Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

There was no guessing the paths of desire. He is young, but I will have him.

For a time.

‘I confess that I am without resolve.’

At Spinnock’s words, Faror Hend turned, to see him leaning in the doorway to her cell, his arms crossed and his eyes dancing with reflected light. She shook her head. ‘I have not seen that in you, cousin.’

‘I envisage a life where I am like a blade of grass, flattened by the faintest breath of wind.’

‘Then you will know bruises in plenty.’ She studied him. ‘What has taken you so, Spinnock?’

‘Brave words from me, while I stood far too close to our captain.’

She looked away sharply, returning to readying her kit bag. ‘There is a reason Finarra Stone is yet to find a husband.’

‘I see something wayward in her eyes, it’s true.’

She snorted. ‘She longs for no husband, cousin. She’d rather a wife.’ She looked back suddenly. ‘Did you not know that?’

The surprise on his face shifted into a smile. ‘Now there’s a challenge.’

Faror Hend straightened, moved close to him. ‘Spinnock, listen to me. She would play with you. You’re not the first man she has teased. But her lust lies in the feel of soft breasts in her hands, and yielding wetness between the legs. She shies from a stubbled kiss and hungers only for velvet lips.’

‘I shall scrape every whisker from my face, and deceive her in the dark.’

‘You deserve better than to be used.’

‘Hence the weakness of my resolve, cousin.’

‘Then yield to this.’ She grasped the back of his head and brought her mouth against his. She heard a grunt from him and then he pulled away. Faror moved close again and reached with her other hand between his legs, cupping the weight of him and feeling his heat through the silk.

Spinnock set his hands on her shoulders and firmly pushed her back. ‘No, cousin.’

‘Did you think me deaf to your invitations, Spinnock?’

He shook his head. ‘I thought we but played. A game with no risk of resolution. Faror, I am sorry, but this cannot be.’

She backed away and then swung round to fix the straps of her pack. Without facing him, she said, ‘Resolution is the least risk to such games, Spinnock, when in every move we fence in strategies of desire.’

‘Beloved cousin, do not misunderstand me. If we were not cousins, I would have earned revile from every Tiste for stealing you from your betrothed, for making of your body a thing well used.’

She struggled to slow her breathing, cursing herself for the pounding of her heart in her chest. Every ache felt delicious and yet tortured. She could still feel his lips against her own, and her left palm remained damp with his sweat.

‘What you did just now-’

‘Every game turns serious, Spinnock, eventually. Now let’s see your hasty retreat, cousin, and know the proof of unexpected resolve.’

‘My retreat, cousin, is the very opposite. Our captain awaits you, after all.’

She twisted round to glare at him. ‘In games of love, cousin, we all play to wound.’

‘That is a bitter vision, Faror.’

‘Is it? What greater courage than love’s confession? When the duelling is done unto exhaustion, one or the other must drop their guard, and then smile at the spilling of their own blood. Next comes the question: will the one doing the wounding now step close to set tongue to that wound?’

‘No, he will turn the blade upon himself, cousin, and so conjoin this crimson flow.’

‘And so the game ends with the promise of scars.’ She shook her head. ‘Play on, then, cousin, and think not of me.’

He edged out from the doorway, his expression filled with sorrow and dismay. ‘Fare you well in your journey, cousin.’

‘And you.’

When he was gone she shut the door, and then sat down heavily on her cot. The blood runs clear until every drop becomes a tear. The game is lost the moment you forget that it was ever a game. To hear the song of love is to be deafened by a chorus of fools! Wiping at her wet cheeks, she resumed her preparations.

‘One thing at a time,’ Calat Hustain said. ‘I need you here.’

Ilgast Rend grunted, and then sat down heavily in the chair behind the map table. ‘I cannot understand Urusander. He should have reined in Hunn Raal — Abyss take me, he should have had the hide whipped from the dog long ago.’

‘Hunn Raal’s machinations would have stumbled, and then stalled,’ Calat said as he paced. ‘Without that damned Azathanai’s interference at Yannis, this contest would have remained purely political, and so open to compromise. This war of faiths is like a weapon thrust into his hand.’

Ilgast shook his head. ‘Hunn Raal is of the Issgin line. This is all down to his family’s fall from glory. He yearns to be a noble and sees himself as his bloodline’s champion. He will ride the wave of every concession the Legion wins, and if the foam should turn red, so be it.’

Calat nodded. ‘His ambitions are well known, Lord.’

‘I will keep the Wardens in a state of readiness, commander. Of course I but hold them so until your return. Then, with great relief, I will yield to you and quit this.’ He looked up. ‘Friend, do you think me irresponsible?’

‘I cannot say, Lord. I continue to believe that the greatest threat to Kurald Galain is the Vitr. If you can glean its truths from among the Jaghut, or even the Azathanai, then we may all bless your devotion a century from now.’

Ilgast snorted. ‘A century? Then I will gird myself to weather a hundred years’ worth of curses until that time. Preferable, I think, to this wayward tugging I now suffer.’

‘In announcing your neutrality, Lord, you perhaps offer a way out for many, highborn and common alike. I cannot imagine that every old captain of Urusander’s Legion is thrilled with this pogrom. Those falling to their swords might be Deniers, but they remain Tiste. Lord, I am appalled by this turn of events.’

Ilgast considered Calat’s words. He rubbed at his face. ‘There is a madness, commander, that runs like a poison stream through us. It flows beneath the bedrock of our much vaunted propriety. The stone bears pressure until it cracks. Civility drowns in that vile flood, and the disingenuous thrive in the discord that follows.’ He leaned back, making the chair creak with his weight. ‘In my bleakest moments, I wish for the coming of a god, a thing righteous yet cool of regard. A god to reach down among us and pluck forth our most venal, self-serving kin. And then, in a realm that burns like acid through every deceit, every cynical lie, make for them all an unwelcome but most deserving home.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I long for a power to wash away the worst that is in us, Calat.’ After a long moment he opened his eyes again, to see the commander motionless, studying him. Ilgast managed a wry smile. ‘Would I fear such power in Mother Dark’s hands?’

‘Voice no confessions to me, Lord. I have doubts enough of my own.’

‘I wonder, where are our formidable wits, commander, that we should so easily be driven into this wash of treachery by thick-skulled, obvious fools? By the malign of intent and the heartless of spirit?’

‘You begin to question your neutrality, Lord?’

‘I suspect its evasiveness. Still, I see before me but one path not soaked in blood. I shall travel west, into the lands of the Jaghut and the Azathanai.’

‘And your Houseblades?’

‘They will maintain my holdings. That and nothing more. So I have ordered.’

‘Will you journey alone?’

‘I will take a handful, for the company.’

Calat nodded. ‘Lord, I shall endeavour to not linger too long at the Sea of Vitr. I see well the burden of this favour I have asked of you.’