Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

These thoughts are my own. I will not crush them.

Sagander hissed behind him, ‘When next you turn to me, student, I will see the face of my own humiliation. I wish he had left you behind. You’re useless. Hands from the mouth!’

Rint hunched down over the embers, watching as the first flames licked the tinder alight. He fed in a few sticks and then nodded over to Galak, who began breaking up a brick of dried dung. Grunting, Rint straightened.

‘What do you think?’ Ville asked, standing close.

Rint shrugged, forcing himself from looking over to where Lord Draconus stood speaking with his sister. ‘She’s her own mind, as if you don’t know that.’

‘He wants a soft body for the cold nights, is my guess.’

‘We’ll see,’ muttered Rint in reply, and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from cracking at the thought. ‘He is a High Lord, after all.’

‘But he ain’t our High Lord, Rint.’

He glared across at Ville. ‘This ain’t none of your business. None of mine, neither. Feren decides and whatever she decides, we stand behind it.’

Galak grunted from where he crouched over the small fire. ‘Goes without saying, Rint.’

Ville scowled. ‘Still don’t like it. Consorts — what are they, anyway? Crotch-boys. Even worse than the damned priestesses in Kharkanas. Y’think he knows a damned thing about being honourable?’

Rint stepped close. ‘Keep it down, Ville. Any more of that and we’ll do without you, understand?’

In the tense silence following the low exchange, Galak rose. ‘Back in the courtyard,’ he said under his breath, ‘when I saw him standing there, holding out those scales. A shiver took my spine, that’s all. A shiver like the breath of the Abyss.’

Ville grinned at Galak. ‘You and your damned omens.’

‘Get the pot out,’ Rint said to Ville. ‘All this jabbering is wasting time.’

Leaving his two companions, he walked over to Sergeant Raskan and the old man, Sagander. Beyond them, the boy was sitting on the ground at the edge of the clearing, his back to them all. Both men were looking that way and if they’d been talking, it had been under their breaths and they ceased at Rint’s approach.

‘Sergeant,’ said Rint when he joined them. ‘This is the first meal of the journey. In the days that follow, our midday repast will of course make use of food that requires no cooking.’

Raskan nodded. ‘The Lord is well aware of your traditions, Bordersword.’

‘I assumed as much,’ Rint replied, ‘but I just wanted to make certain.’

‘Seems a ridiculous tradition,’ Sagander said, his expression sour. ‘Barely half a day out and we halt to gorge ourselves, when we should be hastening onwards.’

Rint regarded Sagander. ‘The first day of any overland journey, tutor, is always a difficult one, even for hardened travellers. Rhythms need finding, bones need shaking out, and not just for us but for our mounts as well. More injuries take horses on the first day than on any other. The early morning start, the cold muscles… these things pose risks.’

In response, Sagander shrugged and looked away.

Rint returned his attention to Raskan. ‘Sergeant. Two days to Abara Delack. When we are a few leagues out from the village, I will send Galak ahead-’

‘Forgive me,’ Raskan interrupted. ‘My lord has instructed me that we shall be riding around Abara Delack. We shall not be staying in the village, nor will we be guests of any of the resident highborn families.’

Rint considered that for a moment, and then he said, ‘None are to know of this journey.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Such secrets, sergeant, are very difficult to keep.’

‘That is understood, Rint, but we shall try nevertheless.’

‘Very well, I will inform the others.’

‘One other thing,’ Raskan said as Rint turned away.

‘Sergeant?’

‘It would be best if you Borderswords did not keep to yourselves so much. This is a small party, after all, and we have many days ahead of us. We saw some disagreement among you at the campfire. If there are matters that need discussing, bring them to me.’

‘Of course, sergeant.’

Rint walked back to where he’d left Ville and Galak, and saw that his sister had returned from her meeting with Lord Draconus. Oddly enough, it seemed that no one was speaking. Feren looked over as Rint arrived and shook her head.

Suspicion flooded through Rint, and from it swirled fury, thick and vile. He struggled to give nothing away, and said, ‘The sergeant wants us to be sociable.’

Ville grunted. ‘We take orders from two of ’em and the other two amount to an old man of letters and a rabbit in a boy’s skin. What kind of socializing is he expecting?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’ Rint said under his breath.

To his relief all three laughed, although Rint saw a glint of something in his sister’s eyes, something walled off from any pleasure. But then, he reminded himself, there was nothing new in that.

‘Rabbit in a boy’s skin,’ said Galak to Ville. ‘I like that one.’

‘Now forget you ever heard it,’ Rint warned.

‘Sure, but still, it fits-’

‘And how do you know that?’ demanded Feren, startling the others. ‘I like what he did with the horses. Traditions are all very well, but they started for good reasons. These days, it seems everybody’s so caught up in the forms they forget those reasons. The boy was right — you share with the beast that served you. That’s how you give thanks.’

‘You give thanks to the beast you ride into battle with,’ Ville retorted.

‘Give thanks to them all. That’s how it started, Ville. Back when it meant something.’

Rint studied his sister. He’d not seen such fire from her in years. He should have welcomed it; he should have found hope from it. Instead, he felt vaguely disturbed, as if he was missing some hidden significance to this outburst.

‘Meat’s soft enough for chewing,’ said Galak.

‘I’ll call the others,’ Rint said.

Arathan sat on the ground, studying the gorse and the clouds of busy insects. The heat was making him sleepy. His spirits sank when he heard the scrape of feet behind him.

‘Arathan, my name is Feren.’

Startled, he clambered to his feet and faced the Bordersword. Wiping wet fingers on his thigh, he stood uncertainly.

‘We have a ritual,’ she said. Her eyes were level with his, and their steadiness unnerved him as she continued, ‘The first meal of the journey. Meat is shared. With everyone.’

He nodded.

She moved slightly closer and suddenly Arathan felt cornered. She smelled of tanned leather and something like blossoms, but spicier. She was twice his age, but the lines in the corners of her dark eyes made him think of passion, and then she gave him a half-smile. ‘In my eyes,’ she said, ‘you did right with your horse. There are ways that people think must be followed, and then there are ways of the heart. If two paths await you, one cold and the other warm, which would you choose?’

He thought about this for a moment, and then asked, ‘And if there are no paths?’

‘Then make your own, Arathan.’ She gestured. ‘Come along, the first taste must be your father’s. The next must be yours.’ She set out and he fell in behind her.

‘I am a bastard son.’

She halted and turned. ‘You are about to come of age,’ she said in a low tone. ‘From that day forward, you are your own man. We all had fathers and mothers, but when we come of age we stand in our own shadow and none other’s. If you are called a bastard then the failing is your father’s, not yours.’

This woman was nothing like his sisters. Her attention confused him; her interest frightened him. He suspected that she had been given this task — of escorting him — because no one else wanted it. Yet even pity felt like a caress.