Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

By day’s end she would be leading her company of Houseblades back to her keep. With the shattering of traditions, she was no longer confident that Sukul Ankhadu was safe, although she knew enough of Castellan Rancept’s talents to hope he could mitigate any possible threat, at least for the moment. But this decision strained her resolve from another direction now, one unexpected and almost unbearably precious. She thought of the man accompanying Orfantal into the Citadel, and felt once again a quickening of her breath.

She was not as old as her experience reputed, while Gripp Galas had seen a century, if not more. There would be amusement and not a little scorn behind their backs, once it became known that Lady Hish Tulla, for so long believed to be unattainable, had given her love to Lord Anomander’s manservant. On better days, in times past, she would be proof against their mockery, but there was a new frailty in her now, exposed and raw.

She had believed herself settled into bitter resolution, making peace with what she imagined to be a life spent in solitude, offering up a straight line in her march through all the days and the nights to come. Even the prospect of war, detestable as it was, had voiced to her a bold welcome, if by fighting she could find reason to live, and if by righteous defence of worthy things she could give meaning to that stern march, no matter how long or how short her life’s trek.

In the Citadel ahead, with its seething tumult of troubled spirits, and its host of opinions and arguments clothed in flesh and heated expressions, she would find the fate of her future. Drawing a deep, settling breath, she nudged her mount forward once again.

A groom rushed up to take her horse and she dismounted, regretting that she had elected to leave her armour behind, to await her departure from the city. But neither chain nor iron scale could serve to defend her against the ridicule to come, once her surrender became known, and bright eyes settled upon Gripp Galas, limping at her side. She imagined the disdain from her fellow highborn, and perhaps something of perturbation in her breaking with the ranks of nobility; and without doubt many would see her as fallen from the rung, divested of propriety. Among others, there would be contempt for Gripp Galas, as he would be seen as overreaching, even grasping, betraying some brazen lust for elevation. A clamour awaited them both, with the shunning by old friends and kin to make a siege of the isolation awaiting them.

Yet, for all of that, Hish Tulla vowed a refusal of such indulgences; she would weather this storm, because, at last, she was no longer alone.

With luck, Orfantal would find a new friend, even here in the Citadel, and so cease his longing for death. Still, she wondered at this stable boy, this Wreneck, and what had happened to make him turn away from Orfantal. Oh, woman, turn sharp to observe your own thoughts, in what will come of your love for Gripp Galas. The boy voiced no pain at the death of his grandmother. You can well guess who drove the knife into that friendship.

Wreneck, if your spirit now haunts House Korlas, pray you find a stern regard when meeting the eyes of Nerys Drukorlat. In death you are made equal, and so, dear boy, you are at last free of her. Speak to her then, of every horror her fear inflicted, upon living and dead.

Tell her her grandson does not mourn her passing.

A dozen spacious rooms along the south side of the Citadel were now the demesne of Lord Anomander and his brothers. The chambers were poorly lit, and upon the walls hung the oldest of the tapestries, many dating from the founding age of Kharkanas. Time had faded the scenes to add mystery to their obscurity, and though Emral Lanear more than once leaned close in an effort to make out what she was seeing on her way to Lord Anomander’s quarters, the High Priestess was left with a strange disquiet, as if the past was selfish with its secrets, and would make of the unknown something malign and threatening.

The end of beauty was never so coy. Each morning, every sign of ageing shouted its details to her unblinking regard in the mirror. She was left with no hope of fading into frayed threads, and as she walked past this succession of mocking tapestries she longed to slip into their insubstantial, colourless worlds, and so become a creature frozen and forgotten. In that world she need never reach her destination; nor open her mouth to speak. Most of all, she would be but one more figure in those pallid scenes who never had to explain themselves, to anyone.

See how I envy the past, and long for all that it so willingly surrendered in its retreat from the present. These strident defences and pathetic justifications will fall to silence. Each breath is left half drawn. A word begun remains unfinished. The past wore recrimination with indifference. Welcoming dissolution, it looked upon every cause with blank eyes, and cared not who stirred the dust. It was a conceit to imagine that the past spoke anything at all, not to the present, nor to the unknown future. By its very nature, it was turned away from both.

She found Lord Anomander seated in a deep, high-backed chair, legs stretched out as if he but took his leisure, unmindful of the chaos into which the world was descending. His brother, Silchas, paced along the far wall, passing in front of three floor-to-ceiling tapestries with scenes too worn to discern. The white-skinned man’s expression was troubled. The glance he shot at the High Priestess was fraught.

Emral stood before Lord Anomander, although he’d yet to lift his gaze from the floor. ‘First Son,’ she said, ‘Mother Dark will speak with you now.’

‘That is kind of her,’ Anomander replied.

Silchas made a sound of frustration. ‘Still he sits like a thing carved from stone. Andarist is gone from us. Our brother walks the burning forest, and in that infernal realm waits no salvation. But still Anomander sits, offering nothing.’

‘Lord Silchas,’ asked Emral, ‘do you fear that Andarist will take his own life?’

‘No, High Priestess. His guilt seeks no quick end. It is said ash makes fertile soil and I wager he has sown his seeds and now tends a burgeoning bounty. It will make a bitter harvest indeed, but he means to grow fat on it.’

‘Everyone seeks an answer to the crimes committed,’ Emral said. ‘Everyone speaks of war but no army assembles.’

‘We await the Hust Legion,’ said Silchas, still pacing. ‘In the meantime my hands are worn bloody beating against my brother’s obstinacy, and with each stride I take, this room seems smaller, and with it the Citadel and indeed, all of Kharkanas. In my mind’s eye, High Priestess, even Kurald Galain huddles in a shallow embrace.’

‘We must find our resilience,’ she replied.

Anomander grunted, and then said, ‘You will search an eternity for that, High Priestess, in the smoke of darkness.’ Finally he looked up at her, his eyes hooded. ‘She will see me now? Does she finally offer the bones of this faith, and if so, what substance has she employed in the fashioning? Will this frame show us iron or flimsy reeds? And what of the flesh you offer in raiment, Emral Lanear? For ever soft and for ever yielding to suit the cushions and silks of your beds, but in an act stripped of love we are all diminished.’

She flinched. ‘I will confess, Lord, we have made of sensation something sordid.’

‘Mother Dark is free with her indulgences,’ Anomander replied, carelessly waving a hand. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess. In every age there comes a time when all subtlety vanishes, all veils are torn aside, and men and women will speak brazen truths. By such bold proclamations we find ourselves divided, with the span between us growing daily.’

‘You describe civil war in its crux,’ growled Silchas. ‘It is well upon us, brother. But the time for philosophy is past; if indeed one could ever claim its worth in any time. If your clear eye hangs on every current, you become blind to the river’s deadly rush. Have done with the analysis, Anomander, and draw out this ill-named but righteous sword.’