Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

The landscape painters of old became obsessed with light, and reputedly that obsession drove many of them mad. But surely it was much worse if all light was stolen away. His thoughts turned to Kadaspala, the finest of all portrait artists — was it any wonder that he lived beneath a cloud of fear and flung his rage at the world? The priestesses promised gifts with the coming of darkness, and that none would be blind within it. Such gifts came from sorcery and so they were never free. Rise wondered at the cost awaiting them all.

He heard scrabbling from the stairs and turned to see Cedorpul climbing into view. The young priest was out of breath, his round face and round body seeming to bob loosely, as if filled with air. Behind him, as he stepped on to the platform, another figure loomed into view.

Cedorpul looked round. ‘She’s not here? Where is she?’

‘In her room. Playing.’

‘Abdication of responsibilities!’

Rise Herat tilted his head to one side. ‘My very thoughts when you left her with me, Cedorpul.’

The priest waved a hand and then spent a moment straightening his stained tunic. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Her whereabouts are known: that is all that is relevant here.’

The other priest edged past Cedorpul and stood looking out over the city.

‘Endest Silann,’ Rise said to him, ‘tell me what you see?’

‘It is less what I see than what I feel, historian.’

‘And what do you feel?’

‘Up here, it is as if the world’s weight falls from my shoulders. While in the corridors beneath us…’ He shrugged.

‘You are young,’ said Rise. ‘There is much for you to bear, but the gift of youth means you scarcely feel its weight. It distresses me to think that you are growing old before your time.’

Cedorpul said, ‘You’ve not yet heard. A rider has come in from one of the monasteries. Warlock Resh leads a party of Shake. They are escorting a guest, who will meet Mother Dark herself.’

‘Indeed? It is already known that she will grant an audience? This guest must be of considerable importance.’

‘From the Vitr.’

Rise turned to Cedorpul, studied the flushed face and bright blue eyes, wondering again at the lack of eyebrows or any other facial hair — did the man simply shave it all off, as he did from his pate? It seemed an odd affectation. ‘Nothing comes from the Vitr,’ he said.

‘We make bold claims at our peril,’ Endest muttered from where he leaned over the wall.

Rise considered for a moment, and then said, ‘It is said the Azathanai have fashioned stone vessels capable of holding Vitr. Perhaps entire ships can be constructed of the same material.’

‘No ships,’ said Cedorpul. ‘Beyond that, we know little. A woman, but not Tiste.’

‘Azathanai?’

‘It would seem so,’ Endest confirmed.

‘They should approach the edge of the forest soon, I would judge,’ Cedorpul announced, moving to position himself beside his fellow priest. ‘We thought to witness their arrival from here.’

So much for a period of restful contemplation. ‘I trust all is being made ready below.’

‘Nothing grand,’ Cedorpul said. ‘This is not a formal visit, after all.’

‘No polishing of buckles?’ Rise asked. ‘No buffing of silver?’

Endest snorted.

Puffing out his fleshy cheeks, Cedorpul slowly shook his head. ‘Ill-chosen my company this day. I am assailed by irreverence. An historian who derides historical occasions. An acolyte who mocks decorum.’

‘Decorum?’ Endest twisted round on one elbow to regard Cedorpul. ‘How readily you forget, that before dawn this morning I dragged you out from under three priestess candidates. Smelling like a sack of stale wine, and as for the stains upon your robes, well, I remain most decorous in not looking too closely!’ To Rise Herat he added, ‘Cedorpul finds the candidates when they’re still waiting in the chaperon’s antechamber, and informs them that their prowess in bed must be tested-’

‘I avail myself of their natural eagerness,’ Cedorpul explained.

‘He’s found an unused room and now has the key for it. Swears the candidates to secrecy-’

‘Dear me,’ said Rise. ‘Cedorpul, you risk a future of scorn and righteous vengeance. I hope I live to witness it in all its glory.’

‘Endest, you have failed me in every measure of friendship of which I can conceive. Into the ears of the court historian, no less! It will be the two of you who curse me to the fate the historian so ominously describes!’

‘Hardly,’ countered Endest. ‘I envision a night of confessions — no, whom do I deceive? Dozens of nights and confessions by the hundred. Yours is a fate I do not envy-’

‘You seemed thankful enough for my cast-offs last night, honourable acolyte. And every other night at that. Who was it who said that hypocrisy has no place in a temple of worship?’

‘No one,’ replied Rise Herat, ‘as far as I know.’

‘Indeed?’ Cedorpul asked. ‘Truth?’

Rise nodded.

‘Oh my,’ Cedorpul said, and then he sighed. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Let us ignore, for the time being, the unfortunate circumstances driving the three of us into each other’s company, and enjoy the view.’

‘And what of young Legyl Behust?’ Rise asked him.

‘Surely there is a sound argument to be made regarding the educational value of play. Besides, that chamber beneath us is the traditional sanctuary of the Citadel’s succession of hostages. May she bar the door in all assurance of privacy. Until the noon bell at the very least.’

It occurred to Rise Herat, somewhat ungraciously, that he would have preferred the company of Legyl Behust.

Cedorpul pointed. ‘I see them!’

Sister Emral Lanear examined herself in the full-length silvered mirror. The faintly blurred woman staring back at her promised great beauty, and Emral longed for them to exchange places. With such a prayer answered, none could pierce the veil, and she need not guard herself at every moment, lest someone glimpse the tortured truths roiling behind her eyes; and in expression she would give nothing away.

The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.

There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.

Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long-toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.

‘A woman!’ someone hissed.

‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’