Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (89 page)

At that Emral seemed to wince. Shakily she drew out a chair from the table dominating the chamber, and then sat, as if made exhausted by her own silence. After a long moment she spoke. ‘The faith of holding on to faith … I wonder’ – and she looked up and met the historian’s eyes – ‘if that is not all we have. All we ever have.’

‘Do we invent our gods?’ Rise asked her. ‘Without question we have invented this one. But as we can all see, in each other and in such mirrors as we may possess, our faith is so marked and gives proof to her power.’

‘But is it hers?’ Emral asked.

Cedorpul moved forward, and went down on one knee beside her.
He
took hold of her left hand and clasped it. ‘High Priestess, doubt is our weakness as it is their weapon. We must find resolve.’

‘I have none,’ she replied.

‘Then we must fashion it with our own hands! We are the Children of Night now. An unknown river divides the Tiste and we fall to one side or the other. We are cleaved in two, High Priestess, and must make meaning from that.’

She studied him with reddened eyes. ‘Make meaning? I see no meaning beyond division itself, this ragged tear between ink and unstained parchment. Regard the historian here and you will see the truth of that, and the desolation it promises. How would you want me to answer our losses? With fire and brutal zeal? Look well upon Mother Dark and see the path she has chosen.’

‘It is unknown to us,’ snapped Cedorpul.

‘The river god yielded the holy places,’ she replied. ‘The birth waters have withdrawn. There is no war of wills between them. Syntara was not driven away; she but fled. Mother Dark seeks peace and would challenge none in its name.’

Cedorpul released her hand and straightened. He backed away a step, and then another, until his retreat was brought to a halt, against the tapestry covering the wall. He struggled to speak for a moment, and then said, ‘Without challenge, there can only be surrender. Are we so easily defeated, High Priestess?’

When Emral made no answer, Rise said, ‘“Beware an easy victory.”’

Emral looked up at him sharply. ‘Gallan. Where is he, historian?’

Rise shrugged. ‘He has made himself a ghost and walks unseen. In times such as these, no poet is heeded, and indeed is likely to be among the first to hang from a spike, in clacking consort with crows.’

‘Words win us nothing,’ Cedorpul said. ‘And now Anomander leaves the city, and with him his brothers. The Hust Legion is leagues to the south. The Wardens crouch in Glimmer Fate. The nobleborn do not stir, as if disaster and discord are beneath them all. Upon which threshold do they stand, and which step taken by the enemy is a step too far?’ He no longer held pleading eyes on Emral Lanear as he spoke, and Rise understood that the priest had dismissed her, seeing in the High Priestess an impotency that he was not yet ready to accept. Instead, he glared at the historian during the course of his tirade. ‘Is this our curse?’ he demanded. ‘That we live in a time of indifference? Do you think the wolves will hold back, when all they see before them is weakness?’

‘The wolves are true to their nature,’ Rise said in reply, ‘and indifference plagues every age and every time, priest. Our doom is to be driven to act when it is already too late, and to then give zeal to our amends. And we beat our brows and decry that indifference, which we never own, or loudly proclaim our ignorance, which is ever a lie.
And
old women drag brooms through the streets and graves are dug in even rows, and we are made solemn before the revealed fragility of our ways.’

Cedorpul’s eyes tightened. ‘Now even you advise surrender? Historian, you mock the value of past lessons, making you worthless in all eyes.’

‘Past lessons deserve mockery, priest, precisely because they are never learned. If you deem that stance worthless, then you miss the point.’

Anger darkened Cedorpul’s round face. ‘We blather on and on – even as poor dwellers in the countryside fall beneath blade and spear! At last I understand what we are – we who hide in this chamber. You know of us, historian, you must! We are the useless ones. It is our task to fritter and moan, to cover our eyes with trembling hands, and bewail the loss of everything we once valued, and when at last there is no one else left, they will crush us like snails under their marching heels!’

Rise said, ‘If the wolves are indeed loose among us, priest, then we surrendered some time ago. Yet you berate my mockery of lessons unheeded. Vigilance is an exhausting necessity, if one would protect what one values. We lose by yielding in increments, here and there, a slip, a nudge. The enemy never tires in this assault and measures true those increments. They win in a thousand small victories, and know long before we do when they stand over our corpses.’

‘Then climb to your tower,’ Cedorpul said in a snarl, ‘and leap from its edge. Better not to witness the dregs of our useless demise.’

‘The last act of an historian, priest, is to live through history. It is the bravest act of them all, because it faces, unblinking, the recognition that all history is personal, and that every external truth of the world is but a reflection of our internal truths – the truths that shape our behaviours, our decisions, our fears, our purposes and our appetites. These internal truths raise monuments and flood sewers. They lift high grand works as readily as they fill graves. If you blame one appetite you blame all of our appetites. We all swim the same river.’

‘In which,’ muttered Emral, ‘even the wolves will drown.’

‘“Destruction spares no crown and I say this unto the lords behind every door, from hovel to palace.”’

‘Gallan again!’ spat Cedorpul. He swung to Endest Silann. ‘Let us go. Like keepsakes, they will rest upon shelves even as the flames enter the room.’

But the young acolyte hesitated. ‘Master,’ he said to Cedorpul, ‘did we not come here to speak of Draconus?’

‘I see no point,’ the priest replied. ‘He is but one more keepsake. Mother Dark’s own.’

Emral Lanear stood as one who would at last face her accuser. ‘Do you now go to join Sister Syntara, Cedorpul?’

‘I go in search of peace. I see in you the tragedy of standing still.’

He left the chamber. Endest bowed to the High Priestess but made no move to depart.

Sighing, Emral waved a hand. ‘Go on, keep him safe.’

When he slipped out, looking more broken than ever, she turned to Rise. ‘You said nothing of value, historian.’

‘Daughter of Night, the other has made me hoarse.’

Emral studied the tapestry Cedorpul had been leaning against. ‘She is young,’ she said. ‘Rigour of health and polish of beauty are seen as righteous virtue, and by this Syntara triumphs. Over me, surely. And over Mother Dark, whose darkness hides every virtue and every vice and so makes of them both a singular aspect … and one that yields nothing.’

‘That may be her intention,’ observed Rise.

She glanced at him and then back to the tapestry. ‘You claim to have written nothing, historian.’

‘In my younger days, High Priestess, I wrote plenty. There are fires that burn bright and so make youthful eyes shine like torches. Any wood pile, no matter how big, will one day be gone, leaving only memories of warmth.’

She shook her head. ‘I see no end to the fuel, sir.’

‘For lack of a spark, it does rot.’

‘I do not understand this image here, Rise.’

He drew up alongside her and studied the tapestry. ‘Creation allegory, one of the early ones. The first Tiste heroes, who slew a dragon goddess and drank of her blood and thus became as gods. So fierce was their rule and so cold their power, the Azathanai rose as one to cast them down. It is said that all discord reveals a touch of draconean blood, and that it is the loss of our purity that wields the hand of our ills in all the ages since that time.’ He shrugged, eyeing the faded scene. ‘A dragon with many heads, according to this unknown weaver.’

‘Always the Azathanai, like a shadow to our conscience. Your tale is obscure, historian.’

‘A dozen or more creation myths warred for eminence once, until but one survived. Alas, the victor was not this one. We seek reasons for what we are and how we imagine ourselves; and every reason strives to become justification, and every justification a righteous cause. By this a people build an identity and cleave to it. But it is all invention, High Priestess, to make clay into flesh, sticks into bone, and flames into thought. No alternative sits well with us.’

‘What alternative would you have?’

He shrugged. ‘That we are meaningless. Our lives, our selves, our pasts and most of all, our existence in the present. This moment, the next, and the next: each one we find in wonder and near disbelief.’

‘Is this your conclusion, Rise Herat? That we are meaningless?’

‘I try not to think in terms of meaning, Daughter of Night. I but measure life in degrees of helplessness, and in the observation of this, we find, in totality, the purpose of history.’

She sent him away when she began to weep. He did not object. There was no pleasure in witnessing the very helplessness of which he had spoken, and so a single gesture had set him to flight.

Now he stood, upon the tower, and from the gate below there came the creaking of massive doors, and out on to the bridge rode two Sons of Darkness and their entourage. Pure was Anomander’s black skin, and pure silver his long mane, and as the day’s light died, Rise thought he could hear, on the wind, that sundering of light – there, in the rumble of horse hoofs – and before it, on the street, barely discerned figures scattered from its path.

* * *

The dog, a bedraggled mess of mud and burrs, was entangled in a chaotic web of roots, branches and detritus, just beneath the eastern bank of the river. It was limp with exhaustion, struggling to keep its head above the water, as the currents tugged at its limbs.

Unmindful of the bitter cold water and pushing through the current – the stony bottom beneath the undercut bank shifting with every step – Grizzin Farl worked his way closer.

The dog swung its head towards him and he saw its large ears dip as if in shame. Reaching its side, the Azathanai lifted clear his travel sack and flung it over the bank, and then reached down and gently extricated the hapless creature.

‘Most bravery, dear little one,’ he said as he pulled the dog from the water and rested it across the back of his thickly muscled neck, ‘is marked by a strength less than imagined, and a hope farther from reach than one expects.’ He took hold of the roots above and tested to see if they would hold their weight. ‘One day, friend, I will be asked to reveal the heroes of the world, and do you know where I shall take my questioner?’ The roots held and he pulled himself up, out of the dragging current. The dog, still clinging atop his shoulders, licked the side of Grizzin’s face and he nodded. ‘You are quite correct. A cemetery. And in there, before every marker of stone, we shall stand, looking down upon a hero. What think you of that?’

He clambered on to the bank and then sank down on to his hands and knees – since the crossing had proved more onerous than he had thought it would – and the dog slid and scrambled down from his shoulders. It came round in front of him and then shook the water from its fur.

‘Aai, foul creature! Did you not see how I struggled to keep my hair
dry
? This mane need only glance at water and forest to twist into hopeless snarls and tangles. Beastly rain!’

Faintly crossed eyes regarded him, head cocking as if the dog were considering Grizzin’s bluster, and finding it far from threatening.

The Azathanai frowned. ‘You are a most starved specimen, friend. I’d wager you share every meal and the servings unfairly apportioned. Have we rested enough? I see yon road venturing south and it beckons. It ventures north, too, you say? We shall see none of that with our backs, however, will we? No, with eyes and intention let us narrow the world before us.’

Collecting his sack, he climbed grunting to his feet, and when he set off the dog fell in beside him.

‘Providence well understands me,’ Grizzin said, ‘and knows how better I fare for wise and wisely silent company. Lacking the pleasure of hearing my own voice is a torture I would not wish upon my worst enemy – had I enemies, and a worst one among them, whoever they may be. But think of the dread such an enemy would feel to hear me draw near! A true nemesis am I to him, or her – but no, we shall swing wide of her, lest we envisage a face for this imagined foe, and a pot wielded by a less than dainty yet no less vengeful hand. Him, then, this enemy cowering before us. Do you see a single bone of mercy in me, friend? One you would care to snatch away and bury? Of course not. My heart is cold. My eyes are ice. My every thought is unyielding as solid stone.’

The dog ran off ahead for a dozen or so paces. Grizzin sighed. ‘I can make an enemy of mice, it seems. To speak is to wield a weapon, with which I bludgeon friend and foe, friend unto foe, I mean, and lacking victim, why, I but wave it fiercely in the air, bold enough to shy a god. Tell me dog, have you any wine?’

It seemed the beast would trot in advance of him down this road, in the manner of an animal that well knew a master. The smell of smoke was in the evening air, and Grizzin had seen the grey pillars above the forest for much of this day’s travel. He disliked the meaning of such details, since they reminded him of all the places he had protected in the past. Strangers stepped carelessly in every garden he had ever tended, and that was a sad admission on all sides. ‘For they value only what is theirs, and covet all that is mine, and should we meet we might invent economy, or theft, or both. Dog!’