Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

They were returning to the Great House, Jaen electing to use a side entrance, a narrow passageway leading into an enclosed garden. ‘His feelings for you are unchanged, but just as you set off into your new direction — away from this house — so too must Cryl. He will return to his own family, and it is there that his future will be decided.’

‘The Duravs — they are all soldiers. Cryl has only one brother left alive. The wars almost destroyed that family. He’ll take up the sword. He’ll follow in Spinnock’s footsteps. Such a waste!’

‘We are no longer at war, Enesdia. The risks are not what they once were, and for that we can all be thankful. In any case, the youngest born among the nobility have few recourses these days.’

They stood in the garden, in still air made cool by the raised pond commanding the centre. The fruit trees trained up two of the inner walls were laden with heavy, lush fruit, the purple globes looking like dusty glass. She thought, if one should fall in the next moment, it might shatter. ‘I have been unmindful, Father. Selfish. We are parting, and it will be difficult for both of us.’

‘Indeed.’

She looked up at him. ‘And even worse for you — is not Cryl the son you never had? This house will seem so… empty.’

Jaen smiled. ‘An old man treasures his peace and quiet.’

‘Oh? So you cannot wait to be rid of us?’

‘Now you have the truth of it.’

‘Well, then I’ll not spare your feelings another thought.’

‘Better. Now, return to your maids, lest they make mischief.’

‘They can wait a while longer — I wish to stay here for a time. I need to think.’

Still smiling, her father departed the garden.

I could ask Andarist to offer Cryl a commission. In the Citadel Wards. Somewhere safe. It will be my gift to Cryl. A gift that he will never know about. He will have Andarist as his commander — or will it be Anomander? No matter. He could advance far.

She walked to the nearest tree, reached out and took hold of a globe of fruit. Soft, ripe. She twisted it loose. See? No risk of shattering. Nothing like that at all. She felt something wet trickling down her hand. Gentle as she had been, the skin had split.

Oh, now I am stained!

Annoyed, Enesdia flung the fruit into the pond, the splash loud as a retort.

A commission for Cryl. She would have to work hard at hiding her intentions — he seemed to see right through her.

It’s good that he’s gone away.

The estate road joined the track leading east, and it was there that Orfantal waited, standing beside a slope-backed nag purchased in Abara Delack, at his side the stable boy, Wreneck, a sour dog-faced boy with greasy hair and a constellation of acne on his broad, flat brow. There had been a time, not so long ago, when Wreneck played with Orfantal, and for those few months — shortly after the fire when the responsibilities of a stable boy more or less ceased to exist — Orfantal had discovered the pleasures of friendship, and in the shambling stable boy an agreeable companion in his imagined wars and battles. But then something had happened and Wreneck grew taciturn and, on occasion, cruel.

Now the boy stood stroking the nag’s neck, impatient with the wait as the day’s heat built and the sun’s glare sharpened. There was no shade to be found barring that cast by the horse. They had stood in this place since shortly after dawn, circled by three feral dogs from town drawn by the smell of the fresh bread and egg pie the servants had made up for Orfantal’s lunch, which filled the small hessian bag he clutched in one hand.

There had been no conversation. At ten years, Wreneck was twice Orfantal’s age and it seemed that this span of years had become vast, over which no bridge of words could cross. Orfantal thought long and hard on what he might have done to offend Wreneck, but he could think of no way to broach the subject. The stable boy’s expression was closed, almost hostile, all his interest seemingly consumed by the somnolent horse at his side.

His legs growing tired, Orfantal went to sit down on the travel trunk containing his clothes, wooden swords and the dozen lead toy soldiers he owned — four Tiste and three Jheleck and five Forulkan, none painted, as his grandmother had concluded that if given paints he would make a mess of the tabletop. He had been astonished to discover that all of his possessions fit into the single, small trunk that had once held his grandfather’s war gear — with room to spare. Indeed, he thought he could fit himself into that trunk, and make of his entire life a thing to be carried about, passed from hand to hand, or flung into the ditch and left behind and forgotten by the whole world.

Wreneck wouldn’t mind. His mother wouldn’t mind; and his grandmother, who was sending him away, might well be pleased to see the last of him. He wasn’t sure, in truth, where he was going, only that it was away, to a place where he would be taught things and be made into a grown-up. Eyeing Wreneck askance, he tried to imagine himself as old as the stable boy, finding the year that unhappiness came to every boy’s life, and feeling his own features sag into that angry, helpless expression. And ten years later, his face would find a new set, to match the sadness of his mother.

Hundreds of years after that, he saw himself with his grandmother’s face, bearing the look that always reminded him of a hawk eyeing a field mouse speared to the ground by its talons. This was the path to adulthood, he supposed, and Grandmother was sending him off to learn how to live with what everyone had to live with, the steps of growing up, all the faces to find in his own.

A rumble in the road lifted him to his feet, looking west to see a troop of riders and two heavily burdened wagons appear from the dusty haze. The wagons were stacked high in sheep and goat skins, from the culled herds outside Abara Delack, destined for somewhere to the south. This was to be his escort.

Wreneck spoke behind him. ‘That’s them.’

Orfantal nodded. He fought the urge to take Wreneck’s hand, knowing the boy would sneer and bat his away. When he’d left the Great House this morning, his grandmother’s only touch had been a bony hand upon his back, pushing him forward and into Wreneck’s care.

‘You can go,’ Orfantal said as the stable boy came round to stand beside him.

But Wreneck shook his head. ‘I’m to make sure you’re on the horse, and that the trunk’s properly loaded. And that they know where to leave you.’

‘But didn’t Grandmother arrange all that?’

Wreneck nodded. ‘Still, I’m to make sure.’

‘All right.’ Though he would not say it, Orfantal was glad of the company. He did not recognize any of the riders, after all; they looked dusty and in bad moods as they rode up and reined in, their hooded gazes fixed upon Orfantal.

One gestured to the trunk as the wagons trundled up, and another rider, old and scar-faced, dismounted to collect it. When he crouched to lift it he had been clearly expecting something heavier, and almost tipped on to his backside when he straightened. He shot Orfantal a quizzical look before carrying the trunk to the first wagon, where the driver reached down and heaved it up to position it behind the backboard of his bench.

Wreneck’s voice was strangely timid as he said, ‘The Citadel. He is nobleborn.’

The lead rider simply nodded.

Turning to Orfantal, Wreneck said, ‘Let me help you on to the horse. Her left eye is bad, so she angles to the right. Keep her head tight and stay on the left side of the track — no horse on her left, I mean, as that spooks her.’

‘I understand.’

Wreneck’s scowl deepened. ‘You’ve never ridden this far all at once. You’ll be sore, but her back’s broad enough and you got a wide saddle here, so if you need to, you can sit cross-legged on her for a break.’