Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

When at last he slid into her, she cried out.

He felt something give inside her and wondered what it was, and only when they were at last done, and he rolled away and saw the blood, did he comprehend. She knew nothing of herbs, and her beloved was a man kept at a distance, and what he longed for Osserc had just stolen. The poor fool was finished.

Lying on his back, staring up at scudding summer clouds, he wondered how he should feel about all of that. ‘Renarr,’ he finally said. ‘If had known…’

‘I am glad, milord, that it was you.’

He heard her hesitation halfway through her confession, and knew that she had almost voiced his name; but in the wake of what they had done a new fragility had arrived, and Osserc knew enough to say as little as possible. He did not want this peasant girl walking up to the keep, belly distended, and shouting out his name.

His father would take her in — if only to spite his son. Things would get complicated. Besides, he had told her as much, hadn’t he? His future, the service and the sacrifices awaiting him? She understood well enough.

‘I will not ride with you into the village,’ she said.

He nodded, knowing she was up on one elbow and studying his face.

‘I need to go back to the stream.’

‘I know.’

‘Alone.’

‘If you think it best,’ he replied, reaching down to find her hand. He squeezed it and then held it up to his lips. ‘I will remember this day,’ he said. ‘When I ride the borderlands and grow old under the sun and stars.’

Her laugh was soft and, he realized after a moment, disbelieving. He looked across and met her eyes. She was smiling, and there was something both tender and sad in it. ‘I think not, milord, although it is kind of you to say so. I was… clumsy. Unknowing. I fear you must be disappointed, although you hide it well.’

He sat up, still holding her hand. ‘Renarr, I do not lie to make you feel better — I will not do that. When I say I will remember this day, I mean it, and above all, it is you that I will remember. Here, upon this cloak. To doubt me is to hurt me.’

Mute, she nodded, and he saw the glisten of tears in her eyes.

Suddenly she looked much younger. He studied her face. ‘Renarr, when was your night of blood?’

‘Almost two months past, milord.’

Abyss take me! No wonder her beloved only yearned! He climbed to his feet, reached for his shirt. ‘Your lips are puffy, Renarr. Use the cold water of the stream to ease them. I fear my beard has scratched your chin.’

‘I will pick berries and make more scratches.’

‘Upon your face? Not too many, I hope.’

‘A few, and on my knees, as if I had stumbled and fallen.’

He pulled on his leggings and reached for his armour. ‘By your wit, Renarr, I had judged you older.’

‘By my wit, milord, I am.’

‘Name your father and mother.’

She blinked. ‘My mother is dead. My father is Gurren.’

‘The old smith? But he was married to Captain — Abyss below, she was your mother? Why did I not know you?’

‘I have been away.’

‘Where?’

‘Yan Monastery, milord. In any case, I doubt you saw my mother much, and she died on the campaign against the Jheleck.’

‘I know she did,’ Osserc replied, buckling on his sword. ‘Renarr, I thought you just a girl — a woman, I mean — from the village.’

‘But I am.’

He stared at her. ‘Your mother saved my father’s life on the day of the assassins. She and Hunn Raal-’

‘I know, milord, and I am thankful for that.’

‘Thankful? She died.’

‘She did her duty,’ Renarr replied.

He looked away, ran both hands through his hair. ‘I need to think,’ he said.

‘There is nothing,’ she said. ‘I too will remember this day. That is all we need, is it not?’

‘And if you take my seed?’

‘I will make no claims upon you, milord.’ She paused and then added, ‘Most of the stories I’ve heard about you, milord, come from my father-’

‘Who hates us, and we do not blame him for that, Renarr — he should know that. He lost the woman he loved. My father still weeps to remember that day.’

‘It is all right, milord. It was my father’s unreasonable opinions of you that made me first curious, enough to see for myself. And, as I suspected, he is wrong about you.’

He thought to say more, but nothing came to him. She drew close and kissed him and then turned away. ‘I will wait here until you are well gone, milord.’

Feeling helpless, Osserc left the ruined house. He collected up both horses and led them on to the rutted track.

He caught sight of the polished pebble in the grasses, hesitated, and then continued on.

Three paces later he turned round and went back. He picked it up and slipped it into the pouch at his belt.

Once back on the road, he mounted the warhorse, and — Neth trailing — they took the hillside at a canter.

Ahead on the track, just past the village, a flag was being raised at the Tithe Gate at the bottom of the hill, announcing Osserc’s return. Seeing the banner climb skyward and then stream out in the wind pleased Osserc as he rode past the trader carts and the figures edged to one side of the road, standing with heads bowed. The flag’s field was sky blue studded with gold stars, and so marked one of Vatha blood. A second pole alongside the familial one remained bare, as it had done ever since Urusander ordered his Legion to stand down.

Houseblades — veterans of the Legion one and all — were pushing people from the gateway as Osserc approached. He rode through without slowing, nodding at the salutes from the old soldiers. The way ahead was steep and Kyril was blowing hard by the time they reached the keep’s High Gate.

He rode into the courtyard, hoping to see his father upon the steps — he would have been informed of his son’s return — but only retainers stood there. There had been a temptation, briefly entertained, to rein in at the Tithe Gate and order the Legion flag hoisted; but he had feared a refusal from the Houseblades. He imagined closed expressions looking up at him, and the sergeant telling him that only the Legion commander could order such a thing. Osserc’s authority was fragile enough, a thin shell left untouched out of respect for Urusander. So he had dismissed the idea. But now he wished he had insisted; that second flag would surely have brought his father out to meet him.

It seemed that he ever chose to do the wrong thing, and that each time boldness offered itself up he turned away from it; and to ride past the veterans with stern regard and silent resolve now struck him as diffident, if not pathetic. Self-possession, when nothing more than a pose, bared a prickly hide over a host of failures and all confidence could sink away leaving no trace: to hide weakness behind bluster was to hide nothing at all. He carried himself as if all eyes were upon him, and they gauged with critical judgement that hovered on the edge of mockery; Osserc imagined words muttered behind his back, laughs stifled when faces were turned away. He had earned nothing in his young life, and the airs he held to, he grasped with desperation.

Reining in at the steps, scowling as the grooms rushed in, he dismounted. He saw Castellan Haradegar — a man only a year or two older than Osserc — standing near the doors. Quickly ascending the steps, Osserc met the man’s eyes. ‘Where is my father?’

‘In his study, milord.’

Osserc had not yet eaten this day, but he knew his father forbade any food or drink anywhere near his precious scrolls. He hesitated. If he ate at once, then the import of his words would lose all vigour, but already a headache was building behind his eyes — he did not do well when hungry. Perhaps a quick bite first and then ‘He awaits you, milord,’ Haradegar said.