Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

‘Would that be on your knees, Syntara?’

Despite the paint on her face, and despite the gloom of the hallway, Syntara visibly paled. Fury burgeoned in her eyes and she spun from them, marching towards the doors. A moment later and she was through. As the echo of the door’s closing drummed down the corridor, Emral shook her head. ‘She’ll not forget that insult, Lord Anomander, and for all her vanity, do not think her harmless.’

‘I was unwise,’ admitted Anomander. ‘However, it is not me at risk of her ire, it is you. For that I apologize, High Priestess.’

‘No need, Lord. I have cut deeper than that many times.’

‘Yet in private, surely.’

She shrugged. ‘With all the spies in this court, I doubt “privacy” even exists.’

‘This is the danger of darkness,’ said Anomander. ‘The world made unseen invites intrigue.’

‘It is no easy thing,’ she said, ‘to carve faith from secular ambition, Lord. The birth of any religion is bound to be tumultuous.’

‘It would be more relaxed,’ said Anomander, as the sounds of people entering the far end of the corridor reached them, ‘if Draconus were here.’

And just as quickly, a single comment from him could uproot the world from beneath her feet. She made no reply, no longer trusting her own voice.

Hold up no mirror, lest you like not what you see.

As the river crested its banks, pouring murky water into the streets and alleys of Kharkanas, and as shock and alarm rippled ahead of the tide throughout the city, Caplo Dreem and Warlock Resh escorted T’riss on to the main avenue that led out from the wood. Crowds were pushing up from the streets, funnelled by the rising water behind them, and gathering like flotsam along the high ridge that fringed the floodplain, halfway between the city’s edge and the line of trees marking the forest.

Floods were seasonal events in Kharkanas, occurring in the spring. Here, in the depths of a dry summer, and arriving without warning, the upsurge was accompanied by a sense of superstitious fear.

Where the main avenue sloped downwards, crossing the bank of the ridge, refuse-littered water lapped the cobbles directly ahead. Caplo reined in and a moment later Resh followed suit. T’riss drew up immediately behind them. Beyond her, the Shake halted their mounts, silent and pale-faced, ignoring the queries from refugees nearby.

‘Azathanai,’ said Caplo. ‘Will your mount suffer in form, should we ride through this water?’

‘I will walk,’ she replied. ‘The river resists its imprisonment. In this it speaks a truth of nature.’

The warlock’s voice was harsh as he asked, ‘What will the river god demand of this city? Of Mother Dark herself? The banks are walled in stone. The bridges are built. The jetties and piers stand firm against the currents. Must it all be destroyed in the name of water’s freedom?’

T’riss slipped down from the simulacrum. ‘Mother Dark is awakened to its presence. She asserts her domain.’

‘Is this to be a battle?’ Caplo asked her.

The woman studied him briefly, and then glanced up at the sky, as if invisible words were carved across its vault, which she now read out loud. ‘In stirring from sleep, the river god opens eyes upon a much changed world. Even the pillow upon which he rested his head is claimed by another — there is a temple within the Citadel, yes? It once belonged to the river god, but ownership has passed to another.’ She looked down, frowned at the city before them — and of the hundreds of Tiste now climbing the ridge to either side of the avenue, she was oblivious. ‘Even now the flood subsides. Mother Dark’s power is impressive.’

She strode between the two men and moments later walked into the water.

Resh’s sigh was rough. ‘I’ll keep my feet dry, if you please.’

Nodding, Caplo nudged his horse forward.

The procession resumed, this time led by the Azathanai, who cut a path through the swirling flood as if the river’s rising was a gift to her. Above the Citadel, Caplo saw clouds lifting, roiling away. Steam. Mother Dark banishes. We see here the truth of her growing power.

They continued on, at a pace somewhat quicker than the subsidence, although by the high waterline on the building walls it was clear that the flood was fast draining. The sound of rushing water was everywhere, as if in the aftermath of a heavy shower.

T’riss spoke without turning. ‘She must heed this lesson. To bind is to weaken. To hold is to make vulnerable, so that just as temples are focal points for worship and sacred gestures, so too are they weak points in a god’s armour. They are where the skin is thinnest, where fingers can touch, one mortal the other immortal. The meeting of lips, the sharing of breaths. Believe with all your heart, but know that your kiss can kill.’

Resh said, ‘Mother Dark is yet to sanctify the temple in her name, Azathanai. This is a matter of some contention. She may not need your warnings.’

They were approaching an intersection, opening out in a rectangular expanse. From windows on higher floors in the buildings to either side, people looked down, tracking their progress. Upon the far end reared the Citadel’s City Gate. There was no one visible in the concourse.

T’riss halted, turned to Caplo. ‘I have heard mention of highborn and lowborn, yet the Tiste acknowledge no royalty. How is this so?’

‘There was a queen once,’ Caplo replied. ‘The last of the royal line. She died on the field of battle. Her husband was not among the nobility, yet greatly revered for his martial prowess. When he fell, mortally wounded, she led a charge of her Royal Wardens in an effort to retrieve his body from the field. It failed. Thereafter, her body was not found, although that of her husband was.’

T’riss was studying him. ‘This queen was blood-kin to Mother Dark?’

‘Half-sisters,’ Resh said.

‘She could not have claimed the throne?’

‘No,’ Caplo replied. ‘An exception would have been made, however. There was precedent. But she was deemed… unsuitable.’

‘Esoteric interests,’ said Resh in a growl. ‘No talent for politics. Idealistic, romantic — well suited, perhaps, to her elevation into godhood.’

‘Then,’ said T’riss, ‘your throne remains unoccupied. I expect that this would indeed suit the highborn.’

‘The throne is transformed,’ said Resh. ‘Its place of honour now is in the temple. Upon it sits Mother Dark, and by title it is no longer the Royal Throne, but the Throne of Night.’

‘She will be seated upon it, then?’ T’riss asked. ‘When we have audience with her?’

Caplo shrugged. ‘Who can say? In darkness she dwells.’

The Azathanai was now looking from Caplo to Resh and back again. ‘The dead queen was the last of the royal line. By this you mean the direct line.’

‘Yes,’ said Resh, scowling.

‘There remain distant relations.’

Caplo nodded.

‘Lieutenant, I see little of the disingenuous in your comportment with me. You will give honest answer to my next question.’

‘If answer I possess,’ said Caplo.

‘The Queen had other kin. They now hold the titles of Mother and Father, and their names are Sheccanto and Skelenal.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet they are lifebound.’

‘Without consummation, Azathanai,’ replied Caplo. ‘To be lifebound is not a marriage. It is something… other.’

‘By rights they could claim the throne.’

Caplo shrugged. ‘It could so be argued.’

After a moment she turned back, resumed her trek across the concourse.

The water was gone, leaving little more than a few puddles and patches of wet stone fast dwindling in the sunlight. As Caplo made to nudge his mount forward, Resh reached out a hand and stayed him.