and there was, at last, alarm in her eyes.

  Grizzin Farl bowed. ‘You have the truth of me,’ he said.

  ‘Mother Dark,’ said Anomander, ‘did you understand this?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It seems that I asked the wrong questions of our guest. Confusion attended me, First Son, with misleading thoughts of the last Azathanai to stand before me.’

  ‘Of whom we know nothing,’ Anomander said. ‘Did this T’riss speak for the river god? Did you bargain with that rival and so win from it the sacrifice of a thousand souls?’

  ‘You insult us both,’ Mother Dark snapped. ‘We bargained peace between us.’

  ‘And what manner the currency of this exchange?’

  ‘Nothing of substance.’

  ‘Then, what manner this peace? Shall I describe it? The forest to the north might burn still, but the huts are surely silent. By that one might assert the blessing of peace, of a sort.’

  ‘We did not invite death between us!’

  Emral saw how the goddess trembled with her rage, but Anomander seemed unaffected. ‘Grizzin Farl, what do you know of this T’riss?’

  ‘I know of no Azathanai by that name, First Son.’

  ‘Do you have her description?’

  Grizzin Farl shrugged. ‘That signifies nothing. If I so desired, I could hover before you as a bird, or perhaps a butterfly.’ Then he frowned. ‘But you name her born of the Vitr. Two Azathanai set out to explore the mystery of that caustic sea.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps it is one of them.’

  ‘And the power she unveiled tells you nothing either?’

  ‘Only that it was uncommonly careless, and so not like an Azathanai at all. There are proscriptions against such blatant interference.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is unhealthy for any Azathanai to invite the resentment of other Azathanai.’

  ‘And this the one named T’riss has done?’

  ‘So it seems, First Son.’

  ‘You are rather passive in your resentment, Grizzin Farl.’

  ‘I am not the one imposed upon, as the Tiste do not fall under my influence.’

  Emral gasped as the implications of that comment settled in her mind. She looked to Mother Dark and was stunned to see no expression of surprise in her features.

  Anomander stood like a man nailed to a wall, although nothing but empty air surrounded him. All at once, Emral felt her heart wrench for the First Son. He now stared fixedly at Mother Dark. ‘At last,’ he said, ‘I find the bitter truth to my title, Mother. A son you would have, but one swaddled and helpless, thinking only of your tit’s sweet milk.’

  ‘I cannot hasten your growth, First Son, by any other means.’

  ‘Yet you recoil at my sour breath.’

  ‘Only the hurtful words it carries.’

  ‘Are you then an Azathanai, Mother, deceitfully attired in the body of a Tiste woman we once all knew?’

  ‘I am that woman,’ she replied, ‘and no other.’

  ‘Then where stands your guardian, or has it made its flesh darkness itself?’

  ‘These questions are of no value,’ Mother Dark said. ‘I have summoned you, First Son, to send you to Lord Urusander. We will have the truth of his motives.’ She paused and then said, ‘Is this not what you wished?’

  ‘I will indeed march on Urusander,’ Anomander answered. ‘With the arrival of the Hust Legion.’

  ‘Do not wait for them,’ she said. ‘Ride to him now, beloved son. Meet with him.’

  ‘To stand within reach of him, Mother, I would need to wear chains with the weight of mountains, to keep my hands from the sword at my side. But then, would it be better if I simply disarmed myself outside his command tent, knelt and offered him the back of my neck?’

  ‘I do not believe he is in any way responsible for the murders of Lord Jaen and his daughter. Look him in the eye as he tells you the same, and together you may turn your ire upon the true slayers.’

  ‘Renegades from the disbanded units? Or would you have me offer up the pathetic possibility of Deniers with noble blood on their hands?’

  ‘It seems that I must do nothing but weather your scorn. Perhaps this is every mother’s lament.’

  Anomander turned away, ‘My scorn, Mother, is not yet awakened. Indeed, you see before you a sleeping man, still lost to the night and troubling dreams. If I twitch, it but signals my helplessness. If I voice a moan, it is a sound empty of meaning. No brush of fingertips will prod me awake, and so I yearn for the knife’s sharp jab. The only question that remains is: who will wield that knife?’

  ‘If you imagine Urusander to be so treacherous,’ said Mother Dark, ‘then we are already lost.’

  ‘He harbours Syntara,’ said Anomander. ‘A new cult rises in Neret Sorr. It faces you as a rising sun challenges the night. And so I wonder, Mother, how many gauntlets do you need thrown down?’

  ‘Go to him, First Son.’

  ‘There is no need,’ Anomander replied. ‘He prepares to march on Kharkanas. We need but await his knock on the wood of the Citadel gates.’ He moved to the door. Before reaching for the latch, he glanced back at Mother Dark. ‘I have listened to your counsel, Mother. But what I do now is in defence of Kharkanas.’

  The door closed quietly behind the First Son. Emral thought to follow but something held her back. She remained
facing Mother Dark, but could think of nothing to say.

  Grizzin Farl sighed. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘your adopted son is a formidable man.’

  ‘If I had another path, less painful for him, I would choose it.’

  ‘For all of you, I would think.’

  But she shook her head. ‘I am prepared to bear what will come.’

  ‘You invite a lonely existence,’ Grizzin said, with sorrow in his eyes as he regarded Mother Dark.

  All at once, to Emral’s eyes, it seemed that Mother Dark transformed into something more solid than stone, and then just as quickly she seemed to fade, until she was almost insubstantial. ‘Azathanai, with what you have told me of the events taking place to the west … by solitude alone can I ensure a long existence, and a role in all that is to come.’ Her gaze shifted from Grizzin Farl and settled upon Emral. ‘High Priestess, make of your worship an unflinching recognition of the unknown, and, indeed, the unknowable. By devotion and acceptance of mystery, the chaos that haunts us all is made calm, until the sea itself becomes a mirror content with a placid reflection.’

  Emral glanced at the Azathanai, and then returned her attention to Mother Dark. ‘I see no source of strength, Mother, in such surrender.’

  ‘It opposes our nature, yes. Do you know why I did not refuse the lusts of the priestesses? In that moment of release, time itself is abandoned, and in its place even the mortal body seems as expansive as the universe. In that moment, Emral, we find utter surrender, and in that surrender a state of bliss.’

  Emral shook her head. ‘Until the flesh returns, with its aches and a deep heaviness inside. The bliss you describe, Mother, cannot be sustained. And if somehow it could, why, we would soon wear visages of madness, one and all.’

  ‘It was, daughter, a flawed dispensation.’

  ‘And now we are to embrace not flesh, but empty contemplation? I fear the void’s kiss will not seem as sweet.’

  Mother Dark leaned her head back, as if exhausted. ‘I will,’ she said in a low mutter, ‘let you know.’

  * * *

  Orfantal stood in the centre of the room, looking round. ‘This is mine?’ he asked.