Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Scara Bandaris smiled, and then he said, ‘Lacking his own, why, no better gift could we give him to celebrate his marriage! I happily yield to your genius, Silchas. Why, we’ll envigour the old man yet!’

‘Well, let us hope his new bride serves that purpose.’

‘And here I pondered long on what gift to give our old friend on his wedding day,’ said Scara, ‘and had thought of a settee to suit naps and the like, of which no doubt he’ll need many in the course of his amorous first week or so.’

Silchas laughed. ‘Generous in counting weeks, not days, friend.’

‘As his friend, could I be less generous?’

‘No less indeed. Now I regret the dismissal of the settee.’

‘It would fail in surviving a score of pups gnawing upon the legs, and so I could not give him a gift so easily destroyed. I would dread causing him guilt and grief. Why, then he might begin assiduously avoiding me, and that I would not enjoy, much.’

Silchas nodded. ‘We do miss his bright disposition, Scara.’

‘Speaking of brightness,’ Scara said, eyeing the man before him, ‘I see your skin still resisting the caress of Mother Dark.’

‘I have no answer for that, friend. I knelt alongside my brothers and so pledged my service.’

‘And you are without doubt?’

Shrugging, Silchas glanced away.

There was a moment of silence, and then Scara said, ‘I am told Kagamandra now rides for Kharkanas.’

‘So I have heard. In the company of Sharenas.’

‘A wager that he has not once availed himself of her charms, Silchas?’

‘If you need coin you need only ask for it, sir. You dissemble and so risk our friendship.’

‘Then I withdraw the gamble at once.’

‘Tell me,’ said Silchas with a nod to the Jheleck hostages, ‘have you seen them veer yet?’

‘I have, to smart the eyes with foul vapours. These will be formidable beasts in their maturity, and do not imagine them not clever-’

‘I would not, as I can see how they regard us even now.’

‘Think you Kagamandra can tame them?’

Silchas nodded. ‘But amusing as it is for us to contemplate Tulas’s expression upon the receipt, I admit to having given your dilemma much thought, and I believe that Kagamandra alone could heel these hounds, and indeed, that he alone would take great pride in doing so.’

‘May he return to us enlivened then and so double the miracle.’

‘A gift in kind would indeed bless this gesture,’ Silchas said, nodding. He straightened from the pillar. ‘Now, I must re-join my brothers. And you, Scara?’

‘As it is, now that we have a solution here, I can leave my soldiers to oversee the pups until Kagamandra’s arrival. Once I have penned a worthy note to him, I shall ride north to those of my company I left in the forest. From there, we shall return to our garrison.’

Silchas studied his friend for a moment. ‘You have heard of the other companies stirring about?’

The query elicited a scowl. ‘I even argued with Hunn Raal, before he departed here. Silchas, I tell you this: I want none of this. I see how this persecution of the Deniers is but an excuse to recall Urusander’s Legion. The cause is unworthy.’

‘The Deniers are not the cause being sought, Scara.’

‘I well know that, friend. And I will not lie in saying to you that there are rightful grievances at work here. But such matters cannot be addressed by the sword, and I believe that Lord Urusander agrees with me.’

‘Be most cautious, then,’ Silchas said, his hand once more upon Scara’s back. ‘I fear Urusander is like a blind man led upon an unknown path, and the one who leads has ill ambition in his heart.’

‘They’ll not follow Hunn Raal,’ Scara said.

‘Not knowingly, no.’

The captain shot him a quizzical look then, and a moment later his eyes narrowed. ‘I had best write that letter. Mayhap we shall meet on the north road beyond the gates.’

‘That would delight me, friend.’

Two of the pups fell into a scrap just then, teeth flashing and fur flying.

Lady Hish Tulla sat in the study of her Kharkanas residence, contemplating the missive in her hands. She thought back to the last time she had met the three brothers, and the unease surrounding her imposition upon their grief at their father’s tomb. There had been rain that day and she had sheltered beneath a tree until the clouds had passed. She recalled Anomander’s face, a hardened visage when compared to the one she had known when sharing his bed. Youth was pliable and skin smooth and angles soft as befitted a memory of happier times, but on that day, with the rain still upon his unguarded features, he had seemed older than her.

She was not one for self-regard. Her own reflection always struck her to strange superstition and she was wont to avoid instances when she might catch herself in a mirror or blurred upon contemplative waters: a ghostly shadow of someone just like her, the image seemed, living a life in parallel wherein secrets played out unseen, and all the scenes of her imagination found fruition. Her fear was to discover in herself an unworthy envy for that other life. Most disturbing of all, to her mind, was to meet the gaze of that mysterious woman, and see in those ageing, haunted eyes, her private host of losses.

The missive trembled in her hands. Men such as Anomander deserved to be unchanging, or so she had always believed, and she would hold to that belief as if it could protect the past they had shared. His rumoured transformation within the influence of Mother Dark’s mystical power frightened her. Was there not darkness enough within the body? But it was only the memory that did not change, of the time before the wars, and if these days were spent assailing it, she knew enough to blame none other than herself.

How would she see him this time? What might she say in answering this personal invitation from an old lover, to attend his arm upon the wedding of his brother? His face had hardened, defying even the soft promise of the rain; and now he would appear before her like a man inverted, with no loss of edges, and no yielding of the distance between them.

She feared pity in his gesture and was shamed by her own weakness before it.

Servants were busy downstairs, cleaning the last of the silts and refuse from the flood. The missive she held was days old, and she had not yet responded to it, and this in itself was impolite, and no rising water could excuse her silence. Perhaps, however, he had already forgotten his offer. There had been tumultuous events in the Citadel. As First Son it was likely that he felt besieged by circumstance, sufficient to distract him from even his brother’s wedding. It was not impossible, in fact, to imagine him late upon attendance and seeking naught but forgiveness in Andarist’s eyes. A woman upon Anomander’s arm at such a moment promised embarrassment and little else.

The appointed time was drawing near. She had things to do here in the house. The cellar stores had all been ruined and the sunken room was now a quagmire of bloated, rotting foodstuffs and the small furred bodies of mice that had drowned or died mired in the mud. Furthermore, on the day of the flood her handmaid’s elderly grandmother had died, perhaps of panic, before the rush of the dark waters into her bedchamber, and so there was grief in the damp air of the rooms below, and a distraught maid deserving of consolation.

Instead of attending to all this, however, she sat in her study, dressed not in the habit of the mistress of the house, nor in the regalia of feminine elegance proper to attending a wedding. Instead, she was girded for war. Her armour was clean, the leather supple and burnished lustrous with oil. All bronze rivets were in place and each shone like a polished gem; every buckle and clasp was in working order. The weapon at her side was a fine Iralltan blade, four centuries old and venerated for its honest service. It wore a scabbard of lacquered blackwood banded at the girdle in silver, with a point guard, also of silver, polished on the inside by constant brushing against her calf.