Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

A cloak awaited her on the back of a nearby chair, midnight blue with a high cream-hued collar. The gauntlets on the desk before her were new, black leather banded with iron strips that shifted to scales at the wrists. The cuffs remained stiff but servants had worked the fingers and hands until both were supple.

In the courtyard below, a groom holding the reins of her warhorse awaited her arrival.

There could be insult in this, and she saw once again the hard face of Anomander, and behind it Andarist’s fury. Sighing, she set the invitation down on the desk and then straightened, walking to her cloak. She shrugged it over her shoulders and fixed the clasp at her throat, and then collected the gauntlets and strode into the adjoining room.

The old man standing before her was favouring a leg, but he had refused her offers of a chair. The boy behind him was fast asleep on a divan, still in his rags and wearing filth like a second skin. She contemplated the child for a moment longer, before settling her gaze on Gripp Galas.

‘On occasion,’ she said, ‘I wondered what had happened to you. Anomander gives loyalty as it is given him, and yours was above reproach. You did well to ensure your master and I had privacy in our times together, even unto distracting his father when needed.’

Gripp’s eyes had softened as if in recollection, but the surrender was momentary. ‘Milady, my master found other uses for me, in the wars and thereafter.’

‘Your master risked your life, Gripp, when what you truly deserved was gentle retirement in a fine country house.’

The old man scowled. ‘You’re describing a tomb, milady.’

The boy had not stirred throughout this exchange. She studied him again. ‘You say he bears a note on his person?’

‘He does, milady.’

‘Know you its contents?’

‘He is most protective of it.’

‘I am sure he is, but he sleeps like the dead.’

Gripp seemed to sag before her. ‘We lost the horse in the river. We nearly drowned, the both of us. Milady, he knows it not, but the note he carries in its tin tube is now illegible. The ink has washed and blotted and nothing can be made from it. But the seal impressed upon the parchment has survived, and surely it is from your own estate.’

‘Sukul, I wager,’ mused Hish Tulla. ‘He is of the Korlas bloodline?’

‘So we are to understand, milady.’

‘And is intended for the Citadel?’

‘For the keeping of the Children of Night, milady.’

‘The children,’ said Hish, ‘have all grown up.’

Gripp said nothing to that.

Now and then, as their gazes caught one another, Hish had sensed something odd in Gripp’s regard, appearing in modest flashes, or subtle glints. She wondered at it.

‘Milady, the boy insisted that we find you first.’

‘So I understand.’

‘When I would have gone straight to my master.’

‘Yet you acquiesced.’

‘He is highborn, milady, and it was my service to protect him on the journey. He is brave, this one, and not given to complaint no matter the hardship. But he weeps for dying horses.’

She shot him another searching look, and then smiled. ‘As did a child of Nimander, once, long ago. Your horse, I recall. A broken foreleg, yes?’

‘A jump that child should never have attempted, yes, milady.’

‘At the cost of your mount’s life.’

Gripp glanced away, and then shrugged. ‘He is named Orfantal.’

‘An unwelcome name,’ she replied. Then, catching once more that odd expression on Gripp’s lined face, she frowned. ‘Have you something to say to me?’

‘Milady?’

‘I was never so wrathful as to make you shy. Speak your mind.’

His eyes fell from hers. ‘Forgive me, milady, but it’s good to see you again.’

A tightness took her throat and she almost reached out to him, to show that his affection was not unwelcome and that, indeed, it was reciprocated, but something held her back and instead she said, ‘That leg is likely to collapse under you. I insist we summon a healer.’

‘It’s on the mend, milady.’

‘You’re a stubborn old man.’

‘Our time is short if we are to meet them.’

‘You see me standing ready, do you not? Very well, let us bring your unpleasant news to your master, and weather as best we can Andarist’s outrage at our martial intrusion. The boy will be fine here in the meantime.’

Gripp nodded. ‘It was ill luck, I wager, and not an attempt at assassination. The boy has little value after all, to anyone.’

‘Except in death on the road,’ she replied. ‘The unwanted child as proof of unwanted discord in the realm. I would we had for him another name. Come, we will ride for the Citadel gate.’

Galar Baras was blind, but he sensed Henarald still standing at his side. The darkness within the Chamber of Night was bitter cold and yet strangely thick, almost suffocating. As he stared unseeing, he heard the Lord of Hust draw a sharp breath.

A moment later a woman’s soft voice sounded, almost close enough for Galar to feel its breath upon his face. ‘Beloved First Son, what value my blessing in this?’

Anomander replied, but Galar could not sense from where the words came, or where he stood. ‘Mother, if we are but your children, then our needs remain simple.’

‘But not so easily met,’ she returned.

‘Is clarity not a virtue?’

‘You will now speak of virtue, First Son? The floor beneath your pacing holds firm underfoot, and you would trust in that.’

‘Until I trip, Mother.’

‘And you think this blade will ease your doubts? Or is it my blessing that will serve you thus?’

‘As a blade sliding into a scabbard, Mother, I would have both.’

Mother Dark was silent for a moment, and then she said, ‘Lord of Hust, have you thoughts on virtue?’

‘I know of virtues,’ Henarald answered, ‘but I fear my thoughts are little better than hounds nipping their heels, receiving only a hoof’s kick in reward.’

‘But dogged they remain… those thoughts?’

Henarald’s grunt may have been an appreciative laugh, but Galar could not be certain. ‘Mother Dark, might I suggest now, and here, that the finest virtues are those that flower unseen.’

‘My First Son, alas, paces not through a garden, but on hard stone.’

‘His boots strike expectantly, Mother Dark.’

‘Just so,’ she replied.

There was a frustrated hiss from Anomander. ‘If you have found new strengths, Mother, then I beg to know of them. If not in form then in flavour. In this realm of yours, so like a void desperate to be occupied, we all await the fulfilment of our faith.’

‘I cannot but retreat before your desires, First Son. The more I come to understand this gift of Darkness, the more I comprehend its refusal as necessary. The risk, I now believe, is to be found in the chaining of what must not be chained and the fixing in place of that which must be free to wander. After all, in the measure of every civilization, wandering must one day end; and when it ends, so too ends an unchanging future.’

‘If nothing changes, Mother, then hope must die.’

‘Lord of Hust, would you call peace a virtue?’

Galar felt the old man shift uneasily beside him, and suspected that the sword cradled in Henarald’s arms was growing heavy. ‘My peace is ever an exhausted peace, Mother Dark.’

‘An old man’s answer,’ she murmured, without derision or scorn.

‘I am that,’ Henarald replied.

‘Shall we consider exhaustion a virtue, then?’

‘Ah, forgive me, Mother Dark, this old man’s retort. Exhaustion is no virtue. Exhaustion is failure.’

‘Even if it wins peace?’

‘That is a question for the young,’ Henarald said, his tone sounding abrasive.