Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘He grieves for the silence she now gives him, Arathan. I fear, in truth, that he will announce a war upon that silence. All to hear her speak again, one more time, one last time. He will, if he is able, shatter the peace of death itself.’

‘How is that even possible?’

Gothos shook his head. ‘Since I am the one who flees death tirelessly, I am not the one to ask.’ The Lord of Hate waved one ink-stained hand. ‘We wage war with our follies, Hood and me, and so are repelled in opposite directions. I chase the dawn and he would chase the dusk. I do not begrudge his resolve, and can only hope that my fellow Jaghut choose to ignore his summons.’

‘Why wouldn’t they? It is impossible. Madness.’

‘Attractive qualities indeed. Impossible and mad, yes, but most worrying of all, it is audacious.’

‘Then in truth, you fear they will answer him.’

Gothos shrugged. ‘Even a few could cause trouble. Now, more wine, please. I believe the bottle bred another in the trunk, somewhere. Do go and look, will you?’

Instead, Arathan glanced at the trap.

Sighing, Gothos said, ‘It bodes ill that you already tire of my company. Go on, then, and appease your curiosity.’

Arathan approached the trap and looked down. The steps were made of wood, warped and worn with age. They were steep. The light coming from below was pale. He made his way down.

After the twelfth step, he reached the earthen floor. It was uneven, with roots snaking across it like a tangled web. He could see no walls. The light was pervasive but without any obvious source. He saw his father standing at the edge of a pool fifteen paces ahead. In the centre of the pool was an island, only a few paces across, where sat a Jaghut. He seemed to have torn away his clothes, and raked claws through his own flesh. Heavy manacles bound his wrists, the chains plunging into the island’s rocky surface. Arathan made his way to stand beside his father.

Draconus was speaking. ‘… I mean to purge the gift, and give it to the Night. I know that this offers no absolution.’ He paused, and then said, ‘K’rul is not alone in seeking justice for the murder, Hood. I can think of no Azathanai who is not outraged by Errastas’s crime.’

Hood was silent, eyes downcast.

‘I would release you,’ Draconus said.

A low laugh came from the imprisoned Jaghut. ‘Ah, Draconus. You sought from Errastas a worthy symbol of your love for Mother Dark. To achieve that, he stole the love of another, and made from blackwood leaves the gift you sought. By this we are all made to bow before your need.’ Hood lifted his head, his eyes catching the strange silver reflection from the pool. ‘And now you stand before me, struggling to constrain your rage, a rage you feel on my behalf. But you see: I do not blame Errastas or his foolish companion, Sechul Lath. Nor do I look upon you with vehemence. Be a sword if you will, but do not expect me to wield it.’

‘My fury remains, Hood, and I will curse Errastas for his deed, and for my own role in it. I will forge a sword and make of it a prison-’

‘Then you are a fool, Draconus. I ask no redemption from you. I seek no compensation and am as unmoved by your sympathy as I am by your rage. Your gestures are your own.’

‘Quenched in Vitr-’

‘Cease this sordid description! What I will do, once I am freed, will unwind all of existence. Your fevered remonstrance is without relevance. Your gestures are reduced to petty exercises bolstering little more than your sense of self-importance, and in this I see you join the chorus of a million voices, but the song is sour and the refrain rings false. Give me the key, then, and begone.’

‘Hood, you cannot defeat death itself.’

‘You would know nothing of that, Draconus. I shall call for companions. My enemy shall be the injustice of mortality. I am certain that I will gather a few to my cause. The grieving, the lost, we shall be a solemn handful — but none will doubt our resolve.’

‘And where then will you find the shores of that unknown sea, Hood? What bridge can you hope to cross without releasing your soul to the very oblivion you seek to destroy?’

‘Heed well the lessons I will bring, Draconus, in my argument with death.’

‘I fear that we will not meet again,’ Arathan’s father said.

‘There are greater fears, Draconus. Make your regret modest and we’ll never have cause to curse one another, and in that may we find peace between us.’

‘You break my heart, Hood.’

‘Voice no such confessions, lest Gothos hear you and be incited to mockery. I never refused his arguments, though he might well choose to believe otherwise. Nothing of what he dismantled with his words was worth keeping. We are never eased for long by the accoutrements of self-delusion. Not that you will heed that.’

Draconus tossed the key across to Hood.

The Jaghut caught it. ‘Gothos chained me out of love,’ he said, eyeing the key he held. ‘And here you seek to free me in its name, but I am dead to such things now. One day, Draconus, I will call upon you, in Death’s name, and I wonder: how will you answer?’

‘When that moment arrives, Hood, we shall both learn what that answer will be.’

Hood nodded. He reached down and unlocked the first manacle.

Draconus turned to Arathan. ‘We are done here.’

But Arathan said to Hood, ‘Sir.’

The Jaghut paused, looked across. ‘What would you tell me, son of Draconus?’

‘Only of my faith,’ he replied.

Hood laughed. ‘Faith? Go on, then, I will hear it.’

‘I believe, sir, that you will prove Gothos wrong.’

The Jaghut grunted. ‘And is that a good thing?’

‘His argument, sir. It is wrong. You all failed to answer him and so ended your civilization. But that argument never ends. It cannot end, and that is what you will prove.’

‘An argument as endless as his confession? Hah! You are bold, son of Draconus. Do you also have faith that I will win my war?’

‘No, sir. I think you will fail. But I will bless you for trying.’

There was silence, and then Arathan saw tears track crooked paths down the Jaghut’s lined cheeks. Draconus set a hand upon his son’s shoulder and drew him back. The hand was heavy, but the grip promised no pain. Reaching the steps they paused and his father said, ‘Arathan, I regret not knowing you better.’

‘Father, from all sides you have been warned away from the path you are taking. Why do you persist?’

‘Because, son, I know no other.’

‘This is what Hood said of his own path,’ Arathan replied. ‘And Gothos. And Kilmandaros and Olar Ethil. It’s what all of you say, even when you don’t say it.’

‘Climb, Arathan. My time with you is almost done. I must return to Kharkanas. I have been gone too long as it is.’

Arathan ascended, his father following.

The Lord of Hate was still seated in his chair and seemed to be dozing, with an empty goblet in one hand.

Ignoring him, Draconus continued on. Outside, he collected up his horse’s reins and swung into the saddle. Looking down at Arathan he said, ‘Select an empty tower nearby to stable your mounts. There is a Jaghut living near. He is named Cynnigig. He is strange but harmless, and has great love for horses. He will ensure that your mounts are well fed and watered, and indeed exercised, but of the latter, do not lose your ties to Hellar.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Find somewhere near to sleep and make the best home you can. Do not unduly isolate yourself, and do not forget that a world exists beyond that of Gothos, and the Jaghut. When you feel ready, depart. You are a far greater gift than Tutor Sagander ever intended.’

‘Father, be careful in Kharkanas. They think they know you, but they don’t.’