Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

If history was naught but that which was lived in the present, then it was history’s very unruliness that doomed the players to this headlong plunge into confusion. None of the future’s promises ever quite drew within reach; none resolved into something solid or real; and none made bridges to be crossed.

He looked down at the river, winding its way through Kharkanas, and saw it as a metaphor of the present — hardly an original notion, of course — except that to his eyes it was crowded beyond measure, with the swimming and the drowning, the corpses and those barely holding on, all spun about and swirling on unpredictable currents. Those bridges that reached into the future, where dwelt equity, hope and cherished lives so warmly swathed in harmony, arced high overhead, beyond all mortal reach, and he could hear the wailing as the flow carried the masses past every one of those bridges, into and out of those cool shadows that were themselves as insubstantial as promises.

Such shadows could not be walked. Such shadows offered no grip for the hand, no hold for the foot. They were, in truth, nothing more than ongoing arguments between light and dark.

He could fling himself from this tower. He could shock innocent strangers upon the courtyard below, or the street, or even the bridge leading into the Citadel. Or he could vanish into the depths of Dorssan Ryl. A life’s end sent ripples through those that remained. They could be vast, or modest, but in the scheme of this living history, most were barely noticed.

We are all interludes in history, a drawn breath to make pause in the rush, and when we are gone, those breaths join the chorus of the wind.

But who listens to the wind?

Historians, he decided, were as deaf as anyone else.

A soul made weary longed for sordid ends. But a soul at its end longed for all that was past, and so remained trapped in a present filled with regrets. Of all the falls promised me by this vantage, I will take the river. Each and every time, I will take the river.

And perhaps, one day, I will walk in shadows.

He looked out upon the haze of smoke above the forest beyond the city, the foul columns lifting skyward, leaning like the gnarled boles of wind-tilted trees. That wind made cold every tear tracking down from his eyes, and then gave him a thousand breaths to dry each one.

He thought back to the conversation he had just fled, down in a candlelit chamber far below. As witness he was but an afterthought, in the manner of all historians. Cursed to observe and cursed again to reflect on the meaning of all that was observed. Such a stance invited a sense of superiority, and the drudging internal pontification of the coolly uninvolved. But he knew that for the sour delusion of a frightened fool: to think that he could not be made to bleed, or weep, or even lose his life as the current grew wild with rage.

There were a thousand solutions, and each and every one was within grasp, but the will had turned away, and no exhortation or threat would turn it back.

‘We have lost a third of our brothers and sisters,’ Cedorpul had announced upon entering the chamber, and the candles had dipped their flames with his arrival — surely not the portent of his words. Behind him was Endest Silann, looking too young for any of this.

High Priestess Emral Lanear stood like a woman assailed. Her face was wan, her eyes sunken and darkly ringed. The strength of her title and eminent position had been swept away along with her faith, and every priest and priestess lost to Syntara clearly struck her as a personal betrayal.

‘Her cause,’ Cedorpul said then, his small eyes grave in his round face, ‘is not the Deniers’ cause. We can be certain of that, High Priestess.’

Rise Herat still struggled with the physical transformation among Mother Dark’s children in the Citadel, this birth of the Andii that even now spread like a stain among her chosen. Night no longer blinded, or hid anything from sight. And yet still we grope. He had always believed himself the master of his own body, barring those vagaries of disease or injury that could afflict one at any moment. He had not felt Mother Dark’s touch, but that she had claimed him could not be denied. There had been no choice in the matter. But I now know that to be wrong. People have fled her blessing.

When Emral Lanear said nothing in response to Cedorpul’s words, the priest cleared his throat and resumed. ‘High Priestess, is this now a war of three faiths? We know nothing of Syntara’s intentions. She seems to position herself solely in opposition, but that in itself offers modest cause.’

‘And probably short-lived,’ Endest Silann added.

Emral’s eyes flicked to the acolyte as if without recognition, and then away again.

The glance Cedorpul then turned on Rise Herat was beseeching. ‘Historian, have you thoughts on any of this?’

Thoughts? What value those? ‘Syntara sought refuge in Urusander’s Legion. But I wonder at the measure of their welcome. Does it not confuse their cause?’

Cedorpul snorted. ‘Is it not confused enough? Beating down the wretched poor to challenge the eminence of the highborn could not be more wrong-footed.’ He faced Emral again. ‘High Priestess, it is said they strike down Deniers in Mother Dark’s name. She must disavow this, surely?’

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?’