Forge of Darkness (110 page)

Urusander was studying her, and she saw by his expression that he was unaware of the details she was telling him.

‘But Nimander died, and he died badly. There was even talk that Draconus was behind it. Much as I dislike the Consort, I do not share that belief. My point is this, Lord Urusander. The highborn are ready for war. Their Houseblades but await the command. For now, they cannot act against Draconus because he has done nothing overt. Though they do not know it, he refuses the throne beside Mother Dark’s – no, do not look so shocked. I was her High Priestess. She invited him and he refused her.’

‘If this was to be made known to the highborn, their fear of him—’

‘Would end?’ Impatience and disbelief had stained her tone and she dropped her gaze. ‘Forgive the interruption, Lord.’

‘Why are the highborn kept from this truth?’

She shrugged. ‘That Mother Dark keeps a lover is irritating enough. Should it become known that he defied her command, well, that amounts to blasphemy, does it not? Draconus is an arrogant man and I suspect this is at the core of the highborn’s dislike of him. He was late to the ranks of the nobility and lacks the appropriate humility.’

Urusander’s expression was incredulous. ‘For this, they would go to war?’

‘Lord,’ she said, ‘perhaps I am not as wise as Emral Lanear. Abyss knows, she would tell you as much. But I do understand this: whether political or personal, struggle is all about face. Status is longed for as a measure of others’ regard, and power itself is but a weapon, to be kept close to hand when all else fails to impress.’

He surprised her with a barked laugh. ‘And if I told you, High Priestess, that true justice stands in opposition to all that you have described …’ He shook his head. ‘If you see as clearly as this, then I suggest we elevate this discussion. I well grasp your warning – if the highborn stand prepared for war, it is no vast stretch to see them turning upon me and the Legion. This is absurd! I understand that Lord Draconus is not even in Kharkanas!’

‘He is not, Lord. But all now hear of your troops in the forest. They are killing Deniers, and, I wager, anyone else they find. Lord, many of these Deniers live in highborn holdings. Legion soldiers invade estate lands with impunity.’

Urusander looked away, and then abruptly sat in the remaining chair. ‘I have made an error,’ he said. ‘I should not have recalled the Legion.’

‘Lord, if that recall includes the renegade companies, perhaps this can be salvaged.’

He eyed her. ‘I did indeed underestimate you, High Priestess. It is I who should beg forgiveness.’

‘Withhold that sentiment, Lord. There are not two factions to this religious war. There are three.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I have looked well upon the Legion’s banner,’ she said, ‘and see it as a sign. For all his foolishness, when Hunn Raal urged me to flee to you, Lord, well, I now believe some other force was speaking through him. You look upon me but do not question my transformation. Why?’

She saw his discomfort at her question. ‘High Priestess, I have no understanding of the ways of sorcery. The change I see I took to mark Mother Dark’s rejection of you.’

‘Nothing of what you see, Lord, was by her hand. I bear the Azathanai’s gift.’

‘And what is the nature of this gift?’

‘Lord, I wish I knew.’

‘Yet you proclaim yourself to be standing in opposition to Mother Dark.’

‘Perhaps, as the right hand opposes the left.’

‘And the river god?’

‘That god’s place in all of this remains to be determined, Lord. Best await a decree from Mother Sheccanto and Father Skelenal.’

‘It was my thought to send an emissary to them,’ Urusander said, one hand now upon the tabletop, fingers slowly drumming. He looked up at her. ‘I intend to disavow my Legion from the acts of the renegades. Indeed, I intend to outlaw them and set a bounty upon their capture.’

‘It is no wonder Hunn Raal is not here.’

‘You were the last to speak to him, High Priestess. What were his plans?’

‘His plans? In disarray, I believe. That said, he cannot but view as threatening certain rogue elements beyond the highborn and their Houseblades. It is my thought that he has travelled to the Hust Legion, seeking overtures.’

Urusander grunted. ‘Toras Redone is likely to arrest him on the spot. Even execute him.’

‘Hunn Raal’s courage is beyond question, Lord, and in his defence, he does believe that he acts in the best interest of Kurald Galain. He truly yearns to see you upon the throne beside Mother Dark’s own.’

‘I will bring him to heel, High Priestess, assuming he survives to return to me.’

There was iron in that promise. ‘Lord, I have need of a place for contemplation. This transformation in me is deeper than the skin I now wear. Vanity palls. So too secular ambition. When facing my sister
High
Priestess, I fear that I became her twisted reflection. There was poison in my heart, and I will not flinch from that truth.’

He rose from the chair. ‘This talk of sorcery makes me uneasy. You have my keep, High Priestess. I will go now to my command tent in the Legion camp.’

‘I understand that Lieutenant Serap is here. She will know more of Hunn Raal’s plans.’

‘She states otherwise.’

‘Do you believe her?’

His gaze narrowed. ‘I begin to wonder whom to believe, High Priestess. Advisers seem to breed like vermin around me, and the more there are the fewer I trust.’

She bowed. ‘I will remain in the keep, Lord, and not seek you out.’

Urusander’s smile was ironic, but he left without another word. It was some time before she understood, and could give words to his expression. ‘
Why did you not make that vow in Kharkanas a week past?
’ In courtesy, he had not uttered this question, but she knew now that such courtesy was more than she deserved.

Few shadows in the room, and darkness humbled and cowering wherever it could – these details whispered like blessings through her thoughts. He gave her his keep, but said nothing of sanctuary. She wondered if enemies were seeking her, hunting her. In matters of trust, she was no different from Urusander himself.

Perhaps this is what can bind the two of us
.

Would that Osserc were here
. She had heard that he was a fine-looking man, possessing a wealth of appetites yet purportedly weak in spirit. A useful combination, all things considered.

Syntara had begged time and place for contemplation, and this sentiment was humble in its veracity. She still struggled to abjure the influence of old hatreds and spites, but her own thoughts, when speaking with Urusander, returned to her again and again.
Dark and Light … as the right hand opposes the left
.

Urusander, I begin to see a way to draw those hands together, to clasp in union and so find strength in balance. And no, we need not speak of love, only necessity. Something I think you understand. We shall make you Father Light, whether you welcome the title or not
.

She had promised that she would not seek him out. She could hold to that promise, for now. Three religions in conflict was an untenable situation. The river god and its followers would have to be expelled, perhaps sent beyond the borders of Kurald Galain. This could be done with little or no bloodshed. It was said that Dorssan Ryl flowed south across vast, empty lands before issuing its black waters into a distant sea. Not quite empty, perhaps, but then, the Forulkan were hardly in a position to argue at a sudden invasion of refugees. The Legion had
turned
half their settlements into burnt-out graveyards, and had driven the rest to the edge of that distant sea.

There were ways through the times ahead that could bring to an end the violence, and if she was seen to have taken a dominant role in averting open civil war …

Still, the promise of light remained locked within her. Did she need sacred ground? A temple of her own, blessed in the name of …
of what? Light, in answer to Mother Dark? Liossan … who can deny the cleansing powers of revelation, when the very word points to something revealed, to the hidden exposed; and if we make of her mystery a host of banal truths, then Urusander can stand before her and be seen as her equal
.

Cut me free, Mother Dark, and see how I take you down a notch or two. For the good of us all, of course. The good of Kurald Galain
.

Back in the Citadel, there had been little time for contemplation. But now she began to see its manifold rewards. She rose from the chair and then turned to study it.
Mother Dark sits upon the Throne of Night
.

We shall need an answer to that
.

* * *

Renarr stepped out on to the narrow balcony girdling this side of the Old Tower. She could look down on the courtyard with its scurrying figures, and beyond that to the settlement below ringed with rows of white tents.

Smoke and dust hung over Neret Sorr in thickening palls. Her home had been transformed, far beyond the details she could observe from this height. For all the crowds and canvas tents, it seemed small, paltry in its ambitions and frail in its presumptions. She remembered its streets and alleys, its crouched houses and cramped shops, and looked with a strange kind of envy upon those tiny shapes moving where she had once walked.

Modest lives marked only the succession of dreams set aside, or broken underfoot. The game of living was one of focus, an ever-narrowing horizon of what was possible and what could be achieved; but this made sharp and bright the lesser triumphs. A partner’s love, a child given to the world, an object well made by a crafter’s hands. Glories hid in the elegant fold of a new cloak, in the unscuffed and unworn display of new boots or moccasins; in a head of hair artfully arranged to complement clear features and vigorous health, or the paint that pretended to the same.

She remembered her own vanities as would someone who had grown past their toys of childhood, and just as the child who was no longer a child looked upon those toys with a sinking feeling that was new, that
was
ineffably sad, so too did she see what she had left behind, while before her was a future bereft of wonder.

These thoughts and notions settled in her now, too complicated for the world she had known, too fraught to encompass for the young woman she had once been. That woman had given her love to a man broad in his emotions, as quick to laughter as to tears – almost child-like in his rush from one extreme to the other, where wounds healed quickly and life could return to warm his eyes in an instant. He had fought against ridicule and had known blinding rage, and then had wept over one careless swing of his fist.

It would not have mattered. Bruises faded and cuts healed, and innocence could grow back like a scab and so seal past wounds, and if beauty was marred, then the disenchantment was temporary. But future lives had a way of vanishing before one’s eyes. Possibilities died down at the roots, and before long everything above ground, once so resplendent with promise, withered and lost colour, and then the wind came to strip it bare. The path ahead of her was a place of dead trees and dead grasses, a dead river beneath listless light, with a ghost at her side who had nothing to say.

Such were the gifts of her new place in this new world. Adopted by a guilt-ridden lord, she now found herself in a tower, lifted higher than anything she had ever known before: lifted past her dreams until they sat like forgotten toys at her feet. In her mind she saw herself walking down the stairs, along the corridors with their cold, stony breath, out through the doorway and into the dust-veiled courtyard, and then beyond the gate and continuing, step by step, into the town that she once knew. She saw the old women marking her passing and how their heads tilted close together as words were whispered. She saw the new speculation in the eyes of the men, and the curiosity of children who no longer felt able to call to her in greeting. She saw the expression of wives and mothers as they were dragged back into their own past and the girls they had once been, where everything was still possible, and come the night they might hold tighter their husbands but not for reasons of love. Instead, they would need those embraces to give comfort against the losses that now crowded their thoughts.

She saw herself walking down to the taverns, where the air was charged with laughter, and if some of it sounded strained, it was still forgivable and quickly swept past. Flushed faces would turn her way, painted eyes suddenly gauging, as she moved through the crowd, and before long a man smelling of ale would press against her, and she would cling to him, smiling at his awkward jests, seeing his desires behind his guarded expressions. Before long, he would, in her imagination, turn to the innkeeper and hire a room and old Greniz would nod with a sour gleam in his eye and hold out a greasy hand. Coins would flash
in
the gloom and in the moment her man moved to take her through the doorway to the back rooms a woman would brush close and say, ‘There’s a cut, jes so ya know.’ And Renarr would nod and for the briefest of moments the two women would lock gazes and pass between them the fullest understanding of this new shared world.

A world of pleasure and despair entwined, down among the dead roots. This was where her imagination took her, cold and rushing like a mountain stream, painting details she knew nothing about.