Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Andarist-’

‘Take this name from me, Anomander. Please, take it.’

‘It has no strength. No will. Grief? Upon iron, it is rust. In fire, it is ash. In life, it is death. Brother, I will take nothing from that word.’

Andarist looked up with bleak eyes. ‘You will take my grief, Anomander, or never again shall I look upon you, or call you brother, or know your blood as mine own.’

Anomander sheathed the sword. ‘Then you shall but hear the tales of the justice I will mete out in your name, and the vengeance I will exact — which I here swear upon the still body of your beloved, and upon her father’s cold flesh.’

Andarist lowered his head, as if his brother had just vanished before his eyes, and Gripp Galas knew that he would not look up — not until Anomander had departed this place.

Silchas stepped into the chamber, and as Anomander marched past him he reached out and spun his brother round. ‘Do not do this!’ he cried. ‘Take his grief, Anomander! Upon your blade, take it!’

‘And so dull every edge, Silchas? I think not.’

‘Will you leave him to bear it alone?’

‘I am dead in his eyes,’ Anomander said in a cold tone, pulling free. ‘Let him mourn us both.’

Beneath Gripp Galas, Kadaspala laughed softly. ‘I have him now,’ he said in a hiss. ‘His portrait. I have him, at last, I have him. His portrait and his portrait and I have him, on the skin. On the skin. I have him. Wait and see.’ And the mouth beneath those empty sockets twisted with joy, and with the fingers of his hand he began painting the air.

From the hearthstone Andarist wept, and then words spilled from him, loose and filled with despair. ‘Will no one share my grief? Will no one mourn with me?’

Silchas said, ‘I will bring him back.’

But Andarist shook his head. ‘I am blind to him, Silchas. Choose now.’

‘I will bring him back!’

‘Then go,’ whispered Andarist.

Silchas rushed from the chamber.

Kadaspala struggled free of Gripp, pushing with his feet. He rose, tottering, fingers cutting at the air. ‘Listen to them!’ he shrieked. ‘Who sees here? Not them! Only me! Kadaspala, who has no eyes, is the only one who can see!’

‘Kadaspala,’ called Andarist. ‘I hold your sister in my arms. Join me here.’

‘You weep alone,’ the man replied in a voice empty of all sympathy. ‘She was never for you. You made for her this path, with your pathetic words of love and adoration, and she walked it — to her death! Look on me, O forgotten Son of Darkness, for I am your child, your malformed, twisted spawn. In these holes see your future, if you dare!’

‘Enough,’ growled Gripp, advancing on the fool. ‘Your mind is broken and now all you do is lash out.’

Kadaspala spun to face him, grinning. ‘I am not the one wielding vengeance, am I? Run to your master, you grovelling cur of a man. There’s more blood to spill!’

Gripp struck him, his blow sending the artist sprawling. He moved forward again.

‘Stop!’

He looked over to see Hish Tulla, and stepped back. ‘My pardon, milady. I am dragged across a jagged edge. It cuts upon all sides.’

Kadaspala was lying on the floor, quietly laughing and muttering under his breath.

Hish Tulla walked up to Andarist. ‘Do you see my tears?’ she asked him, kneeling and resting a hand against the side of his face. ‘You do not mourn alone, Andarist.’

And she took then the last brother into her arms.

‘Belief,’ said Draconus, ‘never feels strange to the believer. Like an iron stake driven deep into the ground, it is an anchor to a host of convictions. No winds can tear it free so long as the ground remains firm.’

Riding beside his father, Arathan said nothing. The land ahead was flat, marked only by clusters of low cairns made from piled stones, as if signifying crossroads. But Arathan could see no crossroads; he could barely make out the path they travelled. The sky overhead was a dull blue, like burnished tin, through which vast but distant flocks of birds could be seen, scudding like clouds on high winds.

Draconus sighed. ‘It is the failure of every father to impart wisdom to his child. No paint adheres to sweating stone. You are too eager, too impatient and too quick to dismiss the rewards of someone else’s experience. I am hardly blind to the surge of youth, Arathan.’

‘I have no beliefs,’ said Arathan, shrugging. ‘No anchor, no convictions. If winds take me, then I will drift.’

‘I believe,’ said Draconus, ‘that you seek your mother.’

‘How can I seek what I do not know?’

‘You can and you will, with a need that overwhelms. And should you one day find that which you seek, you no doubt imagine an end to your need. I can warn you that disappointment lies ahead, that life’s most precious gifts always come from unexpected sources, but you will not waver from your desire. Thus, from me you learn nothing.’

Arathan scowled, realizing that he could not hide anything from his father. Deceit was an easy path, but the moment it failed only a fool would stay upon it. ‘You sent her away,’ he said.

‘Out of love.’

They rode past another heap of stones, and Arathan saw a scatter of finger bones along its nearer edge, bleached white by the sun. They made rows like teeth. ‘That makes no sense. Did she not love you in return? Was it in the name of love that you chose to break her heart? No, sir, I see no wisdom from you.’

‘Is this how you baited Tutor Sagander?’

‘I never baited him-’

‘Behind your innocent guise you make every word a weapon, Arathan. This may have worked with Sagander, since he refused to see you as anything but a small child. Among men, however, you will be known as dissembling and treacherous.’

‘I do not dissemble, Father.’

‘When you feign ignorance of the wounds your words deliver, you dissemble.’

‘Do you always send away the ones you love? Must we always journey through the ruins of your past? Olar Ethil-’

‘I was speaking of belief,’ Draconus replied, with iron in his tone. ‘It will make your path, Arathan, and I say that with certainty, because it is belief that guides each and every one of us. You may imagine it as a host and you may well feel the wayward tug of every conviction, and convince yourself that they each summon with purpose. But this is not a mindful journey, and the notion of progress is an illusion. Do not trust the goals awaiting you: they are chimeras, and their promise salves the very belief that invented them, and by this deception you ever end where you began, but in that end you find yourself not young, not filled with zeal as you once were, but old and exhausted.’

‘What you describe is not a worthy ambition. If this is your wisdom’s gift then it is a bitter one.’

‘I am trying to warn you. Strife awaits us, Arathan. I fear it shall reach far beyond the borders of Kurald Galain. I did what I could for Mother Dark, but like you she was young when first I gave my gift to her. Every step she has taken since then she believes to be purposeful and forward. This is one anchor we all share.’ He fell silent, as if made despondent by his own words.

‘Is that how you view love, Father? As a gift you bestow upon others, only to then stand back to watch and see if they are worthy of it? And when they fail, as they must, you discard them and set out in search of the next victim?’

His face darkened. ‘There is a fine line between fearless and foolish, Arathan, and you now stride it precariously. The gift of which I spoke was not love. It was power.’

‘Power should never be a gift,’ Arathan said.