Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘My father seeks out some chairs,’ Arathan said. ‘He will be back shortly.’

‘You bear the trappings of a Tiste. No one doubts the power of the Suzerain of Night, yet many doubt his will, but it is not his will that so endangers everyone. It is his temper. Tell them that, Tiste-child, before it is too late.’

Arathan shook his head. ‘I will not return to my people,’ he said. ‘I mean to stay here.’

‘Here?’

‘In the Tower of Hate,’ he answered.

‘And where might that tower be?’

‘The tall one, of white marble, where dwells the Lord of Hate.’

‘Have you visited that tower yet, Tiste-child? No? A secret awaits you, then. A secret most delicious. But I see your impatience. If one must build an edifice of hate, what manner of stone should be selected in its construction?’

‘Something pure?’

‘Very good. And to build a tower for all to see, it should shine bright, yes?’

Arathan nodded.

‘Thus. White marble, or, in the case of the tower you mentioned, opal. Of course, no Jaghut could build such a thing. We’ve not the talent to squeeze opal from rubble and dust. No, for such a miracle, one needs an Azathanai mason. One with an appropriate sense of humour. Why, you ask? Well, because humour is necessary, once the secret is made known. So tell me, how many floors should this tower have? Name for me the levels of Hate.’

‘I cannot, sir,’ said Arathan. ‘Is hatred not a thing that blinds?’

‘Hmm. What make you of a suicide note that never ends?’

‘A joke,’ he replied.

‘Ah, and do you appreciate it?’

Arathan shrugged, wondering where his father had gone to. ‘I appreciate the irony, I suppose.’

‘Just that? Well, you’re young still. Hate will blind, yes. There are no levels to it at all. You spoke of purity, and now we have discussed the matter of singularity. What of windows? What manner of door should be cut into this pure, singular thing?’

‘Windows are not needed, because all that lies outside hate matters not to the one within.’

‘And the door?’

Arathan studied the Jaghut for a moment, and then he sighed. ‘The tower is solid stone, isn’t it? But that’s not right. There must be a way in.’

‘But no way out.’

‘Until you bring it down in… in conflagration. But if it is solid then none can live within it.’

‘None do. Not what any sane person would calling living, anyway.’

Draconus appeared in the doorway. ‘You’ve gone and burned all the furnishings in every home nearby,’ he said, striding into the chamber.

‘The winters are cold, Suzerain. We were just discussing Gothos’s Folly, your son and I. See the trunk beside the doorway? In there you will find wine of passing quality. And Thel Akai ale, if you would invite insensibility.’

‘I would speak with Hood,’ said Draconus, walking over to the trunk. The lid creaked as he lifted it. He peered within for a moment and then withdrew a clay jug.

‘Excellent choice, Suzerain,’ said the Jaghut.

‘It should be, as it was my gift to you, the last time we met.’

‘Saved for your return. The Tiste have some worth in the world after all, given their talents in the making of wine.’

Draconus withdrew a pair of alabaster goblets and studied them. ‘Caladan Brood has a subtle hand, does he not?’

‘He does, when he so chooses. It is curious. Upon the heels of my proclamation, and in the midst of the dissolution that followed, I am showered with gifts. How can one fathom the minds of the Azathanai?’

‘Does Hood remain below?’ Draconus asked as he poured wine into the two goblets.

‘I cannot get rid of him, it’s true.’

His father offered Arathan one of the goblets. Startled, he accepted. Draconus then went to the desk, picked up the goblet there and sniffed at the wine. He flung the contents against the wall and refilled the goblet from the clay jug, then handed it across to the Jaghut.

‘Your son wishes to remain in the keeping of the Lord of Hate.’

Draconus nodded. ‘He would make of himself a gift to you.’

‘As what, a keepsake? An ornament? What function could he possibly serve?’

‘He is trained in letters well enough,’ Draconus mused, sipping at the wine. ‘How many volumes have you compiled thus far, Gothos?’

‘An even dozen stacks to match the one on the desk. Written in an execrable hand, every word, every line.’

Draconus frowned across at their host. ‘Not in Old Jaghut, I trust!’

‘Of course not! That would be… ridiculous. A language for the compilers of lists, a language for tax collectors with close-set eyes and sloping foreheads, a language for the unimaginative and the petty-minded, a language for the unintelligent and the obstinate — and how often do those two traits go hand in hand? Old Jaghut? Why, I would have killed myself after the first three words!’ He paused and then grunted. ‘If only I had. I confess, Suzerain, I have indeed written in Old Jaghut.’

‘Easily taught, that written script.’

‘And you charge me to subject your only son to such an ordeal? To what end?’

‘That he might transcribe your writings into a more suitable language.’

‘Tiste?’

Draconus nodded.

‘He will go blind. His hand will wither and fall off to lie on the floor like a dead bird. He will need more than chains to keep him here. Even the Lord of Hate has limits, Suzerain.’

‘Until such time as he awakens unto himself. This seems as safe a place as any, Gothos, and I trust you to be an even-handed master.’

‘I am to be the vault to your treasure? Dear me, Draconus, but I see hard weather ahead.’

‘The thought was his, not mine,’ Draconus said, and turned to Arathan. ‘If you still mean to stay.’

‘I will, Father.’

‘Why?’ barked Gothos. ‘Speak, Tiste-child!’

‘Because, sir, an unending suicide note cannot but be a proclamation on the worth of living.’

‘Is it, now? I will argue against you, Tiste-child. Night upon night, page upon page, I will attack your belief, your faith, your certainty. I will assail you without pause for breath, and seek to crush you under the heel of my hard-won wisdom. What have you that dares to claim the strength to withstand me?’

‘Lord,’ said Arathan, ‘I have youth.’

Gothos slowly leaned forward, his eyes glittering. ‘You will lose it.’

‘Eventually, yes.’

The Lord of Hate slowly leaned back. ‘Draconus, your son does you proud.’

‘He does,’ his father whispered.

Gothos then held up a large, ornate key. ‘You will need this, Suzerain.’

Nodding, Draconus set down his empty goblet and took up the key. Then he went below.

The Lord of Hate continued eyeing Arathan. ‘Never doubt your father’s courage.’

‘I never have, sir.’

‘How has he named you?’

‘Arathan.’

Gothos grunted. ‘And do you?’

‘What?’

‘Walk on water, for such is the Azathanai meaning of your name.’

‘No sir. Even upon ice, I broke through, and came near to drowning.’

‘Do you now fear it?’

‘Fear what, sir?’

‘Water? Ice?’

Arathan shook his head.

‘Your father means to free Hood. What do you imagine he desires from such a perilous act?’

‘I would think, sir, some form of redemption.’

‘Then it was indeed by Errastas’s hand, the slaying of Karish and now others. Alas, your father does not understand the Jaghut. He imagines that Hood will set out to hunt down the wayward Azathanai. He would see the legendary rage of my people unleashed upon this upstart with blood on his hands. But that shall not come to pass.’

‘Then what will Hood do?’