Steven Erikson - Forge of Darkness

Emral found that she was trembling. It is a wonder that the Azathanai are not worshipped as gods.

Behind the approaching woman came Warlock Resh and Lieutenant Caplo Dreem. Neither man bore an air of confidence; instead, they looked beleaguered, exhausted by uncertainty.

With the light came warmth, cutting through the chilled air, devouring it. The Azathanai woman, slight of frame, attractive in a delicate way, her fair hair drifting in the swirling draughts, halted three strides from them. Her gaze fixing upon Anomander, she said, ‘Night will claim your skin. Before your eyes, darkness will be revealed. But I will make visible the defiance within you, as a gift.’

Anomander frowned. ‘Azathanai, I ask for no gifts. I offer no defiance.’

The woman’s gaze drifted from him and settled upon Emral. ‘Your sorrow, High Priestess, is lonely, and you are driven to share your truths. I advise against it. Give voice to your secrets and you will be rejected by those for whom you care the most.’

Heat flooded through Emral and she fought to control her tone. ‘Azathanai, your words of greeting are presumptuous.’

Thin brows arched. ‘I cannot be but what I am, High Priestess. I come to stir the waters, and for a time we shall all be blind. Will you now turn me away?’

Emral shook her head. ‘She wishes to see you, Azathanai.’

‘A desire I share. I have been called T’riss and this name I now take as my own. I do not know who I was before I was T’riss. I dwelt for a time in the Vitr. I am of the Azathanai, but I do not know what this means.’

‘If you are here,’ said Anomander, ‘seeking answers to questions, you may be disappointed.’

‘The Tiste view the Vitr as an enemy,’ said T’riss. ‘It is no such thing. It exists for itself. It is a sea of possibilities, of potential. It holds life in the manner that blood holds life.’

‘Did it create you?’ Anomander asked.

‘No.’

‘Yet it grows. It devours land — this indeed poses a threat to Kurald Galain.’

The woman shrugged. ‘The sea does not dream of you.’

Emral’s attention slid from the Azathanai’s unperturbed equanimity, past her to Warlock Resh. The man’s face was pale, drawn. ‘Warlock Resh, you have brought us this guest. She has awakened your ancient god. What would Mother Sheccanto have you say to the followers of Mother Dark?’

‘Nothing,’ he replied, as if choking out the word. ‘For the moment.’

‘I will see her now,’ said T’riss.

Emral stepped to one side. The Azathanai moved past her.

As Warlock Resh and Caplo fell in behind T’riss, Anomander’s hands snapped out, grasped Caplo by the man’s tunic, and threw him up against the wall. He held the monk pinned there, feet dangling.

Resh stumbled back in alarm, and then quickly shook his head and Emral saw the gleam of a knife blade half hidden in Caplo’s left hand — which vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Ahead, T’riss did not so much as turn round, instead pushing open the heavy door and striding into the chamber. The door, left open, reflected flashes of yellow light, and Emral could feel the Azathanai’s power pushing through the darkness.

Anomander was speaking to Caplo. ‘No blood to be spilled within, do you understand me?’

‘Un-unnecessary, Lord,’ Caplo said in a gasp.

Releasing the man to sag against the wall, Anomander faced Warlock Resh. ‘Inform Sheccanto that we have no interest in sharing her panic. And should she ever again send her prized assassin into audience with Mother Dark, I will see his head spiked to the Citadel’s wall, with hers to follow.’

‘I will convey your message, Lord,’ Resh replied, but his tone was distracted.

From the doorway, the light suddenly vanished. A moment later, High Priestess Syntara staggered into view. Her skin was the hue of alabaster, her dark eyes like pools of ink. When Emral moved to assist her, Syntara threw up a staying hand, and her face twisted into a mask of spite and venom. ‘Do not touch me, you wretched hag! I chose my gift! I chose it!’

Pushing past the others, she rushed down the corridor.

Groaning, Warlock Resh set his back to the wall as would a man with too much drink in him. Eyes squeezing shut, he said, ‘She’s gone.’

Emral did not need him to elaborate. Bitter cold air was rushing into the corridor from the sanctum. The audience was at an end, and T’riss had vanished. The aftermath of the power unveiled in the last few moments made the air fiercely bitter, almost caustic.

Anomander faced the warlock. ‘She was banished?’

Resh’s eyes started open. ‘Does she give you nothing? This precious new goddess of yours?’

‘She may well give,’ Anomander replied. ‘But I do not ask.’

‘Not banished. Time twisted in the sanctum — in there, they might well have spoken for days. There is no way of knowing. She brought the blood — I felt it — she brought vitr into that chamber. Lord, I did not know — it must have been within her.’

Anomander half turned to the yawning doorway. ‘A weapon?’

‘No, Lord. A gift.’

‘Shake,’ Anomander commanded. ‘Await us here. High Priestess Emral, accompany me.’ He strode into the sanctum.

Emral followed.

As the door was shut behind them, Emral noticed at once that something had changed. The darkness remained, yet somehow lacked its oppressive weight, and before her eyes it seemed almost pellucid. In growing astonishment, she realized that she could make out details of the chamber.

Before them, motionless on the Throne of Night, sat Mother Dark, black-clothed in loose silks, black-haired, and now black-skinned. The transformation left Emral stunned, her thoughts plucked loose from all that she saw, as if she beheld a dubious world with the eyes of a drunk, and could make no sense of it.

As if nothing could rattle him, Anomander faced the throne, and something in his demeanour hinted at the defiance T’riss had seen within him. ‘Are you harmed, Mother?’

Her voice was soft, pitched low as if in weariness. ‘I am not.’

‘You sent her away?’

‘Beloved Emral,’ said Mother Dark, ‘you now stand alone as my High Priestess. Syntara has chosen, and from this a schism now threatens us all. In matters of faith, waters will part. This cannot be undone.’

But Anomander was not easily set aside. ‘Mother, the Azathanai resurrected an ancient god-’

‘There is peace between us. You see too many enemies, First Son. We are not threatened from without; only from within.’

‘Then we shall deal with it,’ he replied. ‘But I must understand what has happened here. I will defend what I believe in, Mother.’

‘But what is worthy of your belief, Anomander? This is ever the question, isn’t it?’

‘What has T’riss done here? The darkness itself is changed.’

Again, Mother Dark made no answer to him, instead addressing Emral. ‘Inform your sisters and brothers, High Priestess. This temple is sanctified.’

This was the Azathanai’s gift? Sanctified by vitr? ‘Mother Dark, what has driven Syntara from us? Her faith was unassailable-’

‘Easily assailed,’ countered Mother Dark. ‘By ambition and vanity. The Azathanai can see deep into a mortal soul, yet she understands nothing of tact, nor the value of withholding truths.’

‘And her gift?’ Emral asked. ‘She is made bloodless, white as bone.’

‘She is beyond my reach now, beloved Emral. That is all.’

‘But… where will she go?’

‘That remains to be seen. I have thoughts… but not now. You both stand in the presence of Night. You are no longer blinded by darkness, and all who come to me will receive this blessing. Even now,’ she observed, ‘I see Night comes to your skin.’