Forge of Darkness (Kharkanas Trilogy 1) (120 page)

Orfantal shook his head. ‘I am no stranger to feeling sad, milady. Tonight I will weep for Wreneck, and for the horse I killed.’

They had crossed a short span and now ascended the lesser bridge over the Citadel’s moat. At Orfantal’s confession, Gripp Galas reined in and turned his horse to block the way.

‘That beast was on its last legs,’ he said.

‘You did not see its last struggles, sir,’ Orfantal replied.

‘True, I did not. But if you had not sacrificed your mount in the manner you did, you would not be here now.’

Orfantal nodded. ‘My spirit would be free, and back on the grounds of House Korlas, and it would play in the ruins with the ghost of Wreneck, from before he decided to not like me any more. I would have a friend again, and that horse would be alive now, with a few memories of the boy it carried, a boy who was not cruel to it.’

Gripp looked down, seemed to study the cobbles for a long moment, and then he sighed and swung his mount round.

They continued on, beneath the arch of the gatehouse, watched by black-skinned Houseblades in the livery of House Purake.

Lady Hish Tulla spoke. ‘Take him inside, Gripp. I will meet you later in the Grand Hall.’

‘Milady?’

‘Go on, Gripp. Give me a few moments, I beg you.’

The old man nodded. ‘Come along, hostage, and I will see you home.’

* * *

Hish Tulla watched them ride across the courtyard, still fighting the sob that threatened to tear loose from deep inside her. A boy’s innocent words had left her broken. The flimsy frame of her self-control, so hastily resurrected in the wake of her comforting embrace of Lord Andarist, weathering his grief on their knees at the foot of the hearthstone, had collapsed once again.

By day’s end she would be leading her company of Houseblades back to her keep. With the shattering of traditions, she was no longer confident that Sukul Ankhadu was safe, although she knew enough of Castellan Rancept’s talents to hope he could mitigate any possible
threat
, at least for the moment. But this decision strained her resolve from another direction now, one unexpected and almost unbearably precious. She thought of the man accompanying Orfantal into the Citadel, and felt once again a quickening of her breath.

She was not as old as her experience reputed, while Gripp Galas had seen a century, if not more. There would be amusement and not a little scorn behind their backs, once it became known that Lady Hish Tulla, for so long believed to be unattainable, had given her love to Lord Anomander’s manservant. On better days, in times past, she would be proof against their mockery, but there was a new frailty in her now, exposed and raw.

She had believed herself settled into bitter resolution, making peace with what she imagined to be a life spent in solitude, offering up a straight line in her march through all the days and the nights to come. Even the prospect of war, detestable as it was, had voiced to her a bold welcome, if by fighting she could find reason to live, and if by righteous defence of worthy things she could give meaning to that stern march, no matter how long or how short her life’s trek.

In the Citadel ahead, with its seething tumult of troubled spirits, and its host of opinions and arguments clothed in flesh and heated expressions, she would find the fate of her future. Drawing a deep, settling breath, she nudged her mount forward once again.

A groom rushed up to take her horse and she dismounted, regretting that she had elected to leave her armour behind, to await her departure from the city. But neither chain nor iron scale could serve to defend her against the ridicule to come, once her surrender became known, and bright eyes settled upon Gripp Galas, limping at her side. She imagined the disdain from her fellow highborn, and perhaps something of perturbation in her breaking with the ranks of nobility; and without doubt many would see her as fallen from the rung, divested of propriety. Among others, there would be contempt for Gripp Galas, as he would be seen as overreaching, even grasping, betraying some brazen lust for elevation. A clamour awaited them both, with the shunning by old friends and kin to make a siege of the isolation awaiting them.

Yet, for all of that, Hish Tulla vowed a refusal of such indulgences; she would weather this storm, because, at last, she was no longer alone.

With luck, Orfantal would find a new friend, even here in the Citadel, and so cease his longing for death. Still, she wondered at this stable boy, this Wreneck, and what had happened to make him turn away from Orfantal.
Oh, woman, turn sharp to observe your own thoughts, in what will come of your love for Gripp Galas. The boy voiced no pain at the death of his grandmother. You can well guess who drove the knife into that friendship
.

Wreneck, if your spirit now haunts House Korlas, pray you find a
stern
regard when meeting the eyes of Nerys Drukorlat. In death you are made equal, and so, dear boy, you are at last free of her. Speak to her then, of every horror her fear inflicted, upon living and dead
.

Tell her her grandson does not mourn her passing
.

* * *

A dozen spacious rooms along the south side of the Citadel were now the demesne of Lord Anomander and his brothers. The chambers were poorly lit, and upon the walls hung the oldest of the tapestries, many dating from the founding age of Kharkanas. Time had faded the scenes to add mystery to their obscurity, and though Emral Lanear more than once leaned close in an effort to make out what she was seeing on her way to Lord Anomander’s quarters, the High Priestess was left with a strange disquiet, as if the past was selfish with its secrets, and would make of the unknown something malign and threatening.

The end of beauty was never so coy. Each morning, every sign of ageing shouted its details to her unblinking regard in the mirror. She was left with no hope of fading into frayed threads, and as she walked past this succession of mocking tapestries she longed to slip into their insubstantial, colourless worlds, and so become a creature frozen and forgotten. In that world she need never reach her destination; nor open her mouth to speak. Most of all, she would be but one more figure in those pallid scenes who never had to explain themselves, to anyone.

See how I envy the past, and long for all that it so willingly surrendered in its retreat from the present. These strident defences and pathetic justifications will fall to silence. Each breath is left half drawn. A word begun remains unfinished
. The past wore recrimination with indifference. Welcoming dissolution, it looked upon every cause with blank eyes, and cared not who stirred the dust. It was a conceit to imagine that the past spoke anything at all, not to the present, nor to the unknown future. By its very nature, it was turned away from both.

She found Lord Anomander seated in a deep, high-backed chair, legs stretched out as if he but took his leisure, unmindful of the chaos into which the world was descending. His brother, Silchas, paced along the far wall, passing in front of three floor-to-ceiling tapestries with scenes too worn to discern. The white-skinned man’s expression was troubled. The glance he shot at the High Priestess was fraught.

Emral stood before Lord Anomander, although he’d yet to lift his gaze from the floor. ‘First Son,’ she said, ‘Mother Dark will speak with you now.’

‘That is kind of her,’ Anomander replied.

Silchas made a sound of frustration. ‘Still he sits like a thing carved from stone. Andarist is gone from us. Our brother walks the
burning
forest, and in that infernal realm waits no salvation. But still Anomander sits, offering nothing.’

‘Lord Silchas,’ asked Emral, ‘do you fear that Andarist will take his own life?’

‘No, High Priestess. His guilt seeks no quick end. It is said ash makes fertile soil and I wager he has sown his seeds and now tends a burgeoning bounty. It will make a bitter harvest indeed, but he means to grow fat on it.’

‘Everyone seeks an answer to the crimes committed,’ Emral said. ‘Everyone speaks of war but no army assembles.’

‘We await the Hust Legion,’ said Silchas, still pacing. ‘In the meantime my hands are worn bloody beating against my brother’s obstinacy, and with each stride I take, this room seems smaller, and with it the Citadel and indeed, all of Kharkanas. In my mind’s eye, High Priestess, even Kurald Galain huddles in a shallow embrace.’

‘We must find our resilience,’ she replied.

Anomander grunted, and then said, ‘You will search an eternity for that, High Priestess, in the smoke of darkness.’ Finally he looked up at her, his eyes hooded. ‘She will see me now? Does she finally offer the bones of this faith, and if so, what substance has she employed in the fashioning? Will this frame show us iron or flimsy reeds? And what of the flesh you offer in raiment, Emral Lanear? For ever soft and for ever yielding to suit the cushions and silks of your beds, but in an act stripped of love we are all diminished.’

She flinched. ‘I will confess, Lord, we have made of sensation something sordid.’

‘Mother Dark is free with her indulgences,’ Anomander replied, carelessly waving a hand. ‘Forgive me, High Priestess. In every age there comes a time when all subtlety vanishes, all veils are torn aside, and men and women will speak brazen truths. By such bold proclamations we find ourselves divided, with the span between us growing daily.’

‘You describe civil war in its crux,’ growled Silchas. ‘It is well upon us, brother. But the time for philosophy is past; if indeed one could ever claim its worth in any time. If your clear eye hangs on every current, you become blind to the river’s deadly rush. Have done with the analysis, Anomander, and draw out this ill-named but righteous sword.’

‘By so doing, Silchas, I sever what remains between me and Andarist.’

‘Then find him and make this right!’

‘He will insist on his grief, Silchas, while I hold to vengeance. We have each made our proclamation, and see this yawning span grow between us. High Priestess, I asked for your forgiveness and I am humble in that pleading. It seems we are all trapped in indulgences for the moment. Andarist and his guilt, Silchas and his impatience, and me … well … she will see me now, you said?’

Emral studied the First Son. ‘Of course you are forgiven, Lord Anomander. The very air we breathe is distraught. Yes, she will see you now.’

‘I should be pleased,’ Anomander said, his frowning gaze once more upon the floor beyond his boots. ‘I should rise up now and with haste renew our acquaintance, and hold to the expectation of guidance from our goddess. So what holds me here, except the anticipation of yet more frustration, as she offers up the insubstantial if only to observe my floundering, and how am I to read her expression? Must I suffer again her remoteness, or will it be a look enlivened by my misery? This goddess of ours blunts my fury when she refuses to name her enemy.’

Silchas snorted. ‘Name them renegades and be done with it! Leave Urusander to writhe on the gibbet of suspicion, and let us ride to take down the slayers of Jaen and Enesdia!’

‘She forbids me to draw this sword in her name, Silchas.’

‘Then draw it in the name of your brother!’

Anomander met his brother’s eyes, brows lifting. ‘In the name of my brother or in the name of his grief?’

‘See the two as one, Anomander, and give it a vengeful edge.’

‘The sentiments but glare at one another—’

‘Only one does so, brother. Grief but weeps.’

Anomander looked away. ‘That surrender I cannot afford.’

The breath hissed from Silchas. ‘See the room grow smaller, and see the man who will not move. High Priestess, do report our weakness to Mother Dark. Then return to us with her answer.’

Emral shook her head. ‘I cannot, Lord Silchas. She takes audience with the Azathanai, Grizzin Farl. She asks that the First Son join them.’

There was a sound from the outer room, and a moment later Gripp Galas stepped through the open doorway. He bowed before Anomander. ‘Milord, forgive this interruption—’

‘You are a welcome sight,’ Anomander replied.

‘Milord, I have with me the child Orfantal, and would present him to you.’

The First Son rose. ‘This pleases me. Do bring him in, Gripp.’

The old man half turned and gestured.

Emral watched the boy edge into view, hesitating upon the threshold to the chamber.

‘Orfantal,’ said Anomander. ‘You are most welcome. I am informed that you have made of your journey to Kharkanas an adventure worthy of a bard’s song, perhaps even a poem or two. Please enter and tell us about yourself.’

When the boy’s dark eyes touched briefly on Emral, she smiled in answer.

Orfantal stepped into the room. ‘Thank you, milord. Of me there
is
little worth saying. I am told that I am ill-named. I am told that my father was a hero in the wars, who died of his wounds, but I never saw him. My grandmother is now dead, burned to ashes in House Korlas. If she had not sent me here after sending away my mother, I would have died in the fire. I see nothing in me worth a poem, and nothing in my life worth singing about. But I have longed to meet you all.’

No one spoke.

Then Silchas stepped forth and offered his hand. ‘Orfantal,’ he said, ‘I believe there is another hostage in the Citadel. A girl, perhaps a year or two younger than you. She is often found in the company of the priests, or the court historian. Shall we go and find her? By this means I can also show you more of your new home.’