Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (23 page)

Ilgast remembered when Mother Dark was known by her birth name; when she was simply a woman: beautiful, vivacious, possessor of unimaginable strengths and unexpected frailties – a woman like any other, then. Until the day she found the Gate. Darkness was many things; most of all, it was selfish.

Dusk was fast closing, and directly ahead Ilgast Rend could see the midnight line of the grasses of Glimmer Fate, and there, crouching at its edge, stood a stone gate that marked the North Road. Down that road, in a short time, they would come to the outpost where Calat had established his headquarters this season.

The Wardens were an odd lot, a loose rabble of misfits. This was what made them so important. In a decent society, there must be a place for misfits, a place free of prejudice and torment. In a decent society, such people were not left to the alleys, the shadows beneath bridges, the gutters and the slums. They were not thrown out into the wilderness, and not throat-cut either.

Misfits had a place in the world, and must be cherished, for one day, they might be needed.

Torches flared at the gate. Guards were at their post.

Ahead, Hunn Raal twisted in his saddle and glanced back, though it was too dark to see where his eyes fixed. Facing forward again, he muttered something, to which Osserc shot a look over a shoulder. Then, turning back, he laughed.

Overhead, the stars appeared, a swirling whirlpool spanning the entire sky.

FIVE

BARETH SOLITUDE WAS
a vast plain crossed by ancient beach ridges of water-worn limestone cobbles; these ridges ran for leagues but they were relatively shallow, evidence, explained Tutor Sagander months ago, of an inland sea that had taken thousands of years to die. If he let his mind wander, Arathan could imagine that they were now riding through the thinnest water, the water of the past, the water of dim memory, and the seabed under the horses’ hoofs, with its ribbons of wild-blown sand and its blooms of yellow grasses, was far beneath the surface of another world.

If he let his mind wander, he could almost feel himself rising up, lifting clear of this hard, brutal saddle; he could ride his thoughts instead, as they floated out of his battered, weary body, ever upward. Thoughts alone, thoughts unfettered, could find a thousand worlds in which to wander. And none here, riding with him across the plain, would know; his body would give nothing away. There were many kinds of freedom, and the most precious ones were secret.

Sagander would not have understood such musings. Just as there were many kinds of freedom, so too were there many kinds of prison. It came as something of a shock when Arathan first comprehended this truth. The stone walls were everywhere, and no hard grey tower was needed as proof of their existence. They could hide behind eyes, or form barriers in the throat leaving no escape for words. They could rise suddenly around thoughts in the skull, suffocating them. They could block the arrival of other thoughts – foreign thoughts, frightening thoughts, challenging thoughts. And in each case, there was one thing they all shared – all these vicious walls: they were enemies to freedom.

Arathan had known hard grey walls all his life.

Yet now he rode, under an open sky, a sky too vast and too empty. His skull throbbed; his back was sore; he was blistered along the inside of his thighs. The helm he had been made to wear made his neck ache with its clunky weight. The supposedly light armour, banded bronze strips sewn on to leather, dragged at his shoulders. The vambraces covering his wrists and the thick metal-strapped gauntlets on his hands were hot and heavy. Even the plain sword belted at his side pulled at his hip.

He rode in the company of exhaustion, but still the air felt sweet as water on his face, and even the huge figure of his father, riding ahead at the side of Sergeant Raskan, seemed to hold no power over him. There were, he told himself again, many kinds of freedom.

On the day of leaving he had been filled with fear, and it had shamed him. Dawn had broken cold and sleep was still grainy in his eyes when he stood shivering in the courtyard, watching the frenzied activity as mounts were readied and various supplies were strapped on the saddles. Servants rushed about, mostly in response to the shrill demands of Sagander. The tutor’s two travel chests, packed with precision, had been flung open, the contents frantically rummaged through – there would be no packhorses for this journey, and this left Sagander in a state of such agitation that he had begun shouting abuse at all the servants, the stable-boys and anyone else who ventured near.

Excepting Raskan, of course, and the four Borderswords who looked on with flat expressions from where they stood near the gate.

Lord Draconus had yet to appear, although his two horses stood ready, a lone groom clutching the reins of Calaras; the huge warhorse seemed immune to the panic surrounding him, standing virtually motionless beside the mounting block. The other horses looked nervous to Arathan’s eye; his gaze caught another groom who was leading out from the stables his own mounts. The mare, Hellar, tossed her head as she emerged from the shade, and behind her was Besra, the gelding on which Arathan decided he would begin this ride – a solid-looking roan with a scarred neck. Both animals seemed enormous, as if they had grown overnight, and Arathan struggled to recall the confidence he had found by the end of the riding lessons.

‘Arathan! Come here, quickly!’

Startled by the command, he looked over to see Sagander on his knees beside one of the trunks. The old man gestured frantically, his visage darkening.

‘Come here, I said! Student you were and student you remain! Attend to me!’

Longing to be in his room, warm beneath the heavy furs, with a day ahead no different from all the other days, Arathan forced himself
forward
. His limbs felt stiff from cold and his mind was sluggish with lack of sleep, and the dread of leaving the world he had known all of his life left him feeling sick.

‘There shall be no trunks on this journey! I wasted half the night packing them. I was foolish listening to you, and see how I am now beset! You must make room among your own kit.’ He pointed at a heap of materials. ‘For those, do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Be quick about it then, before your father appears!’

Arathan went over to the objects. He studied them for a moment, considering how he might fit into his bedroll the assayer’s scales and the weights and measures. If there had been a small bag to hold the weights, it no longer accompanied them. He counted a dozen gradations of the pure metal, the heaviest feeling solid and filling the palm of his hand when he picked it up. The lightest one was barely the size of a pebble, like a thick coin. He tucked that one into his belt pouch.

At a snapping insult from Sagander, he quickly gathered up the rest of the equipment and made his way over to his horse.

The groom, a boy of about the same age as Arathan, had already strapped the kit to the gelding’s saddle, and upon seeing Arathan’s approach he made an expression of annoyance and turned to drag it free.

‘Set it down,’ said Arathan. ‘I need to fit these in.’

The groom did so, and then backed off, as if unwilling to draw too close to the strange instruments.

‘You can go,’ Arathan said to him. ‘I will do this.’

With a quick nod the boy hurried away, vanishing into the gloom of the stables.

Arathan loosened the careful knots he had tied to secure the bedroll. He’d already packed his change of clothes inside, including a new pair of henen hide boots. As the boots were heavy he had been careful with the balance, since Raskan had told him that horses were easily irritated by such things, especially over a long trek. Pulling the tie-strings clear, he unfurled the bedroll. He laid out the measures and the weights, but the scales were too large to fit. As he knelt, contemplating what to do with the awkward instrument, he became aware of a general silence in the courtyard, apart from the heavy approach of boots. A shadow fell over him and Arathan looked up.

‘Why are you not ready?’ Lord Draconus demanded.

At the question, Arathan felt his throat tightening, choking the words from him. He continued peering upward, silent.

He saw his father’s eyes shift to the scales on the ground beside Arathan, and then he reached down and picked them up. He held them out to one side. A servant appeared to take the instrument from
him
and hurry off, back towards the house. ‘There is no time for this,’ Draconus said, turning away.

Arathan watched his father walk back to Calaras. The servants in the courtyard all stood with bowed heads. Tutor Sagander was already beside his own mount, glaring across the distance at Arathan.

He quickly rolled up the bedding, leaving the weights and measures in place. He tied rough knots to bind the kit and lifted it to the back of the saddle. He struggled for a time with the straps; his hands felt clumsy, almost useless, the tips of his fingers too soft and yielding since they lacked most of their nails. Finally, he fumbled his way through and stepped back. Facing round he saw that his father was now astride Calaras, reins in gloved hands. Raskan was pulling himself on to his own mount, while two servants helped Sagander do the same. By the gate, the Borderswords had vanished and no doubt now waited outside.

Arathan took up Besra’s reins, which had been left to dangle. He had to grope to slide his boot into the stirrup, almost losing his balance, and then he pulled himself up and on to the saddle.

Draconus led them out through the gate, followed by Raskan and then Sagander, who curtly waved Arathan into his wake.

Glancing back, a moment before the gate’s shadow fell over him, Arathan saw his half-sisters, atop the steps before the door of the house. They were in their nightclothes: loose and flowing and black as ink. Above this filmy darkness their faces seemed deathly pale. A faint shiver ran through him at the sight, and then he faced forward once more and, trailed by his charger on a long lead, rode out from the courtyard.

The Borderswords were mounted on dun-coloured horses, the beasts lighter-boned yet longer-legged than the stable horses being ridden by those of the Lord’s household. In addition to their riders, the animals carried bundled tents and cookware, as well as packs bulging with dry foods and casks of water.

Feeling uncomfortable, burdened by the armour and the heavy helm on his head, Arathan guided his horse after Sagander – until without warning the tutor reined in. Besra edged deftly around the sudden obstacle, only to draw up when Sagander reached out and took hold of the bridle. ‘Look back, student. Go on, do as I say.’

The Borderswords were falling in behind Draconus and Raskan as they set out on the curving track that would lead them westward.

Arathan twisted in his saddle and studied the gate and the wall of the estate.

‘Tell me what you see,’ Sagander demanded, his voice oddly rough.

‘The Great House of Lord Draconus,’ Arathan replied.

‘Your entire world, student. Until this day.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Over with now.’

Arathan nodded.

‘Your sisters didn’t want to see you off. But your father commanded. Those girls despise you, Arathan.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you know why?’

He thought for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘I was born to the wrong mother.’

Sagander snorted. ‘Your life as you knew it is now over. You must look to yourself and none other, for all that awaits you. Even my own teaching is mostly done. Your half-sisters – they do not expect to ever see you again.’

‘They wore black, yes.’

‘Foolish boy, they always wear black. But yes, they wanted you to see.’ He released Besra’s bridle. ‘Come, let us catch up. You ride at my side, but I should tell you, your father was disappointed this morning – he did not expect to have to wait for you.’

‘I know, sir.’

‘Even more disappointing in his eyes, Arathan, was that you chose the gelding over the mare.’

‘But – I was told that I should not ride Hellar too much—’

‘When you leave the Great House, you ride your charger. Bastard son you may be, but in the eyes of the staff, you are still the Lord’s son. Do you understand me?’

‘I was not so instructed—’

‘Such instruction should not have been necessary! You have not just shamed your father, you have shamed me as well! I am your tutor who clearly has failed to teach you anything!’